《天乐集》Vol. 10

Worldly Law and the Way of the Dao

Worldly law—the rules and practices of secular society—and the Way of the Dao—the standards on which cultivation rests—are not the same. Worldly law takes fame and profit as its foundation; the Way of the Dao takes nature and life (xing and ming) as its foundation. Worldly law stresses outward appearance; the Way of the Dao stresses inner cultivation. Worldly law seeks to rise in the human world; the Way of the Dao seeks unity with the Dao.

Contention, struggle, deceit, and pretense are common in worldly law; the Way of the Dao teaches softness, yielding, humility, and letting go. Worldly law goes with the crowd; the Way of the Dao goes against the current—it does not turn with the waves of desire. Worldly law treats death as the end; the Way of the Dao treats life as the goal, seeking longevity and resolving birth and death.

Those who cultivate cannot know only worldly law and not the Way of the Dao, nor know only the Way of the Dao and neglect worldly law. In the world one must observe ritual and keep the law; in the Daoist community one must keep precepts and guard the heart. Outward harmony with the mundane, inward harmony with the true—only then are both sides honored.

Zhang Sanfeng said: “If you wish to learn the Dao, first learn to be human.” Being human belongs to worldly law; attaining the Dao belongs to the Way of the Dao. Neither may be set aside.

On worldly affairs and the way of cultivation: viewed from the perspective of “complete integration without obstruction,” they were never two different things to begin with; viewed from actual practice and the work of teaching and transforming beings, their orientations differ.

What “non-duality” means here is the person who has already seen truth: when the mind rests in one place, every realm is real and not empty. Coughing, spitting, swinging the arms—none of it fails to express the Dao; carrying water and chopping wood can all become skillful function. Hence Laozi said: “By non-action, nothing is left undone.” Leaving behind fixation on all marks is precisely penetrating all dharmas. This is the skillful function of one who has seen the Way and “does not dwell in marks”—not something ordinary worldly learning can grasp.

164 Spiritualization and Materialization

Below is a rough account: in conduct and giving, the worldly way and the way of cultivation oppose each other and differ in every respect.

The worldly way values strength; cultivation values softness. The worldly way values what is solid and real; cultivation values emptiness and stillness. The worldly way values knowledge and the power to discriminate; cultivation instead values “not knowing, not recognizing.” The worldly way values cleverness; cultivation values seeming foolish and muddled. The worldly way prizes scheming; cultivation prizes resting from scheming. The worldly way clings to appearances and grasps at forms everywhere; cultivation step by step leaves appearances behind. The worldly way prizes memory and accumulation; cultivation prizes forgetting and release. The worldly way favors movement; cultivation favors stillness. The worldly way takes “I” as master; cultivation takes “I” as guest, as visitor. The worldly way flows with the current; cultivation turns back against the stream. In the worldly way, mind and environment stand opposed; in the Dao, mind and environment are one. The worldly way sets up subject and object; the Dao empties subject and object. The worldly way acts through the human mind; the Dao acts through the mind of Heaven (Tianxin). The worldly way is full of emotional ups and downs; the Dao responds in stillness. The worldly way is defiled; the Dao is pure and clear. The worldly way belongs to the dharma of arising and ceasing; the Dao belongs to the dharma of “arising within cessation.” The worldly way is measured and bounded; the Dao transcends measure. The worldly way leaks; the Dao does not leak. The worldly way is the dharma of dependent origination; the Dao is the dharma of arising from nature (xing). In the worldly way, root and dust interweave; in the Dao, root and dust are utterly separate. The worldly way is impermanent; the Dao is truly constant. The worldly way is like chasing the head and multiplying shadows; the Dao is like staying with the head and watching the shadow. The worldly way belongs to non-duality within opposition; the Dao belongs to non-duality within absolute non-opposition. The worldly way nourishes habitual tendencies; the Dao purifies habitual tendencies. The worldly way is full of afflictions; the Dao empties afflictions completely. The worldly way falls; the Dao transcends. These are the differences between the two. Hence Cantong qi says: “Reversal is the function of the Dao”—turning back is how the Dao works. Laozi says: “I alone am dull,” “I alone am muddled,” “I seem abandoned,” “I alone am still, as yet without sign,” “I alone am stubborn and lowly, I alone differ from others, yet I value nursing from the Mother”—are these not clear proof of going against the stream and reversing the vulgar?

(A passage from “the worldly way takes ‘I’ as master” through “the Dao transcends” repeats the preceding sentences in the original; the meaning is the same and is not translated again here.)

This passage compares two cultural orientations in East Asia and Western Europe and links them to the Daoist idea of “treasuring nourishment from the Mother” (guishi mu).

East Asian culture emphasizes moral and spiritual cultivation—stressing how one lives as a person, refining heart-and-mind, and pursuing a layer of “metaphysical” value beyond everyday utility. Western European culture (as the author generalizes it) stresses utility and material concerns—practical results, efficiency, and worldly gains that can be grasped and accumulated at the “physical,” worldly level.

The author holds that one side tends toward moral and spiritual refinement, the other toward utilitarian and material refinement—a key point in how Eastern and Western cultures differ.

The text cites Laozi’s “treasuring nourishment from the Mother” (guishi mu; in the Daodejing, to honor the “Mother” as root, to keep to the foundation, to value staying near the source) to ask: if East Asia consistently weights spirit and guards the root, does that align with what Daoism describes as flowing back toward the source (“counterflow,” fanliu)—not chasing branch-tip fame and profit but returning to the “Mother,” to the root of the Dao? The rhetorical question “Is this not evidence of counterflow?” (qi fei fanliu zhi zheng ye) means that, in the author’s view, this spiritual, root-valuing orientation can be read as one cultural expression of “counterflow.”

Section 164, Spiritualization and Materialization repeats the same contrast: East Asia values morality and nurtures spirit; Western Europe values utility and nurtures material life; again it highlights metaphysical moral-spiritual refinement versus physical utilitarian-material refinement as the focal difference between Eastern and Western cultures.

Since ancient times in our land, the sages who governed the realm, instructed the people, established their teachings, and clarified principle have all taken self-cultivation—the nurturing of body and mind—as their foundation.

Hence the teaching handed down from Yao to Shun runs: “To carry essential meaning through to the point of spirit-transcending mastery is to put it into practice; through practice to settle body and mind is to honor De (Virtue/Power); to exhaust the wondrous and penetrate change is the utmost of De.”

It also says: “When the sage establishes instruction by the wondrous way of spirit, the people of the world submit.”

Zhuangzi says: “Therefore when the sage has no choice but to govern the world, nothing surpasses Wuwei (non-action); only through Wuwei can the inborn truth of xing and ming (nature and life) be settled.”

It also says: “If the noble person does not scatter the five viscera (does not let body and mind run wild), does not deploy cleverness (does not parade cunning and scheming), sits still like a corpse yet appears like a dragon, is silent like an abyss yet sounds like thunder—when spirit moves, it naturally follows the Dao (the Way); at ease in Wuwei, the myriad things gather like smoke on their own—how would I have leisure to ‘govern the world’!”

It also says: “One who embodies the virtue of a true sovereign has always kept aloof from vulgar affairs and taken being entangled in business as shame; he stands on the root and knows communion with the wondrous. Thus his De is vast: what issues from the heart carries its own pattern. The body’s being cannot leave the Dao; life’s flourishing cannot leave De. To preserve the body, exhaust life, establish De, and clarify the great Dao—is this not the virtue of a true sovereign? How vast! Suddenly he appears; vigorously he acts—and the myriad things follow him! This is called one who embodies sovereign virtue. To look is darkness; to listen is silence—yet in darkness he alone sees light; in silence he alone hears harmony. Therefore, though deep beyond depth, he can reach and move the myriad things; though spirit beyond spirit, he can transform the subtle. Thus he meets the myriad things, supplying their needs from nothingness, and in timely freedom grasps where they belong.”

From this we know that the instruction the ancient sages handed down all stressed inner cultivation: returning to simplicity and restoring genuineness, penetrating the origin and clarifying true nature, attaining zhonghe (Central Harmony)—not going against principle, not guessing at will—so that wondrous function knows no fixed form, responds to circumstances without obstruction, and faces things without being enslaved by them. That is precisely what makes spirit’s transformative nurturing so precious.

The path of material culture always looks outward for things, using all kinds of external objects to nourish the body and pursuing luxury without limit. In that way the inner source of spirit dries up day by day, and one drifts further from the Dao each day. This is what Zhuangzi means when it says that chasing external things without knowing how to turn back is like sound trying to catch up with an echo, or the body straining after a shadow—running outward with all one’s might.

If one follows the path of internal nourishment and spiritual transformation, one takes what is already sufficient within oneself: mind and breath in harmony, the form whole and the Dao complete, holding the light and turning it inward, in communion with the virtue of the Three Originals (Sanyuan). As Zhuangzi puts it, “Above, one wanders with the Maker of things; below, one befriends those who treat outer life and death as without beginning or end”—gain and loss support each other, and the gap between them is hard to measure by ordinary reckoning.

Zhuangzi also says: “Those who nourish the inner go where there is no fame; those who nourish the outer set their hearts on expense. Those who go where there is no fame—only the commonplace have glory; those who set their hearts on expense are merchants.” So the divide between the merchant and the Daoist adept is close to the difference between a Western European culture that stresses material things and an East Asian culture that stresses spirit.

People build their material lives chiefly on “form-dharma”—outward things of shape and appearance, whatever the senses grasp—and use those things to feed the “form-mind,” the heart tugged by desire and the senses, so as to meet the environment’s ever-shifting demands. Western-style civilization often takes pride in this, yet the environment never stands still and needs never end; desire swells while the light of one’s original nature dims; the six thieves—eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind—assail in turn, and the root of life withers day by day. Thus the more material progress advances, the shorter life tends to become; competition sharpens and life grows harder.

Zhuangzi said: To nourish the body one must rely on external things; yet external things may be plentiful while the body is not well nourished—this happens. Where there is birth, form cannot be absent; yet the form remains while life is lost—this also happens. What comes with birth cannot be pushed away; what goes with death cannot be held back. How lamentable! People think that tending the body is enough to preserve life, but tending the body is not enough to preserve life—so what is the worth of such worldly striving?

Wang Dashen said: Sentient beings live entirely by feeding the form-mind, keeping the five aggregates (form, feeling, perception, formations, consciousness) at ease, letting the six roots (eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, mind) indulge without restraint, and having the six dusts (forms, sounds, scents, tastes, tangibles, mental objects) wait upon them—they call this a happy life. They do not know that their original brightness is trapped in the form-mind: the five aggregates bury it, the six roots entangle it, the six dusts seal it shut. Still they rely on the form-mind for nurture, on the five aggregates for stability, on the six roots for enjoyment, and on the six dusts for company, and call themselves happy—unaware that their original light is sunk in the form-mind, buried by the five aggregates, knotted with the six roots, and blocked by the six dusts—until that light is stained through innumerable lifetimes and they wander in samsara for countless kalpas with no hope of release.

Liu Chenggan said: Today, as contact with foreign lands grows close, people are ever more dazzled by the “inventions” of material civilization; they take the chase after matter for natural law, as if this frame of bones and limbs were made only to enjoy the world’s goods. They exhaust wit and strength, drowning in greed, anger, delusion, and pride, trying to fill desire. If this continues, they will not only sink to a state where humans and beasts mix, but devour one another; customs will foul and human relations turn treacherous—nothing is more horrifying or more worthy of grief.

164 (Materialization and Spiritualization)

I believe the gravest flaw in the development of material civilization is single-minded pursuit of the external and self-interest alone. When the heart turns outward only to grasp, contention, conflict, and even war become hard to avoid. Today, when modern weapons flatten cities and take life, is that not the end point of a long road of “going toward things”? The greatest benefit of spiritual cultivation lies in preserving harmony and unity: body and mind at ease, neither quarreling with the world nor competing with others. Only when one is as peaceful as Emperor Yao, as harmonious as King Wen of Zhou, as unhurried as Confucius, or as resting in one’s place like Zhuangzi can one move freely in the sea of heart-and-nature and soften the split between “self” and “things,” tending toward great unity.

165 Steam Bath and True Qi Bath

In modern times Westerners emphasize hygiene: besides cold baths, there is the steam bath—steam from a jet is directed over the body to wash the limbs and the hundred joints. One session often leaves the blood and channels feeling open and the whole body relaxed. But that is post-heaven qi (vital energy): it can only be applied from outside; it cannot cleanse from within. It can clean the body but can hardly wash the heart. Better is the mao-you bathing spoken of in Daoist Neidan (internal alchemy): relying entirely on innate true yi qi (pre-heaven unified qi) to purify inside and out, moisten the nutritive and defensive aspects, supplement qi and blood, and strengthen body and mind together. The Cantong qi (Zhouyi cantong qi, a foundational text of internal alchemy) describes bathing in true qi with vivid force. In essence: if practice never slackens, qi is like clouds spreading rain; moistening like spring rain, flowing like ice melting; from head to foot, then rising again; coming and going without end, gently filling the interior. This is what is meant by “return is the proof of Dao (the Way); yielding is the handle of De (Virtue/Power)”—as if hoeing away old grime so the subtle can be tuned; the turbid gradually clears, and what was dim, in time, brightens.

In transmitted verses associated with Zhongli Zhenren (Han Zhongli Quan among the Eight Immortals; internal-alchemy lineages often trace back through him), stress is likewise placed on the limitless, on gentle nurturing, and on using yielding as the active principle—the same thread as “hoeing away stored filth, the path by which the turbid becomes clear.”

Master Zhongli said: “When true Qi steams through the body, there is no distinction between cold and heat—such a person may be called a master of the supreme Way.” Master Cui Xu said: “When true Qi steams through the body, there is no distinction between cold and heat; pure Yang overflows, and there is no distinction between life and death.” Patriarch Lü said: “When true Qi steams through the body, the limbs grow strong.” Cao Wenyi said: “It melts through the pass meridians and transforms bones and sinews.” Immortal Ge said: “Jade liquor irrigates; the inner chamber (dantian) overflows with radiance; the celestial mechanism stands revealed, beyond what any worldly sound can reach.” Zhuo Hu said: “It rises of itself, ascends like mist, steams like vapor, condenses like haze; every pore closes tight, and white qi pierces the void.” Lu Qianxu said: “Harmonious qi fills and spreads through the whole body, moving up and down; the hundred pulses harmonize, ease flows through the four limbs and shows in the face—every breath in the chest is spring, as if lightly drunk.” Zhang Ziyang said: “At first like the full moon over a thousand mountains; next like the moon holding ten thousand waters; the pores feel as when one has just stepped from a bath, the bones and meridians as in deep sleep; spirit feels like the joy of husband and wife, soul and spirit like mother and child reluctant to part; with single-minded harmony, the flesh becomes clear and penetrating.” Zhang Sanfeng said: “Wait until that single point returns and submits; within the body it turns into spring in all four seasons—a strip of white cloud, a waft of fragrance; rain passes and all is new again; all day long, fine and unbroken, like a drunkard, gently guarding the spring within the cave; when every trace of yin essence in the body is stripped away, it becomes one block of pure yang gold.” These are all inner visions of the true Qi bath in the profound teaching of internal alchemy (Neidan)—the wondrous Way of washing body and mind. How could scientists ever be put on the same level!

166 Long Life and No-Birth (1)

Someone asked: Buddhism speaks of no-birth, while Laozi speaks of long life—do no-birth and long life point in opposite directions? Answer: Speaking of no-birth is from the angle of negation; speaking of long life is from the angle of affirmation. It is the difference between cutting off emotional fixation and expressing the virtue of the Way—not a fundamental contradiction.

What sages use to save sentient beings comes down to two gates: zhe (breaking attachment through negation) and she (gathering in and guiding). Those who teach non-arising lean on the zhe gate; those who teach long life lean on the she gate. Mazu Daoyi first taught “mind itself is Buddha,” then later said “neither mind nor Buddha”—a shift from she to zhe. No-nature and non-arising are the Buddhist zhe gate, but that does not mean the she gate is abandoned. The Lotus Sutra, “Lifespan” chapter, says: “Since I attained Buddhahood, the time has been extremely long; my lifespan is immeasurable; I abide unchanging for asaṃkhyeya kalpas.” The verse says: “My power of wisdom is such; my wisdom-light illumines without measure; my lifespan is countless kalpas—all from long cultivation of wholesome karma.” In the Mahāparinirvāṇa Sūtra, “Long Life” chapter, the bodhisattva Kāśyapa asks the Buddha in verse: “How does one obtain long life and a vajra indestructible body? By what causes does one gain great firm power? In all dharmas there is a quality of ease and bliss—may the great immortal lord explain and distinguish this for us.” Kāśyapa is a patriarch of Chan, yet he calls the Buddha “great immortal” and earnestly asks about long life—is there not deep meaning in that? The Tathāgata then expounded the teaching of birth-and-death and long life. Kāśyapa asked again: “When bodhisattvas practice and regard all beings with equal mind as one thought, they should obtain long life, good knowledge of past lives, abiding in the world without change. Why then does the World-Honored One have so short a lifespan, the same as ordinary people? Does the Tathāgata harbor resentment toward beings? What evil did the World-Honored One do in the past, and how many did he harm, that his life is so short—not even a full hundred years?” The Buddha told Kāśyapa: “Good man, why do you speak such coarse words before the Tathāgata? The Tathāgata’s lifespan, among all lifespans, is supreme and most excellent.”

Kasyapa Bodhisattva asked the Buddha again: “World-Honored One, in what sense is it said that the Tathagata has obtained immeasurable longevity?”

The Buddha told Kasyapa: “Good man, it is like the eight great rivers: first the Ganges, second the Yamuna, third the Sarasvati, fourth the Aciravati, fifth the Mahi, sixth the Sindhu, seventh the Vetravati, and eighth the Sita. These eight great rivers, together with many smaller streams, all pour into the great ocean.

Kasyapa, likewise, all the great rivers of lifespan in the human realm, the heavens, the great earth, and throughout space likewise pour into the great ocean of the Tathagata’s lifespan. Therefore the Tathagata’s lifespan is immeasurable.

Again, Kasyapa, just as in Jambudvipa (our world) there are the four great rivers, so too the Tathagata is born and perfected from the lifespans of all sentient beings.

Kasyapa, just as among all that is constant and unchanging, space is foremost, so too the Tathagata is foremost among all that is constant.

Kasyapa, just as among all medicines, ghee (the finest nectar distilled from milk) is foremost, so too the Tathagata’s lifespan is foremost among all sentient beings.”

Kasyapa Bodhisattva asked the Buddha again: “World-Honored One, if the Tathagata’s lifespan is truly like this, he ought to remain in the world for one kalpa, or more than a kalpa, constantly turning the wonderful Dharma, like a great rain falling everywhere.”

(The Buddha replied:) “Kasyapa, you should not think of the Tathagata in terms of ‘birth and death, exhaustion and limit.’

Kasyapa, if there are bhiksus, bhiksunis, upasakas, upasikas, or even non-Buddhist adepts who have attained the five superknowledges, gained great mastery, and can abide for one kalpa or more than a kalpa—able to walk through the air and sit or lie at will; issuing fire from the left side and water from the right, with smoke and flame on the body like a heap of fire—and who wish to extend their lives and can do so as they wish, freely determining the length of their lives—when even the five superknowledges possess such wish-fulfilling divine power…”

(What follows explains that the Tathagata’s power far surpasses the five superknowledges, so his lifespan and time in the world cannot be measured by ordinary notions of “one kalpa.” The source text here has repetition and breaks; the translation above covers the continuous passages available in the excerpt.)

Plain-Language Explanation

Moreover, the Tathāgata has attained complete freedom in all dharmas and methods—how could he truly be limited to dwelling in the world for half a kalpa, one kalpa, a hundred kalpas, a thousand kalpas, or even innumerable kalpas? From this we should understand: the Tathāgata is the dharma of permanence, the dharma of the unchanging. The Buddha-body before us is a responsive manifestation body; it is not a flesh body sustained by food and grain. To deliver sentient beings, he appears to age and pass away like them, and for that reason he relinquishes this body and enters nirvana.

This passage explains that the Buddha’s lifespan is originally immeasurable, and that when the responsive manifestation body shows nirvana, that is not true extinction, because the Dharma body and reward body are inherently permanent. The responsive manifestation body is like the moon’s reflection in water—sometimes visible, sometimes not—while the real moon hangs in the sky, always present and never gone. The Tathāgata’s Dharma body and reward body have endless life and abide without perishing; the same principle applies here.

The Nirvana Sutra, “Chapter on the Four Aspects,” says: It is like a potter—when a vessel is finished, it may be smashed again; true liberation is not like that. True liberation is true birth without extinction. Therefore liberation is the Tathagata. The Tathagata is the same: neither born nor extinguished, neither aging nor dying, neither breaking nor perishing—not a dharma produced by causes and conditions. Hence he is called Tathagata. After entering great nirvana, what is meant by “neither aging nor dying”? Aging means change—hair turning white, the face wrinkling. Dying means the body breaking down and life ending. None of these exist in liberation; because they are absent, it is called liberation. The Tathagata has no marks of conditioned dharmas such as whitening hair or a wrinkled face, so the Tathagata does not age; without aging, there is also no death.

It also says that liberation is also called “without illness.” Illness means the four hundred and four diseases and external harm to the body and the like; those are not there, so it is called liberation. Being without disease is true liberation; true liberation is the Tathagata. The Tathagata is without illness; the Dharma body is also without illness—such absence of illness is the Tathagata. Death is called the body breaking down and life ending; where there is no death, that is ambrosia (amrita); ambrosia is true liberation; true liberation is the Tathagata. The Tathagata has accomplished such merit—how can one say the Tathagata is impermanent? If one says impermanence, there is no valid reason. This is the vajra body—how could it be impermanent? Therefore the Tathagata is not called “life’s end.”

In this section, the Tathāgata (Buddha) teaches what is neither arising nor ceasing, neither aging nor dying, neither breaking nor wearing out—without the signs of decline such as gray hair and wrinkled features, and without illness. That is what true liberation means. In essence this is no different from the longevity that immortals seek. One can say that immortals and buddhas share the same root and blend like milk in water.

Furthermore, the Avataṃsaka Sūtra, “Chapter on Leaving the World,” describes ten kinds of mastery (zizai); the first is “mastery over life,” meaning abiding in one’s lifespan for an inconceivably long number of kalpas. The Buddha explains at greater length in the Infinite Life Sūtra (Wuliangshou Jing) how far-reaching the lifespan of Amitāyus Buddha is. The scripture says: Amitāyus Buddha’s life is long beyond measure—do you know? Suppose all the countless sentient beings in the worlds of the ten directions obtained human birth, all cultivated to become śrāvakas or pratyekabuddhas, gathered together in single-pointed meditative concentration, and applied their full intelligence for a hundred thousand myriad kalpas jointly to calculate—they still could not exhaust the limit of his lifespan. The same applies to the length of life of śrāvakas, bodhisattvas, and the hosts of devas and humans: it cannot be stated in numbers or analogies. Naming the Buddha “Infinite Life” (Wuliangshou) is precisely to display the supreme attainment of unaging, undying longevity. Thus the Buddhist tradition does not reject the ideal of long life.

Liezi said: “What does not arise—yidu doubts alone” (yidu means alone merging with the Dao, without doubting birth and death). Zhuangzi said: “Only when there is no past or present can one enter the state of undying and unborn.” Laozi said: “Only one who does not make living his sole aim is worthier than one who merely prizes life.” Li Da Chun said: “In stillness one realizes the unborn.” Thus the Daoist tradition also does not fail to reveal “non-birth.”

Sometimes teaching is framed as non-birth, sometimes as long life—both are expedient means of subduing and guiding beings according to capacity, combining provisional and ultimate teaching, giving and taking in turn; fundamentally it is one principle. One must not cling to one side to criticize the other and stir up disputes over which is higher or lower.

Laozi said: “Heaven and earth can endure because they do not live for themselves—therefore they can long endure.” To attain long life, one must not fixate on the “phase” of being alive, and must drop the “phase” of seeking longevity: outwardly forgetting one’s body and forgetting one’s form, living yet not clinging to living—this is not the same as the Shurangama Sutra’s ten kinds of immortal paths that use visualization to fix the form and take the root of life (mingyuan) as ultimate.

The Chan master Yongjia Xuanjue says in the Song of Enlightenment (Zhenggdao Ge): “Who is without thought? Who is without birth? Truly matching non-birth, then there is nothing that is not born.” Meaning: if one truly accords with the essence of “non-birth,” there is also no “cessation” to be obtained. Thus Laozi’s long life does not fall into “eternalism” (taking birth and death as real and never dying); the Buddha’s teaching of non-birth does not fall into “nihilism” (cutting everything off into void). Because it does not fall into eternalism, though living one does not dwell in the “living” phase; because it does not fall into nihilism, though speaking of non-birth, its marvelous function still appears as “nothing is not born.” One who is non-born yet can still respond and manifest is a Buddha; one who lives yet does not cling to “living” is an immortal (Daoist perfected person). How can these be split in two, ranked high and low, belittling long life while exalting non-birth?

168 The Perfected Person and the True Person

The Zhuangzi (Book of Master Zhuang, also called the Nanhua Jing) praises the virtue and realm of the perfected person (zhiren) and the true person (zhenren) again and again. Here those passages are gathered in one place so readers need not hunt through the book, and so the ancients’ main intent in speaking becomes easier to see.

“Free and Easy Wandering” (Xiaoyao You) says: “The perfected person has no self.” “Equalizing Things” (Qi Wu Lun) says: “The perfected person is numinous and subtle: a great marsh ablaze cannot make him hot; the Yellow River and Han River frozen cannot make him cold; thunder splitting mountains cannot harm him; wind raging over the sea cannot startle him.” (If later parallel lines on the perfected person and true person appear, the gist is the same: the true person does not contend with things, does not rely on personal power, wanders with the Dao—therefore outer things cannot burden his body.)

The Tianle Ji quotes all come from the Zhuangzi and describe what the “Perfect Person”—someone who has reached the highest level of cultivation—is like.

Free and Easy Wandering says: In the Perfect Person’s mind there is no stubborn “self”; they do not set themselves in opposition to their surroundings.

Equalizing Things says: The spirit of the Perfect Person is utterly clear. When great marshes catch fire, it does not scorch them; when the Yellow River and Han freeze, it does not chill them; thunder splitting mountains cannot harm them; gale winds churning the sea cannot startle them. Such a person can ride on cloud-qi, drive the sun and moon, and roam beyond the four seas; birth and death, change and transformation do not alter their constancy—how much less could branches like gain and loss, benefit and harm?

Heaven’s Revolutions says: The Perfect Persons of old took “benevolence” as their road and “rightness” as their lodging; they wandered in the realm of carefree ease, ate from fields of plain simplicity, and stood in gardens of “not borrowing” (not taking from outside). Carefree ease is Wuwei (non-action); plain simplicity is easy to nourish; not borrowing is not recklessly expending. The ancients called this “roaming in gathering the real”—wandering in a state that is genuine and free of pretense.

The Full Realization of Life says: Have you not heard how the Perfect Person walks? They forget liver and gall (forget crafty scheming), leave ears and eyes behind (are not pulled by sound and color), wander lost beyond the dust and grime, roam at ease in affairs that are no-affairs—that is, “acting yet not relying on it, nurturing yet not dominating.”

The Normal Course for Rulers and Kings says: The Perfect Person uses the mind like a mirror: not going out to meet things on purpose, not seeing them off with intent; when things come, they respond; when the response is done, they do not hoard—so they can respond to things without being injured by them.

Master Tian says: Life has a place where it sprouts; death has a place it tends toward; beginning and end cycle without end, and no one knows where the limit lies. Whoever can realize this has utmost beauty and utmost joy; one who obtains utmost beauty and roams in utmost joy is the Perfect Person. It also says: Water in a ditch naturally finds its flow—no need to carve it deliberately; the Virtue of the Perfect Person needs no “cultivation,” yet the ten thousand things cannot do without them, like Heaven naturally high, Earth naturally thick, sun and moon naturally bright—what need to add a stroke? It also says: The Perfect Person looks up at the blue sky and dives to the yellow springs (above and below, nothing blocked), sweeps through the eight extremities (roaming the farthest reaches in every direction), and spirit and qi do not change.

Taken together: the Perfect Person is without self, without clinging, like a mirror, like nature itself—roaming in carefree ease, not enslaved by outer things.

This passage collects several statements from the Zhuangzi on the “Perfect Person” (zhiren). The gist is as follows.

The “Knowledge Rambling in the North” chapter says: Heaven is inherently high, earth inherently low, sun and moon inherently bright—they do not become what they are through human artifice. It also says: The Perfect Person can look up at the blue sky and dive down to the Yellow Springs; spirit roams to the farthest reaches of the eight directions, yet spirit and energy remain unchanged. The same chapter adds: The Perfect Person acts without contrivance (wuwei); the great sage does not “make” things—he only follows and observes the pattern of heaven and earth.

The “Gengsang Chu” chapter says: The Perfect Person eats on the ground like everyone else, yet shares in the ease of the Way of Heaven; he is not unsettled by gain or loss from outside things; he does not form odd alliances with people, join in private schemes, or share in vulgar business; coming and going are for him simply natural—this is called the constant way of preserving the body and prolonging life.

The “Lie Yukou” chapter says: The Perfect Person returns spirit to the realm without beginning and rests in the “land of nowhere”; like water that flows without fixed form, yet gathers and pours into the Grand Clarity.

The “Under Heaven” chapter says: Not departing from what is genuinely oneself—that is what counts as being a Perfect Person.

The “Way of Heaven” chapter says: When the Perfect Person dwells in the world, however vast the age, it does not weigh on him; when the realm contends for power, he does not take part; clarity does not borrow from external things, nor does he change his aim for profit; probing the truth of the myriad things, he can hold to the root—therefore he can stand outside heaven and earth, forget the myriad things, and his spirit is never trapped; penetrating the Way and harmonizing with De, he puts benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music in a secondary place, and the Perfect Person’s mind thus finds its footing. (One passage in the “Way of Heaven” chapter is duplicated in the source; the meaning is the same.)

Reading through the sections above, the four characters “the perfected person has no self” (zhi ren wu ji) cut straight to the heart. No self is what Yogacara calls turning the seventh consciousness (manas) into the wisdom of equality: only when ego-clinging is emptied can one roam freely in the sea of non-action’s true nature and attain genuine pure joy.

The saying “great marshes may burn yet cannot scorch him; the Milky Way may freeze yet cannot chill him” describes exactly the state after the seventh consciousness is transformed: discriminating attachment is gone, so cold and heat cannot harm—even birth and death no longer alter him—because the knot of shared life-force (the life-root shared with alaya consciousness) has already been broken.

Generally, those who study the Way must first empty ego-clinging, then empty clinging to dharmas. The seventh manas consciousness is the root of ego-clinging: it takes the subjective aspect of the eighth alaya consciousness as an “inner self,” and grasps the objective aspect of the sixth mental consciousness as “my knowing.” Once this consciousness turns, ego-clinging is empty and attaining the Way is assured.

Hence the Verses on Consciousness-Only says: “The second of the two kinds of transformation is consciousness called manas. Depending on that it turns; its nature is thinking and measuring. Four afflictions are always present—namely self-ignorance, self-view, self-pride, and self-love—along with other contacts and the like; it is obscuring and indeterminate.” The Ghanavyuha Sutra verse says: “Manas conditions store consciousness, like a magnet drawing iron. Like a serpent with two heads, each performs its own function—so too the defiled mind, grasping alaya, making deeds for me and swelling what is mine. It also turns together with mental consciousness, as cause it fades away. Warm touch arises in the body; movement performs all deeds.”

Again, First Patriarch Bodhidharma’s Method for Pacifying the Mind says: “Question: People in the world study and learn—why do they not attain the Way? Answer: Because they see a self, they do not attain the Way.” Self is I. The perfected person does not grieve in suffering nor rejoice in pleasure—because he does not see a self, he does not know pain and joy; because he forgets the self, he reaches utmost emptiness. When even the self is gone, what thing remains un-emptied? Thus it is clear: once ego-clinging is empty, one can at once attain the Way.

The sage has no self; the perfected person has no self—here realm and wisdom are subtly empty, root and dust are fully transformed—what Chan and Mystery jointly verify and all sages jointly reach: the secret key to cultivating the Way.

In the “Great and Venerable Teacher” chapter of the Zhuangzi, the text asks what a “True Person” is and, in several layers, describes the state and bearing of the “True Persons of old.” The main points are explained below in plain language, in the order of the passages.

I. Conduct in the world

The True Persons of old: when circumstances were thin and difficult, they did not resist or twist against them; when achievement was complete, they did not boast or claim credit; nor did they set themselves up as scheming advisers. Thus, when they had faults they did not turn back again and again in regret; when the time was right they did not intoxicate themselves with self-satisfaction and smug contentment.

II. Accord with the Dao

They did not fear when climbing high, were not soaked when entering water, and did not feel burning when entering fire—not because they were showing off special powers, but because their knowing and capacity could “mount upon the Dao” (deng jia yu Dao): mind-nature and the Great Dao were in communication, and they moved by borrowing the Dao, so outer things could not ordinarily harm their spirit by the usual rules. This passage is repeated in some editions, with the same meaning.

III. Sleep, breath, and eating

When True Persons slept they had no cluttered dreams; when awake they had no vulgar anxieties. In eating they did not seek sweetness; in breathing they were deep. The True Person’s qi sank to the heels (“breathing from the heels,” xi yi zhong); ordinary people’s qi floats at the throat. Those who bow to rank and position speak as if choking or retching; those deep in desire have shallow innate clarity (tianji).

IV. View of life and death

They did not know craving life, did not know hating death; they did not rejoice at being born, did not refuse at dying; coming and going were all free and easy—that was all. They did not forget the beginning, did not chase the end; they received what befell them and were at peace, forgot and yet returned—this is called not harming the Dao with private intent, not assisting Heaven with human effort. Only then is one a True Person.

V. Spirit, expression, and responding to things

Their mind-intent was unified, their countenance quiet, their forehead broad and level; at times their expression was clear and austere like autumn, at times warm like spring; joy and anger followed the four seasons; in dwelling with the myriad things each found its place, while outsiders could not fathom their depth.

VI. Another description of the “True Person of old” (the base text here is corrupt in places)

The gist is still this: the True Person values righteousness (yi) without proclaiming himself; seems insufficient yet does not forcibly accept more; is broad and mild without stubbornness, empty-minded without showiness; is harmonious, advances only when he must, with expression full and de (virtue/power) that stops of itself; outwardly seems involved in the world, yet inwardly is not something that can be forced—again as if fond of hiding, sparing in words—altogether portraying inner and outer as one, roaming with the Dao, not the look of worldly fame and achievement.

Commentary in the Tianle Ji: “The above speaks of the True Person’s virtue and conduct”—that is, it summarizes the Da Zong Shi passages cited above. All of them explain the True Person’s de, bearing, and bodily-spiritual atmosphere, for students of the Way to compare and examine themselves—not a checklist of “supernatural powers” to imitate.

This passage mainly cites and briefly summarizes discussions of the “True Person” (Zhenren) from various chapters of the Zhuangzi.

(Continuing from the previous text) To take punishment as the basis for cultivating the person, to take ritual as the wings for soaring, to take cleverness as the opportune moment for adapting, and to take De (Virtue/Power) as the standard to follow—what is meant by “taking punishment as the substance” is that leniency and severity have their measure: one kills when one must kill, without excess. What is meant by “taking ritual as the wings” is that only with ritual and righteousness can one act in the world. What is meant by “taking knowledge as the timely means” is that one deploys stratagem only when there is no alternative. What is meant by “taking De as the path to follow” is that one walks to a hill together with those who have feet—yet people in the world actually believe this is diligent practice. Thus what the True Person likes is oneness, and what the True Person dislikes is also oneness; what the True Person unifies is oneness, and what the True Person does not unify is also oneness. Whoever accords with oneness is of the same kind as Heaven; whoever accords with non-oneness is of the same kind as humanity. Heaven and humanity originally do not contend for victory over each other—such a person is called a True Person. (The above explains how the True Person governs and benefits things, even to the point of dispelling love and hate, equating Heaven and humanity, and penetrating all principles.)

The “Purposive Will” chapter (Ke Yi) says: To maintain the way of pure simplicity is only to preserve the spirit, to hold it and not let it scatter, and to become one with the spirit. When unity is achieved and the spirit is unobstructed, one accords with the norms of Heaven. A common saying goes: “The multitude value profit; the incorruptible value reputation; the worthy esteem aspiration; the sage treasures essence (jing, spirit and refined qi).” Therefore “simple” (su) means not being mixed up with miscellaneous affairs; “pure” (chun) means not injuring the spirit. One who can grasp and hold to this pure simplicity is called a True Person.

The “Tian Zifang” chapter says: The True Person of antiquity—those who understand music could not exhaust him in words; the beautiful could not slight him; thieves could not rob him; Fuxi and the Yellow Emperor could not befriend him as peers. Life and death were already great matters, yet they could not alter his self—how much less rank and stipend! Such a person’s spirit could stride across Mount Tai without obstruction, plunge into deep pools without being soaked, dwell in humble and trivial places without weariness, and fill the space between Heaven and Earth. Having already given to the multitude, he himself became only more full.

The “Xu Wugui” chapter says: Therefore one need not be excessively close to anyone, nor excessively distant from anyone; embracing De and harmonizing Yin and Yang to accord with the world—this is called being a True Person. Toward ants one need not use clever devices; toward fish one attains their natural state; toward sheep one abandons cunning. With the eyes one sees the eyes, with the ears one hears the ears, with the heart one responds to the heart. Such a person is level and straight as a plumb line; in change, he acts according to principle.

In the Zhuangzi, the moral character, appearance, and conduct of the “true person” are described about as fully as words can go. A true person (zhenren) is someone who has fully awakened to the principle of the One True Dharma Realm—the sole reality, the unobstructed, all-embracing body of the dharma realm—and who can save both themselves and others. A supreme person (zhiren) is one who inwardly realizes Dao and De and whose cultivation has reached the utmost limit. In sum, both kinds of figure clarify the supreme Dao, accord with true constancy (the real, ever-abiding Dao-nature), stand beyond the whole realm of beings, roam freely in the homeland of Taiyi (the primordial, supreme Dao), and dwell at ease in the garden of quiescence (stillness in which delusion ceases, akin to nirvana). That Laozi and Master Yin are taken as models for the true person carries very deep meaning.

The scripture first cites passages such as “The Great Master” (Da Zongshi) in the Zhuangzi: the true persons of antiquity were what people called true persons. Toward ants they did not rely on clever tricks; toward fish they followed natural designs; toward sheep they set aside scheming minds. With the eyes they looked only at what eyes should look at; with the ears they heard only what ears should hear; they let the heart return to its own heart. When this was so, their inner state was as straight as a plumb line, and in responding to change they followed reason and nature. The true persons of old treated people according to Heaven’s Way, without forcing human affairs into that Way. Gaining the Dao they called life; losing the Dao they called death—yet sometimes “gaining” appeared as death, and “losing” as life; birth and death alike answered to the Dao.

“The Lie Yu Kou” chapter says: those who suffer external punishment endure metal and wooden restraints; those who suffer internal punishment suffer restlessness and fault. Ordinary people, if they meet external punishment, have metal and wood applied to their bodies; if they meet internal punishment, yin and yang fall out of balance and emotions are drained as if devoured. Only the true person can avoid both kinds of punishment.

“The Tian Xia” chapter praises: Master Yin and Old Laozi—what broad, deep true persons of antiquity!

Seen in this light, the Zhuangzi has said all there is to say about the true person’s virtue, form, achievement, and function. The true person illuminates the body of the One True Dharma Realm and saves self and others; the supreme person inwardly realizes Dao and De and peaks in the ultimate state. In overall meaning, both clarify the supreme Dao, accord with true constancy, transcend the surface of the myriad things, roam in Taiyi’s homeland, and play freely in the garden of quiescence. Taking Laozi and Master Yin as exemplars of the true person—the significance runs very deep.

In the “Heaven and Earth” chapter of Zhuangzi, someone asks what a person of De is like. The answer: such a person does not deliberately plot in the heart, and in action does not cling to gain or fear loss; they do not hoard judgments of right and wrong, beauty and ugliness in the mind. When all under Heaven benefit together, they feel glad; when everyone’s food and clothing are sufficient, they feel at ease. Sometimes they are as blank as an infant parted from its mother; sometimes as dazed as one who has lost the way on a road. Their goods are enough, yet they cannot say whence they came; food and drink are sufficient, yet they cannot say whence they came—such is the bearing of the person of De.

Someone also asks about the spirit person. The answer: the spirit person moves upward with wondrous light, and vanishes together with thoughts of the bodily form—this is called zhaoguang (the heart illumined and vast, not bound by outward traces). They entrust life to nature, commit intention entirely to the Dao, rejoice with Heaven and Earth, and then the myriad affairs dissolve and the ten thousand things each return to their native disposition—this is called hunming (merged in obscurity with the Dao, chaos become oneness).

“Free and Easy Wandering” says the spirit person is “without purposeful achievement”—they do not hoard merit or force outcomes, yet completion follows by aligning with nature. “Under Heaven” says, “Not departing from essential spirit—this is called the spirit person”: only when spirit is single and pure, never scattered from the refinement of the Dao, can one be called a spirit person. Tianle Collection cites these passages to show that the person of De emphasizes shared benefit and provision for all under Heaven, without clinging or concealment; the spirit person rises a step further—zhaoguang and hunming, moving with light and forgetting the body together.

In my reading, the Mencius says that when one reaches the level of a sage and ordinary people cannot fathom the depth, this is called “spirit” (shen). The Book of Changes says that when Yin-Yang transformation cannot be exhausted, this is called “spirit.” Thus the “spirit person” (shenren) is one who delights in the Dao and “gives rise to a body from intention”—spiritual power (shen) moves freely and cannot be measured by ordinary feelings and cognition. The “person of Virtue” (deren) is one who holds fast to De (Virtue/Power) but has not yet truly entered the realm of transformation.

Lu Fanghu said: “The person of Virtue is one who preserves De. In dwelling he need not deliberately scheme; in action he need not overthink; in speech and conduct he is without artifice. Harboring no hidden judgment of right and wrong, good and bad in the heart—this is what is meant by not thinking of good and not thinking of evil. Sharing benefit with all under heaven and taking that as joy, sharing provision and taking that as peace, entrusting the self to the Way of Heaven and scarcely feeling that there is this bodily frame—because he does not feel he has a body, he is more detached than an infant who has lost its mother. As for the common run of people, they do not even know what they rely on; dazed and confused, they walk and lose the path, yet bustle along not knowing where they are headed. Wealth and food are often in surplus, yet they do not know whence it comes—because they do not grasp in the mind, others do not see them as wanting, while they themselves always feel sufficient. One who preserves De is roughly like this. The supreme spirit person is spirit ascending, with the light of sun and moon shining below. The spirit person carries cloud-qi and bears sun and moon, roaming in realms that cannot be measured—hence he can be thus. Once bound by the physical shell, how could he invert light and shadow to look downward, with empty clarity shining and vast openness without limit? Hence it is said: perishing together with the bodily form—this is called ‘illumining the vast.’ What Daoists call entering metal and stone without obstruction and treading sun and moon without casting a shadow—the intent is roughly here. Ming (life-as-given) is what Heaven bestows; qing (emotion/disposition) is what nature emits. Exhausting ming and exhausting qing, the middle way and harmony are reached together. Hence above and below flow with Heaven and Earth, and the burden of external things is wholly dissolved. Hence it is said: Heaven and Earth rejoice together, and the myriad affairs vanish.”

The commentary quotes Zhuangzi, “Free and Easy Wandering” (Xiaoyaoyou):

The book records that on Mount Guye there dwells a divine being (shenren). His skin is as white as ice and snow; his bearing is light and graceful, like that of a maiden. He does not eat the five grains but only inhales the pure wind and drinks dew (he does not rely on ordinary food to live). It also says: Heaven and earth are thereby at peace, and the burdens of the ten thousand things are lifted from them. (This quotation differs slightly from the received text of Zhuangzi, but the sense is still that the divine being transcends the dust of the world and is one with the Dao.)

Further on the divine being, the person of virtue, and Xuánzōng cultivation

The same chapter also says: On Mount Guye there is a divine being; his flesh is like ice and snow, his grace like a maiden; he does not eat the five grains but inhales wind and drinks dew; he rides cloud-qi and drives flying dragons, roaming beyond the four seas; his spirit is focused and unified, so that the ten thousand things suffer no calamity and the five grains ripen abundantly. This is the virtue-mark and realm of the “divine being.”

The standing of the “person of virtue” (deren) is one level below that of the divine being.

In Xuánzōng (the inner alchemy of Daoism), cultivation and realization of the Dao, after obtaining the “Great Returning Elixir” (da huandan—the achievement of inner alchemy and the return and restoration of essence and qi), the gate of essence is closed, lustful mind and lustful root are uprooted at once, body and mind are pure and still, one embraces and guards virtue and the Dao and is gentle and uncontentious like an infant—such a one may be called a person of virtue.

When the “ten-month fetus” is complete (the metaphorical stage of “ten months in the womb” in inner alchemy practice is finished), the Dharma-body appears, spirit transforms freely with inexhaustible subtle function, one can ride wind and command qi and wander beyond the six directions—such a one may be called a divine being.

If one goes further to the utmost of “return to emptiness,” even emptiness is shattered and released from attachment, such a one may be called a perfected person (zhiren).

The cloud steward Yun Jiang asked, “Then what should I do?”

Hong Meng—standing here for the undivided, pre‑cosmic chaos of heaven and earth, and also for one who has attained the Way—sighed and said, “Ah! The more you ask, the more harm you do. Go home and settle your mind.”

Yun Jiang said, “I have met a calamity beyond measure; I only want one sentence from you that truly matters.”

Hong Meng said, “Ah! Nourish this heart of yours. Simply rest in wuwei (non‑action)—without rash interference or forced control—and the ten thousand things will transform on their own. Let go of clinging to the body; spit out cleverness and cunning; together with outer things, forget the distinction of ‘I.’ Become one with the vast, dark depth (ximing, the indescribably wide, chaotic realm); loosen the heart’s bonds and relax the spirit’s tension, empty and natural as if without hun and po (soul and corporeal soul). The ten thousand things bustle in their ways, each returning to its own root—returning to the root without needing to ‘know’ that one is returning, muddled and dim, never leaving this state for a whole lifetime; if one fancy oneself as ‘understanding,’ that is already to have left it. Do not chase its name; do not pry into its inner workings—things by nature generate and operate themselves.”

Yun Jiang said, “Heaven is about to bestow De (Virtue/Power) upon me and instruct me through silence; I went in person to seek it, and only today have I truly received it.” He bowed again, kowtowed, rose, took his leave, and departed.

This passage explains the principle of returning to the true (gui zhen) and the essentials of reversion (fan huan)—stated in the most concise way.

What is meant by primordial chaos (hong meng) and undifferentiated mixture (hun dun) is both thought and intention extinguished, still illumination and forgetting both forgotten—neither discriminating thought nor the knowing that illuminates remains; one abides in a state of neither knowing nor not-knowing, neither self nor other; what Laozi called “returning to the limitless” (fu gui yu wu ji) is exactly this.

“Spit out your bodily form” means forgetting the physical frame; “dismiss your cleverness and intelligence” means forgetting the mind. Once body and mind are both forgotten, human relations and the myriad things leave no trace upon the heart-mind. Then one turns back to the Grand Beginning (tai chu), merges with xī míng (the primal blur before division), unties adhesion and drops bonds, dazed and dim—seemingly without soul yet at ease.

“Each returns to its root” is returning to simplicity and the original true nature (xing zhen). In sum, one must forget both things and self, revert to chaos: depart from mind, consciousness, emotional views, and grasping or rejecting; wuwei self-transformation (wu wei zi hua), abiding in pure original suchness (qing jing ben ran)—only then can one say “Immortal, immortal—returned at last!”—truly returned.

171: Nie Que Asks About the Dao

Zhuangzi, “Knowledge Rambling in the North,” records: Nie Que asked Bei Yi about the Dao. Bei Yi said: “Straighten your body, unify your seeing and hearing, and Heavenly Harmony (tian he) will arrive; gather in your cleverness, unify your measures, and Shen (spirit) will come to dwell. De (Virtue) will make you beautiful; the Dao will settle you in peace. Let your gaze be like a newborn calf’s—do not pry into old causes!” Before he finished, Nie Que had fallen asleep. Bei Yi was very pleased, sang as he walked away, and said: “Form like withered bones, heart like dead ashes, real yet truly knowing, not holding to old habits. Dazed and dim, a person without mind—one cannot scheme with such a one. What kind of person is this!”

This question-and-answer likewise demonstrates concentrating the spirit (ning shen)—Bei Yi’s great joy and departure singing; his words “form like withered bones, heart like dead ashes… dazed and dim, without mind and not to be plotted with” are exactly the portrait of mindless union with the Dao.

This Q&A also clarifies how to apply oneself in “concentrating the spirit and regulating the breath”; here it is spelled out again:

“Correct your form”: When the body is settled and unmoving, the spirit naturally grows calm. “Unify your sight”: Gather the light inward, silently lowering the curtain of the eyes and looking within. Then “Heaven’s harmony” arrives—meaning when innate true yang comes, the whole body feels warm, soft, and blended, as if slightly drunk. “Restrain your knowing”: Let the spirit cling to the breath, only aware of its going in and out, with no other thoughts arising. “Unify your measure”: Out-breath and in-breath merge with the spirit; emptiness and stillness are natural, like a line snapped true without leaning. Before the breath is regulated, in and out have no measure; when mind and breath depend on each other and are refined to the utmost, everything is fully natural—then the breath is fine and continuous, spirit never leaves the breath nor breath the spirit; the two return to one, and opening and closing the breath follow a rule.

The line “the spirit will come and dwell” is extremely subtle. For ages, commentators on the Zhuangzi have mostly failed to tie it to the actual work of regulating the breath, so their words miss the point and cannot be put into practice. “The spirit will come and dwell” means the original spirit appears and discriminating consciousness on the mind is forgotten.

Chi Que was practicing right there; as he listened he understood, and suddenly he fell asleep. Beiyi was then greatly pleased—pleased that Chi Que could “practice and understanding match”: after only a short time regulating the breath he could sleep into [that state]. So he sang a song and left. The song teaches people to keep body and mind unmoving, dim and silent, chaotic and muddy, nurturing the original nature. Caoshan said: “Students of the Way are like a cat or a white ox—hungry they eat grass, thirsty they drink water; no need to worry that the Way will not be realized.” Same intent as “wide-eyed like a newborn calf, not asking why.” So pursuing the Way means learning from chaos—like an infant not yet grown into a child—only then can one return to truth and recover simplicity.

In the “Huangdi” (Yellow Emperor) chapter of the Liezi, Liezi asks Guan Yin (Guan Yin Xi, the figure said to have met Laozi when he left the pass) how the perfect person can enter water without drowning, tread fire without burning, and what path one should follow—learning from primordial chaos and returning to truth and simplicity like an infant not yet fully formed.

172 — Guan Yin on the Dao (first part)

Liezi asked Guan Yin: “The perfect person can dive under water without suffocating, step on fire without feeling burned, and walk among all things without fear. How can one reach such a state?”

Guan Yin replied: “This is the work of guarding pure Qi (vital energy)—not cleverness, craft, or bold daring. Let me tell you: whatever has form, appearance, color, or sound belongs to ‘things’ (external objects, the realm of the visible). Things differ greatly from one another; on what basis could one ‘get ahead of’ external things? If you cling only to appearances, you remain trapped among things. The power that truly creates is originally formless and rests where nothing further transforms. Whoever grasps this and exhausts its principle can set the mind aright. Such a person dwells in measure without fixed depth, is hidden in order without beginning or end, and roams between the beginning and end of all things—single-minded in nature, nurturing Qi, holding De (Virtue/Power), in communion with creation itself. When this is so, what Heaven guards is whole, and Shen (spirit) has no crack—how could external things enter and harm?”

Guan Yin added an example: “A drunk falls from a cart; though the fall is hard, he often does not die. His bones and joints are the same as others’, yet the harm he suffers differs—because his Shen is whole. While in the cart he does not know the cart is moving; when he falls he does not know he has fallen; life, death, and terror do not enter his breast—so he meets danger without fear. If wine can leave Shen this intact, how much more one who fully accords with the Way of Heaven? The sage hides in Heaven (united with the Way, not entrusting himself to external things)—therefore things cannot harm him.”

Main point: Guan Yin explains the perfect person’s capacities as guarding pure Qi, wholeness of Shen, and hiding in Heaven—not as showing wit or raw courage. The parable of the drunk who is unafraid illustrates that when the heart is one with creation and not led by outer appearances, one is not easily hurt by things.

This passage also appears in the Zhuangzi; it treats the Daoist teaching of liaoming—bringing xing (inner nature) and ming (life-destiny) to fulfillment.

“Guarding pure Qi,” “making xing single-minded and nourishing Qi,” are all practices of heart and breath mutually resting (xinxixi), gathering and holding the Tianbao—the innate, prenatal Qi. “Hiding in the record without beginning” means applying the mind to the void outside the body: fixing spirit and intent in emptiness so that heart and body both return to stillness. “Roaming where the ten thousand things begin and end” means turning back into true emptiness and aligning with xiang di zhi xian—the source of the Dao before any image of the sovereign.

All form, appearance, sound, and color belong to the postnatal se shen—the visible, embodied self. If you seek the Way only by clinging to this physical body, how can you step beyond images and realize “xiantian er tian fu wei”—acting before Heaven yet not going against Heaven? Therefore one must concentrate spirit and regulate breath in the void outside the body before one can return to the xiantian realm and merge with Taiyi (the body of the Dao).

What follows explains quanshen—holding spirit whole: when spirit is whole, form is whole; cold and heat cannot harm, birth, death, worry, and fear cannot enter—so nurturing shen (spirit) is the key to nurturing the body. “The sage hides in Heaven” means tucking this small cosmos of heart and breath into the great cosmos of Heaven and Earth—the void outside the body. At that level, self and Heaven and Earth are silently one; one dissolves into the formless, shares the body of empty space, shares the function of Heaven and Earth; se shen and fa shen (the formless body that accords with the Dao) are not two. In movement and stillness, opening and closing, one shares the beginning and end of the great transformation. This is what the Zhuangzi calls “the Dao penetrates as one.” Hence: “Only one who has attained tong (penetrating unity) knows that penetration is oneness.” Tong is de (getting/realizing); when de is fitting, one is close to the Dao.

Shi Qixi said: “Heaven and human share one Qi; there is no difference between them.” (The received text here is corrupt; the sense is that Heaven and human are one breath, originally one.) The Zhuangzi phrase “the Dao penetrates as one” means exactly this. Hence: “Only the da (penetrating) person knows that penetration is oneness”—tong is de, and when de is apt, one is nearly there.

Shi Jianwu said: Heaven and human beings are originally one and the same qi; when they resonate with each other, they connect. Yang qi comes from empty space and embraces the “master within” (the original spirit, the true self).

Zhang Ziqiong said: Heaven and human beings share one qi by nature; it is only blocked by the physical body and therefore does not flow. When cultivation reaches the point where form and spirit merge in one, one sees that all appearances are empty through and through.

Human beings receive life from Heaven and are held within Heaven, so Heaven and human can “issue together,” and the myriad transformations have their foundation—this is called “wandering with Heaven.” As for the practice, it is nothing more than concentrating spirit in emptiness, letting heart and breath depend on each other, and attaining great stillness. Lines in the Cantong qi such as “The perfected person hides in the deep abyss, floating and guarding the center,” and “Originally hidden and bright, concealed within the form of the body,” all stem from this; Yang Xiong’s Taixuan jing phrase “Hide the heart in the abyss, beautiful is its return to the root” follows the same line—it is the secret of Laozi’s lineage of concentrating spirit and regulating breath.

Guan Yin (the gatekeeper Guan Yinxi, whom Laozi met when leaving the pass) on the Dao: The Dao is in oneself yet does not cling to one fixed place; form and things are only temporarily attached. Stillness is like a clear mirror; response is like an echo. Thus the Dao is like the ten thousand things—it is things that turn away from the Dao, not the Dao that turns away from things. One who truly accords with the Dao does not rely on ears, eyes, strength, or clever mind; if one uses seeing, hearing, bodily form, and intellect to seek it, one will not hit the mark. It seems ahead, then suddenly behind; in use it fills the six directions of empty space, in disuse one does not know where it is. Neither can the intentional mind reach it from afar, nor can the mindless one draw near. Only one who obtains it in silence and whose nature has matured can grasp it. Knowing yet not being moved by emotion, able yet not forcing action—this is true knowing and true ability. If knowing arises from “no-knowing,” how could there be emotional attachment? If ability arises from “inability,” how could there be forced doing? Like clods of earth piled up, dust accumulated—they seem without deliberate action, yet they are not without principle.

This exquisite passage from Guan Yinzi can be said to align with the Dao and to stand at the hub of the circle—unmatched before or after, the supreme intent of the Xuanzong teaching, and the subtle truth of Laozi’s “embrace the unadorned,” “know the constant and keep to the Way.”

“In oneself, dwell nowhere” deeply matches the Diamond Sutra’s “respond from no fixed abode and thus the mind arises”—not clinging to any single point in the self. When form and things each rest in their place, every place is clear and each thing shines forth. The Purple Yang Immortal (the neidan master Zhang Boduan) said “nothing is not my heart”—that is exactly this meaning.

“Still as a mirror”: in silence yet able to reflect; reflecting yet never ceasing to shine. Zhuangzi said the perfected person uses the mind like a mirror: neither welcoming nor seeing off, responding without storing—therefore able to overcome things without being harmed. A mirror is used to reflect things without private feeling; what comes is shown, what goes is not kept—by this we metaphor the perfected person’s wondrous way of responding to things without mind.

“Moving like water”: universally moistening the ten thousand things without private mind; though water flows, its moist nature does not change—also showing the secret meaning that the perfected person follows conditions while original nature does not alter. “Responding like an echo”: strike and it answers; loud strike, loud answer; soft strike, soft answer; many strikes, many answers—however you knock, it never misses—expressing the wondrous use of responding everywhere without mind.

“Its Way like things”: giving according to the other’s capacity, neither more nor less—principle and affairs both complete.

“Obtained in silence” speaks of grasping in the heart, like drinking water and knowing for oneself whether it is cold or warm. “Those whose nature is complete obtain it” means heart-nature is originally complete; realization is immediate attainment—not something forced by artificial effort. “Issuing without knowing” aligns with the Prajna scriptures’ teaching of “no knowing.” “Knowing yet forgetting feeling” especially matches the subtle intent of the Surangama Sutra’s “knowing and seeing without seeing.” Nirvana is unconditioned, pure and clear—Guan Yinzi must have personally verified this realm.

Read together with the previous section on nourishing qi and storing spirit, Laozi’s heart transmission and the Xuanzong’s Dao subtlety are fully stated here.

174. Kangcang Zi Attests to the Dao

Liezi, “Zhong Ni,” records: A grand officer of Chen went on a mission to Lu and privately visited the house of Shusun. Shusun said, “Our state has a sage.” The visitor asked, “Is it Kong Qiu [Confucius]?” He answered, “Yes. How do you know he is a sage?” Shusun said, “I once heard from Yan Hui that Kong Qiu can set aside fixed thoughts in the mind and act directly through the bodily form.” The Chen officer said, “Our state also has a sage—you do not know?” Asked who, he replied, “Kangcang Zi, disciple of Laozi [La Dan], who obtained Laozi’s Dao and can see with his ears and hear with his eyes.” When the marquis of Lu heard this he was greatly astonished and sent a chief minister with rich gifts to invite him. Kangcang Zi accepted and came to Lu. The marquis stepped down humbly to question him. Kangcang Zi said, “What is told in legend is exaggerated and untrue. My seeing and hearing do not rely on ears and eyes, nor can I casually swap the functions of ears and eyes.” The marquis said, “That is even more marvelous. What is this Dao really like? I want to understand it to the end.” Kangcang Zi said, “My bodily form unites with the heart; the heart unites with qi; qi unites with shen; shen unites with emptiness and non-being. If there is something extremely subtle in existence or an extremely faint sound, however far in the eight directions or as near as the space between eyebrow and eyelash—once it touches me, I am sure to know. Yet it is not what these seven openings and four limbs feel, nor what heart, belly, and five viscera recognize—it simply knows by itself.” The marquis was very pleased. Later he told Zhong Ni [Confucius]; Zhong Ni only smiled and did not answer. (The intent of the two sages meets entirely in that single smile. Wonderful! Wonderful!)

(Introductory note to the section) Read together with the previous section on “nourishing qi and storing shen,” the heart-transmission of Laozi’s line and the subtle wonder of the Xuan teaching are already fully visible in this story; references to Shu Zhenjing, Guan Yin, and others personally verifying the meaning are meant to show how this passage connects with the cultivation theme of the whole chapter.

This chapter runs through from top to bottom: few words, deep meaning—the kind of teaching found only in the inner treasury of the heart, where what matters is knowing for yourself (not proving it through external things). Duke Lu was very pleased when he heard it; later he repeated it to Confucius, who only smiled and did not answer. (Both sages shared a tacit understanding in that smile—subtle indeed.)

This chapter likewise connects beginning and end, says much in little, leaves nothing out, and pierces the crux. In the Song, Chan master Yongming quoted this passage in the Zongjing lu (Records of the Mirror of the Source). His gloss on “knowing for yourself” was that it is the subtle accord with the one mind, handed down by sages through the ages—that very path.

Xuanjing says: the lines in this chapter about the heart uniting with Qi and the like point to mind and breath mutually depending: first forget the body to nourish Qi, then forget Qi to nourish Shen, then forget Shen to nourish emptiness—this is the work of the Three Passes, gathering every level of “nothingness” into one, extremely simple and subtle. What is meant by “seeing and hearing without using eyes and ears” is the verification of the six faculties restored and different natures entering sameness. When ancients spoke of “seeing without the eyes, hearing without the ears,” they meant the authentic state of the Daoist adept.

The Surangama Sutra says: you do not follow the twelve conditioned aspects of movement and stillness, union and separation, ease and flow, obstruction, birth and death, light and darkness; pluck out one root, shed adhesion and turn inward, return to the original truth, and the root illumination shines forth—then the remaining five adhesions should also be plucked out and fully released. In this assembly Aniruddha sees without eyes, the naga Upananda hears without ears, the goddess Gandharva smells without a nose, the spirit Jivaka knows taste with a strange tongue, the spirit Shunyata feels touch without a body and attains the stillness of the voice-hearers; Mahakashyapa long extinguished the root of mind-consciousness, yet clearly knows without relying on thought—all the same principle.

A Passage from Tianle Ji

From this one can see that the paths cultivated in the Way of immortals and in Buddhism alike aim to free the six roots (eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind) from bondage, to exhaust worldly thoughts and perfect awakened nature—fundamentally there is no second path. Alas! Had Wei Boyang (Eastern Han alchemist and author of Zhouyi Cantongqi) taken not the Yijing hexagrams as his framework but instead the teachings of Fuxi, the Yellow Emperor, Laozi, Master Yin, Master Kangcang, Zhuangzi, Liezi, and the like as his guide in writing Cantongqi, the book would surely have held even more worth reading.

175. The Zang Elder’s Angling (from Zhuangzi, “Tian Zifang”)

King Wen of Zhou toured the district of Zang and saw an old man angling—but he was not fishing as if he meant to catch fish. He did not truly hold the rod to hook anything; he was “angling at ease” (a way of fishing with a calm mind and settled spirit, unmoved by outer things). Wen wished to invite him to head the government, yet feared unease among his ministers and elders; to give up the idea pained his conscience, for he felt the people could not do without the wise ruler Heaven had sent. So at dawn he told his grand officers: “Last night I dreamed of a worthy man—dark-skinned, heavy-bearded, riding a piebald horse with one hoof reddish—who commanded: ‘Entrust governance to the old man of Zang; perhaps the people may recover a little.’” The officers were alarmed and said: “That was our late lord.” Wen said: “Then let us divinate.” They replied: “The late lord left his command; Your Majesty need not seek another oracle.” So they went to welcome the Zang elder and handed him the reins of power. Statutes and ordinances were unchanged; no new policies were issued from side channels.

After three years Wen toured the realm and found that scholars no longer formed factions for private gain, local chiefs no longer advertised personal virtue, and neither the zhi (a venomous creature, here a figure for turmoil) nor the hu (a measure, here a figure for encroachment) dared cross borders; the feudal lords had no divided loyalties. Wen then addressed him as Grand Preceptor and, facing north in the posture of a pupil, asked: “Can such governance and teaching be extended to all under Heaven?” The Zang elder seemed muddled and did not answer, giving only vague excuses; he accepted the charge in the morning and vanished that same night—never to be heard of again for the rest of his life.

Xuanjing said: The Zhangren of Zang in the text is the Taigong Wang (Grand Duke Wang, Jiang Taigong) of historical tradition—a cultivated adept. Outwardly he fished; inwardly he watched the float on the water while gathering spirit in emptiness, letting heart and breath unite, entering that deep stillness of dim vagueness—he was not fishing for fish but for something else. So though he held the rod, the rod never moved. That is the meaning of “fishing without fishing, not fishing yet fishing”—very subtle. The ancients, wherever they were and whatever they were doing, could turn it to practice. Chuanzi Heshang said: “Let down a thousand-foot silk line—the intent is the deep pool. But what of the final outcome?” Below, Chuanzi’s verse confirms it:

A thousand-foot silk line hangs straight down;

One ripple moves and ten thousand ripples follow.

In cold night water the fish do not bite;

The boat returns empty under the bright moon.

King Wen of Zhou wished to invite the Zhangren to take charge of government. What the elder rested on was inner sagehood, outer kingship: outwardly he practiced wuwei as far as possible, and the people transformed of themselves; he did not rely on rewards, yet the people encouraged themselves; he did not speak much, yet the people trusted. The results were excellent—in some respects even beyond what King Wen himself could achieve. For he wholly moved hearts through the Dao, not through harsh laws and punishments. King Wen then wanted to appoint him Grand Preceptor (Taishi, the mentor-guardian post), but the elder drifted away like a wild goose soaring into distant sky—an archer could not even aim in pursuit. Truly coming and going without trace, like the divine dragon showing only its head, never its tail.

Beigong She was in charge of collecting taxes for Duke Ling of Wei to cast bells. He built an altar outside the city gate and finished the work in three months, with the full set of eight kinds of suspended bells and chimes in place—the point being that the project was completed with remarkable speed.

When Prince Qingji saw him, he asked: “By what method did you accomplish this?”

Beigong She replied: “I have no special technique. I simply hold to oneness and dare not act on my own whim or meddle. I have heard it said: after carving and polishing, one must return to simplicity. The mind stays empty and without cleverness, dazed and uncertain, neither fully doubting nor fully trusting; spirit gathers and also disperses, as if seeing off one batch of guests and welcoming the next—what comes is not blocked, what goes is not held back; follow what is hard, follow what is soft, adapt to the situation, and do not force things into another shape. These three lines describe exactly this natural state of vagueness, doubt, coming and going, neither rejecting nor clinging, and acting with the grain of things.

Therefore, whether collecting taxes morning or evening, the people were not harmed in the slightest; how much more so for governing the realm along the great Dao!”

Brief notes

• Beigong She: A Wei minister responsible for levies and casting bells.
• Using levies to cast bells: Funding bells from taxes easily breeds popular resentment; yet he claims not a hair of the people was harmed.
• Within oneness: Daoist “embracing the one”—single-minded, unmixed, without forced action.
• “Once carved and polished, return to simplicity”: From the Laozi; after refinement, one still returns to the uncarved block—of a piece with “no cleverness” and “sluggish doubt.”
• Great Dao: The great way, here a metaphor for governing the state. Zhuangzi uses bell-casting to show: follow the nature of things, do not invent contrivances, and even great undertakings can succeed without injuring the people.

This commentary explains that allegories make up eight or nine tenths of the Zhuangzi, and the story of “casting the bell” is another such allegory. “Casting the bell” stands for forming the embryo—the point in Neidan (internal alchemy) when Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy) condense into an “embryo.” “Levy and collection” stands for gathering the pre-heaven single Qi; “completed in three months” stands for finishing the hundred-day foundation-building stage.

“Making an altar outside the national gate” plainly means working in the empty void outside the body: that is the alchemist’s altar base, and the cauldron-vessel is placed there. From “the space of one” onward, the text turns to the steps of practice. What is “the space of one”? Guarding the center and holding to the one, concentrating Shen (spirit) and regulating the breath—heart and breath in harmony, the two states meeting and merging into one; cultivation puts its effort right here. “Return to simplicity” means that after long practice, spirit and Qi settle, breath and thought are both forgotten, and one returns to primordial chaos. “Simple and vast, sudden and dim” describes a state without knowing or recognizing, dark and silent. “Seeing off what goes and welcoming what comes” is the heart following the breath: one breath out, one breath in—heart and breath depend on each other and stay close.

The three words “follow,” “accord with,” and “cause” say all there is to say about the subtlety of breath regulation. Since antiquity, talk of regulating breath has not gone beyond this three-word formula—in one line, follow what is natural. Gather in the morning, store in the evening; original Yang gradually accumulates while body and mind stay still and rest in great stillness; sensing through stillness, one feels no strain, so not a hair is harmed. The closing line is subtle too: “great road”—ancients used it for the divine red land, meaning that single move toward the void outside the body. To stand on the great road under heaven and walk the Dao level and broad—what could fail? Mencius’s “dwell in the broadest dwelling under heaven, stand in the correct place under heaven, walk the great Dao under heaven” matches the point of “great road.” Sima Ziwei said: “One void gate called the mysterious pass, right in the human body between heaven and earth. Vast enough to hold the Dharma realm, blended without trace; fine enough to enter dust, face unseen.” Luo Gongyuan said: “One void gate in the void between heaven and earth, intimately secret, letting no wind through.” Both are pointing at the secret of the “great road.”

177 Confucius’s Favored Withdrawal (Jiadun)

Zhuangzi, “Mountain Tree” (Shanmu), records that Confucius was trapped between the states of Chen and Cai and went seven days without lighting a fire to cook. Da Gong Ren came to console him and asked, “You nearly lost your life, didn’t you?” Confucius said, “Yes.” He asked again, “Are you afraid of death?” The answer was, “I am.”

Da Gong Ren said, “I once spoke of the way of not dying. In the eastern sea there is a bird called Yidai (Slackened Effort). When it flies, it trembles and wavers, as if it had no real skill; it needs other birds to lift it before it can fly together, and it will only perch when crowded among the flock. It dares not go ahead, dares not fall behind; it dares not taste food first and only eats what is left. Thus it is not pushed out of the ranks, and people outside cannot harm it—so it escapes disaster.

Straight trees are cut first; sweet wells are drained first. If you mean to startle the foolish with cleverness, cultivate yourself to make others look foul, and walk about blazing like the sun and moon, you will hardly avoid calamity. I have heard that those who have fully realized the Way say: those who boast find it hard to achieve merit; when merit is achieved they fall; when fame is achieved it is damaged. Who can shed merit and fame and return to being like everyone else? The Dao spreads without claiming a fixed abode; De acts without fighting for rank—muddled and plain, ordinary and level, one is close to being “mad” yet not burdened by name; erase your tracks, lay down power and position, do not hold to merit and fame. Then you do not blame others, and others do not blame you. The way of the perfected person (Zhenren) was never about seeking renown—why are you so pleased with yourself?” Confucius said, “Excellent!” Thereupon he kept his friends at a distance, dismissed his disciples, hid in a great marsh, wore coarse fur and hemp, ate acorns and chestnuts, entered herds without disturbing their order, entered flocks without disrupting their flight. Birds and beasts did not dislike him—how much more so people!

(Note: In Daoist canon commentary, figures such as “Da Gong” are often linked with “Great Path” (Da Tu)—the road of the Dao, the way to the true realm. This passage, borrowing a Zhuangzi parable, teaches that not pressing ahead, not showing off ability, and not clinging to merit and fame accord with “Jiadun”—in hardship, guarding the Dao, withdrawing, and preserving one’s authenticity.)

This commentary, speaking through Confucius, exhorts those who cultivate the Way: let go of profit-seeking; blend with the world without parading difference; do not use odd novelty to alarm the crowd; do not inflate yourself with reputation; keep the inner mind still and free of entanglements, and meet the world with calm, gentle reserve—so you can preserve yourself and stay far from harm.

Yang Yinxiu said: What Zhuangzi calls “pure and steady” is what Laozi calls “simple and dull”; Zhuangzi follows Laozi and truly forms a school of his own.

Gui Zhenchuan said: To move through the world according to the Way is to seem clever yet act like a fool; one must also drop burdens, empty oneself and defer to others, stay plain and easy, and bend with circumstances—giving up fame and social ties, accepting poverty within one’s lot, not chasing externals or boasting of oneself. That is the path of preserving the body and keeping harm at a distance.

Lu Fanghu said: The Dao flows and works, yet never labels itself; past and present, day and night roll on like water—it only runs silently; the Dao never says “I am the Dao”—that is the Dao’s subtlety. One who truly embodies the Dao can hold a role and act, yet does not stand on “name and position” to perform the self—that nears the Dao. “De xing” means getting one’s way and being able to carry it out; “ming chu” means showing off and exalting oneself through merit and fame. “Chun” is singleness of heart; “chang” is the ordinary—single in mind, ordinary in conduct, close to those who are wild and know no stopping, hence “then one is likened to madness.” “Xiao ji” is shutting the door, cutting off traces, leaving no rut or ring of a wheel; “juan shi” is not serving lords and princes, not running about as a persuader in frantic competition. Then one does not deliberately build merit for the realm or a name for ten thousand generations, nor demands completeness from others—so others cannot hold one to the standard of “perfect goodness.” At that point conduct seeks no fame and fades without a trace—that is the way of those who leave no trace.

I have found in my inquiry that people who cultivate the Dao are often maligned in the world—and half of that comes from their own ostentation. Students of the Way should drop pretense, act freely according to nature (renyun ziran), and mix unobtrusively with ordinary people. They should practice in secret, apply their effort privately, and leave no outward trace, seeking clarity only for themselves and not renown in the world; only then can they stand above cares and burdens. This is crucial, which is why it is set out here. To leave the dust of the world (lichen), withdraw to great marshes and rocky valleys, dwell at ease in a thatched hut or stone cell, and cut off from society—that is still better.

One Seven Eight: Yan Hui’s “Sitting in Forgetfulness”

The Zhuangzi (chapter “The Great Master”) records that Yan Hui said, “I have made progress.” Confucius asked, “What do you mean?” Yan Hui said, “I have forgotten benevolence and righteousness.” Confucius said, “That will do, but it is not enough.” On another day Yan Hui came again and said, “I have progressed further.” When asked what he meant, he said, “I have forgotten ritual and music.” Confucius said, “That will do, but it is not enough.” When they met again, Yan Hui said, “I have progressed still further.” Asked what he meant, he said, “I sit in forgetfulness (zuowang).” Confucius asked in astonishment, “What is sitting in forgetfulness?” Yan Hui said, “Forget the limbs, discard cleverness, leave the body and drop knowing—become one with the Great Dao. That is called sitting in forgetfulness.” Confucius said, “In oneness there is no partiality; in transformation there is no fixed rule. You are truly worthy! I, Kong Qiu, would follow you and learn.”

The meaning, briefly: Yan Hui’s sitting in forgetfulness is a sudden, open entry into absorption (ding). When absorption lasts long enough that inner and outer are both forgotten, that is most subtle and sealed. “Leaving the body” is emptiness of the body; “dropping knowing” is emptiness of the mind. When body, mind, inner, and outer are all empty, one hides without a trace and is one with the dharma realm (fajie).

This passage continues the discussion of zuowang (sitting and forgetting), then turns specifically to Liezi riding the wind.

The passage on zuowang

The gist is this: Yan Hui’s “zuowang” is peaceful entry into ding (fixed absorption); when ding lasts long enough, inner and outer are both forgotten—that is the most subtle and strict state. “Leaving the form” (lixing) means the body is empty; “putting knowing aside” (quzhi) means the mind is empty. When body and mind, inside and outside, are all empty, there is nowhere to hide and no trace to find; the whole dharmadhatu (realm of reality) appears, so the closing line “same as the Great Penetration” (tong yu da tong) marks the moment one realizes equal dharma-nature.

Lu Pingquan said: “Zuowang is what the Chan school calls facing the wall.” Sima Ziwei said: “Zuowang is the root of long life. Zhaozhen (summoning the true) refines the form—when the form is clear it merges with qi; handao (embracing the Dao) refines qi—when qi is clear it merges with shen (spirit). When body and Dao are darkly united, that is called attaining the Dao. The zhen (true) is the vessel of the Dao. Therefore one must clarify shen to accord with zhen.” The Zhuangzi says: “When the inner space is vast and settled, the light of Heaven issues forth.” Yu means the heart; tianguang (Heaven’s light) means hui-illumination. First settle the heart; then hui-illumination shines out from within, seeing all realms as empty and forgotten, the heart melting into silence—that is zuowang.

The author holds that what is called zuowang in the Xuanzong tradition (here Xuanzong may mean the sovereign of cultivation) is subtle in the pair “heart settled, breath settled”—from ding comes forgetting; shen and qi return to the root; the dao-embryo congeals, and within that lies inexhaustible tianji (Heaven’s mechanism). Cao Wenyii’s line “mix into one, then forget the one—one can sink and rise with the primordial transformation” expresses exactly this. If one only sits in dry Chan-style meditation, that is “sitting while galloping” (form sits, mind races)—not true zuowang.

179 Liezi riding the wind

The Zhuangzi, “Free and Easy Wandering,” says Liezi rides the wind, light and free; after fifteen days he returns. He does not often go out of his way to seek blessings and the like. Liezi’s Huangdi chapter also says he studied under Master Lao Shang and took Bo Gaozi as friend, mastered the ways of both, and “returned riding the wind.”

Xuanjing said: In my view this is xiangyan (figurative speech), not literally riding physical wind. A single breath in and out, in the Five Phases, belongs to the wind element (feng da); when shen drives qi and shen and qi circulate, the ancients spoke of “riding the wind” and “returning on the wind.” So Liezi’s riding the wind refers to shen, breath, the wind element, and return in inner cultivation—not only a myth of flying through the sky.

Xuanjing said: In my view, what Liezi called “riding the wind” is only a metaphor. Each inhalation and exhalation corresponds in practice to the “great element of wind”; one uses Shen (consciousness and spirit) to guide Qi (inner breath-energy), letting heart and breath mutually embrace until one enters the deeply still state of Daji (great stillness and samadhi)—that is the real skill behind “traveling by riding the wind.”

Liezi also said: “When the heart settles, the body feels as if its bonds are loosed; even flesh and bone seem to melt away. One no longer feels where the body rests or where the feet stand; blown east or west by the wind, like a withered leaf or empty husk, one cannot tell whether the wind carries me or I ride the wind.”

This describes heart and breath fused into one: one no longer knows whether Shen rests on the breath or the breath rests on Shen; Shen and breath merge and together enter a dim, obscure state—the realm of Xiyi (rarefied stillness) and Daji. This is the hidden point of Zhuangzi’s Xiaoyou (Free and Easy Wandering), and the true meaning of Liezi’s “riding the wind.” “Fifteen days” (xun you wu ri) is an image: from the first half of the month to yuewang (the full moon) is the season of jinhuo (advancing the fire—in inner alchemy, yang rises and one applies effort); one borrows Xun feng (wind of the trigram Xun, symbolizing wind) to stir and assist. After the fifteenth day, the yang tide naturally recedes, and one responds with tuifu (withdrawing the talisman—in alchemy, the complementary phase of gathering and “cooling” the work to match yin–yang waxing and waning).

Master Cui Xu (Chen Nan, inner-alchemy master) said: “When spirit and essence merge in obscurity and Qi returns to its root, flesh and bone harmonize and melt, beyond one’s own noticing.” Hence Liezi’s phrase “flesh and bone all melt.” One who truly attains the Way has sufficient Shen, travels the ten directions—where intention goes, the body goes—so what need is there for “wind”? Clearly the “wind” Liezi rides is in fact xifeng (breath-wind—the inner wind tied to respiration); it is the essential method of using Shen to guide Qi and harmonizing heart with breath.

(The closing phrase “Changfang suodi” is likely the title of the next section, referring to the Han-era adept Fei Changfang’s wonder of “shrinking distance”—making far places near—along with the discussion above of riding wind as xifeng and heart–breath fusion; both belong to the same Daoist habit of explaining the Way through images and stories.)

The Shenxian Zhuan (Biographies of Immortals) records that Fei Changfang possessed supernatural powers: he could contract the earth’s meridians so that a journey of a thousand li seemed right before his eyes, and when he released them, everything returned to normal. This “method of contracting the earth” (suodi fa), if understood from the perspective of the free and effortless power of immortals and buddhas, means that myriad li can be shrunk to within arm’s reach and myriad kalpas to a single instant—time and space can be expanded and contracted at will, without obstruction. That is coherent in principle. What is called “mind at ease” (xin zizai) is precisely “method at ease” (fa zizai).

If one probes the hidden meaning, it concerns the aim of solid heart-mind united with breath (xi), and spirit (shen) intimately merged with breath. Because of this mutual reliance, the in-and-out breath goes from short to long, then from long to short, until it reaches breathlessness—is this not the image of “contracting the earth”? Someone may ask: if so, does one treat the earth’s meridians as the in-and-out breath? What evidence is there? Answer: heart-mind and breath are the Yin-Yang of the human body, the heaven-and-earth within one person; in the Yijing they are Qian and Kun, in the person they are heart-mind and body—heart-mind is spirit, the body is qi. Thus the image of “contracting the earth” is the image of rotating breath returning to the origin and extinguishing breath returning to emptiness: with heart-mind united to breath, the lengthening and shortening of breath also becomes effortless; rolling and unrolling in due measure is precisely the alternating use of “civil fire” (wen huo) and “martial fire” (wu huo). Zhou Jichang’s Daoqing says: “Who understands the wondrous art of mending heaven? Who masters the rare skill of contracting the earth?” The Jade Toad Elder’s Regulating Breath Formula (Tiaoxi Jue) states that within the fire-phases of regulating breath there is breath to be gathered—the heart-mind must be able to be empty and humble before jing (essence) can enter the cauldron (ding); this is what is meant by the method of contracting the earth. This can be cross-checked with what was said above.

181 Nüwa Mends Heaven

Both the Huainanzi and the Shiji record that Nüwa smelted five-colored stones to mend a breach in heaven. Nüwa was the sister of Fuxi and also an ancient sovereign; there is the tradition of smelting stone to mend heaven. This “mending heaven” (butian) wondrous art can likewise be compared with regulating breath, refining jing into the cauldron, and related inner cultivation methods.

In both Huainanzi and Records of the Grand Historian, it is recorded that the goddess Nüwa smelted five-colored stones to patch a breach in heaven. Nüwa was Fuxi’s sister and one of the ancient sage rulers. Whether “smelting stone to mend heaven” ever happened as literal history is doubtful, but in the Neidan (internal alchemy) tradition the story is often used as a metaphor for qu kan tian li—drawing the single yang line from the Kan trigram and filling it into Li, so that “heaven” is made whole again.

Here “heaven” means the purely yang body symbolized by the Qian trigram. When it suddenly “tilts and gaps,” it is as if the middle line of Qian has fallen into Kan and the figure becomes Li. The “stone” is precisely that yang line in the middle of Kan. Refine it and insert it into Li, and Li turns back into Qian. Thus: when Qian and Kun are inverted, you get Kan and Li—metal sinks, wood floats; when Kan and Li are inverted again, you get Qian and Kun—what sank as metal rises, what floated as wood sinks. The secret of the Five Phases used in reverse lies in this middle “inversion.”

Alchemists’ talk of qu kan tian li was attached early to Nüwa mending heaven. Nüwa’s elixir method was largely what her brother Fuxi transmitted. The active side is ascribed to Fuxi, the still side to Nüwa—are they not ancestors of one line of the Mysterious Teaching? The Daoist lineage is exceedingly ancient; a trace of it shows even here.

Nüwa smelting stone to mend heaven and Zhuangzi’s great peng flying south are both images of qu kan tian li and restoring the Qian body. If you translate that into actual practice, it never departs from xin xi xiang yi—mind and breath mutually relying, neither leaving the other.

182 Sun Shuao Adjusting the Breath

In the “Tian Zifang” chapter of Zhuangzi, Jian Wú asked Sun Shuáo: “Three times you served as chief minister without looking proud; three times you were dismissed without showing gloom. At first I doubted you, but now I see your breathing easy and your face serene between your two nostrils (‘bi jian xuxu ran’). What is going on in your mind?”

Sun Shuáo said: “I have nothing beyond others! What should come cannot be pushed away; what should go cannot be held. I do not treat gain and loss as ‘mine,’ so I simply have no look of worry. How am I better than anyone?”

Commentary (Shu Ao and Diao Xi [Regulating the Breath])

According to tradition, Sun Shuao mastered diao xi ning shen (regulating the breath and concentrating the spirit) and the anle famen (gate of ease and joy), attaining zishou yong sanmei (self-enjoyment samadhi—in absorption one finds joy within, without seeking it outside). Thus he cared neither for gaining nor losing office and was utterly free-spirited. “Xuxu” describes breath that is fine and subtle, leisurely and at ease—like a butterfly drifting lightly among flowers, movement so gentle the image is exquisite. Jian Wuju at first did not understand how Shuao could be so wai fugui (untouched by wealth and rank in his heart); only when he closely observed his bi xi chonghe (nasal breath harmonious and even) did he suddenly see. Jian Wuju was himself an outstanding man among men.

183 · Hu Gong’s Concealment in the Jar

Both Shenxian Zhuan (Biographies of Immortals) and the “Fangshu” treatise in Hou Han Shu (Book of the Later Han) record: Hu Gong sold medicine in the marketplace and hung a jar in front of his shop. After sunset he would leap into the jar, and onlookers could not see him. Only the market clerk Fei Changfang, watching from an upper floor, saw this and was greatly delighted. He went to pay his respects, personally swept the ground before Hu Gong’s seat, and prepared food. Hu Gong accepted without refusing. As days passed, Changfang grew ever more reverent and did not dare casually ask for anything (such sincerity in seeking a master may serve as a model). When Hu Gong saw that Changfang was trustworthy, he said to him: “Come again when it is dark and quiet at night.” Changfang did as told; the two leaped into the jar together. Once inside, it no longer felt like a small jar—they beheld a xian gong shijie (immortal palace realm): layered gates and towers, corridors and halls, fine wine and savory dishes overflowing. The two drank their fill and came out. Later, when Hu Gong wished to leave, Changfang followed him into the mountains to study the Dao.

This gong’an is extraordinarily subtle: on the surface it speaks plainly, yet it also quietly breaks through. The pot stands for the “mysterious pass, the single aperture” (xuan guan yi qiao)—the meaning of “holding the center”—and is like the move of resting the mind in the void outside the body. To leap with the body into the pot is to concentrate spirit in emptiness; then, retreating and hiding within the pot, spirit and breath embrace each other, gradually adjusting, gradually harmonizing, gradually settling. At that stage the form-body is already empty; one receives from outside the innate primordial yang true qi, which steams and irrigates until the whole body is soft and blissful, as when spring warmth merges and one is drunk with it—beyond words. That is the point of “another heaven inside the pot.”

The Ruyao Jing (Mirror for Compounding the Medicine) says: “Innate qi, acquired breath—whoever obtains them is often as if drunk.” That matches “drunk and sated together” here. So Patriarch Sanfeng said: “Who knows how vast the universe is in stillness—I love the long sun and moon inside the pot.” Again: “Know only the realm of universe within the pot; who remembers the years of the human world?” “Toil bitterly one night beneath the eyes—the sun and moon in the pot swap for a thousand years.” Patriarch Lü said: “Wind and clouds in the cave return to your grasp; sun and moon in the pot rest in your breast.” “The world’s cycles need not concern you; only the universe in the pot is free.” “Mists and glow beyond things are your companion; sun and moon in the pot are yours to enjoy.” “When qi turns back, the elixir forms of itself; in the pot kan and li are paired.” Longmeizi said: “Endless becoming and transformation—fantasized as one heaven-and-earth within a pot.” Chen Cuixu said: “Within there is a true pot-heaven of its own; its scenery is bright, the moon clear and pure.” “Let the blue sea turn to mulberry fields—I say not one year has passed in the pot.” Bai Yuxian said: “Heart enters emptiness to work the fire; inner and outer scenes are pot-heaven.” “Seek the body beyond the body within the body; empty harmony and qi—a pot of spring.” “A person free and at ease, storing a pot of spring within the hut.” Tang Guangzhen said: “Only teach them: on the day elixir completes in mutual union, you may fall drunk in the pot without being propped up.” Cangmingzi said: “Every kind of scene exists in the pot; raising and lowering yin and yang follows its own measure.”

All of the above mean: withdrawing into the “pot,” harmonizing breath, spirit merging in darkness, true qi moving like clouds—in the inner landscape of wearing flowers, drinking wine, and roaming free—that is the realm displayed.

The central tenet of the Daoist “Hutian” (Gourd Heaven)—“within the gourd there is another heaven and earth,” a metaphor for the immortal cave-heaven realm—is profoundly wondrous. To resolve the problem of one’s outlook on life and transcend the suffering of birth, aging, illness, and death, one cannot succeed without relying on this realm of Gourd Heaven. Qiu Chuji (Daoist sobriquet Changchun) was precisely one who deeply attained the secret of Gourd Heaven. He said to the Chan master Angui: “What enters through the gate is not the family treasure; there is another spring of heaven and earth in Hu Gong’s gourd.” The meaning is: what is obtained from external gateways is not one’s own treasure; there is another springtime of heaven and earth within Master Gourd’s gourd. Thus one can see that Chan Buddhism also praises Gourd Heaven. In recent times, the Chan monastic forests have single-mindedly practiced “dry Chan,” like cold ashes and withered trees without any vitality, which is clearly not the orthodox purport transmitted by Bodhidharma from the West. The Shenxian Tongjian (Comprehensive Mirror of Immortals) records in detail the grand occasion of the Peach of Immortality Assembly, where the assembled immortals raise their cups and enjoy themselves among the seas and mountains; the entry “The Queen Mother of the West Plants Peaches” uses this affair to depict the atmosphere of immortal banqueting and wandering.

The Shenxian Tongjian (Comprehensive Mirror of Immortals) records in detail the splendor of the Peach Banquet: immortals raising cups and reveling among sea and mountains—a scene that stirs longing in the reader. The peaches are planted by the Queen Mother of the West (Xiwangmu); they ripen only once every three thousand years. There is also the tale of Dongfang Shuo stealing peaches. Zhang Sanfeng’s Wugen Shu (Rootless Tree) verse says: “Entering the immortal ranks, bold in spirit—stealing the Queen Mother’s peach from the Jade Pool.” Though allegory, it carries a hidden teaching.

The Queen Mother of the West belongs to Kun, symbolizing Laozi’s “attain emptiness, guard stillness.” The peach stands for pre-heaven primordial qi (xiantian yiqi). Pre-heaven ancestral qi must be obtained through Kun earth—that is what the Wuzhen Pian (Awakening to Reality) means by “relying on Kun’s position to form the body.” The Ruyao Jing (Mirror for Compounding the Medicine) says “produced in Kun, planted in Qian”; the Cantong Qi (Unity of the Three) says “the eldest son inherits the father’s body, taking the mother as the foundation”; the Yijing Kun hexagram says “friends gained in the southwest”—all the same image. That ripening takes three thousand years is because “three” is the generating number of Wood, so the peach is the image of Zhen (Thunder); the Queen Mother is the image of Kun. Planting the peach and obtaining the peach is upper Kun over lower Zhen—the hexagram Fu (Return): “earth thunder quakes, yellow sprouts break soil”; “from emptiness white snow is born, in silence yellow sprouts appear”—the same meaning.

Dongfang Shuo entering the Queen Mother’s peach orchard to steal peaches is gathering pre-heaven ancestral qi when the first line of Fu stirs, and sending it back to the earthen crucible (the vessel for refining elixir)—what the Wuzhen Pian calls “recognizing it when called, returning it home to nurture.” Dongfang Shuo and the Queen Mother of the West naturally face each other, east and west: first from east into west, then from west back to east. The Wuzhen Pian says: “Golden Duke was originally the son of the eastern house, sent to the western neighbor to lodge and live.” In Journey to the West, Sun Wukong is born in Dong Sheng Shen Zhou, goes to Xi Niu He Zhou to seek the Dao, then returns to Flower-Fruit Mountain; his battle with Erlang Zhenjun (“matching the crimson maiden as kin by affection”), capture by the Old Lord’s diamond ring, and sealing in the Eight Trigrams furnace (“sent back to the earthen crucible, firmly sealed”) follow the same allegory. Otherwise, why must the peaches be planted only by the Queen Mother? And why must the thief be Dongfang Shuo, and no one else?

On the Peach Banquet and the Metaphor of Inner Cultivation

When the immortals waited until the peaches of immortance ripened and raised their cups in celebration, they did not realize this: practitioners of the Mystic Pivot (Xuanzong)—internal alchemy—when their work matures, feel the whole body grow soft and supple as Primordial Yang true Qi irrigates and steams through them, circulating everywhere like clouds releasing rain so that the myriad things flourish. At every moment there are “peaches of immortality” to pluck and “immortal wine” to drink—why wait for the Queen Mother of the West to open her banquet before lifting a cup?

Lü Dongbin said: “I drink the wine of long life myself—who else could know such ease?” Master Zhang Sanfeng said: “When hunger comes, I drink the wine of long life; day after day I’m steeped until drunk as mud.” One may read these lines in that light.

185. Supreme Harmony in One Hue

The Wuchu Jing (Scripture of the Five Kitchens) says: “One Qi harmonizes in supreme harmony; obtain the Dao and all is at peace. Harmony is precisely no single harmony; profound principle meets the same horizon as the profound.” The Xinyin Jing (Heart Seal Scripture) says: “Supreme Harmony overflows and fills; bones melt, cold jade scatters.”

In verifying the Mystic Pivot through internal alchemy, one must achieve wondrous union of heart and breath, blend Water and Fire, and harmonize inner and outer—so the harmony of the one body resonates with the harmony of Heaven and Earth, harmonious Qi circulates without end, vast and inexhaustible. Thus the Cantong Qi (Token for the Agreement of the Three) says: “Profuse as spring marsh-mist, fluid as melting ice—from the head it flows to the feet, then in the end rises again; coming and going it pierces the boundless, contentedly enveloped within the form.” Shi Xinglin said: “Clouds scatter over begonia moon; in deep spring, willow wind blows. Who else knows this meaning? I lift my eyes and ask the empty void.”

This passage explains the role of the Supreme Harmony (Taihe) state in internal alchemy (Neidan) cultivation, and closes with a eulogy contrasting immortals and ordinary people.

Main text

In this wondrous realm of Supreme Harmony, luan and phoenix are in accord, so one can form the embryo of the Dao (daotai) and transform mortal constitution. Use it to cleanse and purify body and mind, and the fire of desire subsides while the five spirits (wushen) grow still; use it to nourish the root source, and yin breath dissipates while the hundred bones are put in order. When gathered, the five qi pay homage to the origin (wuqi chaoyuan); when dispersed, the five viscera are full—there is no greater work for nurturing life, and the effect of long life is fully found here.

Laozi said: “Knowing harmony is called constancy.” Liezi said: “The fullness, emptiness, decay, and growth of a single body all communicate with Heaven and Earth and respond to the myriad kinds.” Harmony at the beginning and harmony at the end, quieting spirit and extinguishing thought—this is the way of life. This is the subtle point of advancing in the profound teaching.

Eulogy

From Dan Mountain, luan and phoenix come to the lofty pavilion; in the secret hall, xiaoshao plays the ninefold completion. The old man of the fields does not know the worth of the yellow canopy; in the six streets they still hear the sound of the quiet whip.

(Gist: luan and phoenix from Dan Mountain alight on the high pavilion; in the secret hall the ninefold ceremonial music is played; the rustic does not know the emperor’s dignity, yet on the six streets one still hears the quiet whip— the immortals’ realm and the world’s affairs do not disturb each other.)

Plain-language interpretation

Profound Ancestry (deep cultivation that takes the Great Dao as its root) reaches a state of perfect Great Harmony and pure, single clarity—already possessing the foundation for nine returns and seven reversals (the complete work of “return” in internal alchemy firing). Going further, one must shatter even emptiness—not dwelling even in the image of “empty”; let the whole course utterly transcend, not clinging to any fixed samādhi sign; not dwelling in one color, not dwelling in subtle mystery, the body cast off with nothing to lean on—only then is it called stepping outside the frame (breaking common patterns and truly transcending).

So the ancients said: “When the one color is gone, then the name ‘most honored’ applies; moving the foot in the finest detail, the crane leaves the silver cage; turning the body within rank, the moon spreads over golden ground.” Master Dongshan also said: “Plain powder cannot hide one’s tracks; Chang’an is no long-term home.” However splendid Chang’an may be, it is not a house for long stay. Turn again: not craving the seat of “honor,” and naturally the cage cannot hold you. If you stick dead to one color and one-sided purity, even the seat of purity is a snare—how could that match supreme Dao-mystery?

Verse: Having attained the principle of empty rushing, one must still forget along with illuminating nature (see without grasping); if skill is not truly home, how avoid still waiting on the Empty King (ultimate empty stillness)?

(Main text of Record of Heavenly Joy ends here.)

Appendix I: Replies to ten questions from Lord Tang Mu Xuan (Master Haiyin)

1. The procedure for learning the Dao—please outline the main steps.

1. Can the main steps of learning the Dao be outlined in brief?

Answer: The essentials of learning the Dao come down to four steps: faith, understanding, practice, and realization (this is the general framework).

Faith is the first step; understanding (awakening) is the second. Faith must be deep; understanding must be thorough. It is like resolving to make pilgrimage to Wudang in Hubei: you must first believe that the paradise of Taihe truly exists and that the path is passable and reachable—that is faith. Understanding means the principles are clear: like someone who has not yet reached Wudang but has already worked out the land route, water route, lodging and food along the way, and saved enough for the journey—that is understanding. Practice means going in person and advancing along the route you have set. Realization means arriving at the destination and enjoying it freely. Realization also has depth and shallowness; in the end the goal is liberation. Before liberation, you are still in the stage of “practice”; you cannot yet be said to have reached “realization.” Liberation here means leaving the evil world of the five turbidities, transcending the three realms, and no longer being bound by the two kinds of birth-and-death: segmented birth-and-death and alterable birth-and-death. For beginners, faith and understanding are urgent; once cultivation is underway and understanding and practice merge, realization is the ultimate aim.

2. Could you also indicate the main steps of cultivating the Dao?

Answer: Master Tan’s Book of Transformation says: “Forget the body to nourish Qi; forget Qi to nourish Shen; forget Shen to nourish emptiness; emptiness and fullness interpenetrate—this is called great unity.” That is the general framework and sequence of cultivating the Dao. Hence Patriarch Bai said: “Forget the form and nourish Qi; Qi transforms into Shen—this is said to be the great Dao penetrating the three passes.” Since the Yuan and Ming, people often speak of “refining Jing into Qi, refining Qi into Shen, refining Shen and returning to emptiness,” but that is not as rounded and unified as what Master Tan said.

3. Many people study the Dao today, yet we seldom hear of anyone attaining the Dao. Where is the crux of the problem—can you point it out?

(The original text raises this question only and does not continue with an answer.)

“Learning the Dao” is only an everyday phrase, yet the people who use it differ enormously: some study with a true heart, aiming to transcend birth and death; some chase reputation and profit, treating “learning the Dao” as a signboard; some join in on a passing impulse and soon drop it, with a beginning but no end; some trust the wrong teacher and cultivate blindly. Everyone claims to be learning the Dao, yet in most cases that has little to do with the real Dao.

What follows applies only to those who sincerely study the Dao for the sake of birth and death. Some meet an illuminating master, some never do in a lifetime; among those who do meet one, some receive the full oral instructions and the complete transmission, while others learn only the initial practice methods, or receive only half the formulas—again, one cannot lump them all together.

Narrow the scope further: among those who seek birth and death, have met an illuminating master, and hold the complete formulas, some run into all sorts of unfavorable conditions and cannot carry practice forward; some put it off until the deadline of life suddenly arrives and there is no time left to cultivate; some can set everything aside and advance with a straight heart, meeting few obstructions along the way—this is because virtue (De) is sufficient and the Dao is complete, so they fulfill the wish they held at the outset.

Broadly speaking, cultivating the Dao must always be matched by De (Virtue/Power). When De is insufficient, as soon as one tries to apply effort, demon obstacles and trouble often follow—I have seen many such cases. For example, you have always lived in an inn.

To pursue the Dao in earnest, you must have moral virtue as your foundation. When virtue is insufficient, the moment you set out to practice in earnest, demonic obstacles and trouble often follow—I have seen this many times. An analogy: if you stay long at an inn and owe a great deal in room charges and small advances, the proprietor may not demand full settlement while you keep lodging there. But the moment you intend to check out and go elsewhere, the staff will tally every item on your bill and will not let you leave until all is paid.

The Three Realms are like the inns we have stayed in life after life through the kalpas; karmic debts and afflicted karma from past lives have already accumulated. When you vow to transcend birth and death and leave the Three Realms, the karmic creditors from those lives will also “settle the whole account with you at once”—otherwise they would have no later chance to collect. That is why Journey to the West has eighty-one ordeals befall Tang Sanzang the moment he resolves to fetch scriptures from the Western Heaven—the principle is the same.

Those who actually attain cultivation are few: half the time because they never meet a true teacher, half because they waste their years, or because karmic obstruction stands in their way.

IV. Should Those Who Study Immortality Eat Meat or Practice Vegetarianism?

Buddhism has explicit precepts, so whether one eats meat is clear at a glance. In the alchemical classics there is no hard rule like “to study immortality you must be vegetarian.” Patriarch Sanfeng said: “One may drink wine and eat meat; while keeping ritual abstinence, wine and meat still fill the belly”—on the lips one keeps the fast, yet the belly is full of wine and meat, satirizing those who are one thing outside and another within. He also told Layman Wang: “A good mouth is not as good as a good heart; it is enough to follow the noble person’s teaching of staying far from the kitchen”—saying good is not the same as being good at heart; one may follow Mencius’s “the noble person keeps far from the kitchen,” not killing with one’s own hands and going less often into the kitchen, without needing to fixate on written rules against meat.

Daoqing writes: “Not cutting off meat and fish does not mean one may commit sexual misconduct; misconduct loses the treasure of long life; wine and meat pass through the gut—the Dao is in the heart.” The gist: not giving up meat does not mean one may commit sexual misconduct; misconduct is what damages the root of “long life”; wine and meat are merely what passes through the intestines—the Dao is in the mind, not in the bowl.

From these words, the Neidan path does not treat “must be vegetarian” as a prerequisite for studying immortality.

Hence some wonder: Buddhism sets precepts while the immortal way seems more lenient—why do two Chinese traditions differ so much in their rules?

They again asked the master: Do you personally eat meat or practice vegetarianism? How should this be understood, and what should later students take as their guide?

Answer: In my book Dao Bao Suibi (Miscellaneous Notes on the Treasure of the Dao) there is a passage on the question of vegetarian versus non-vegetarian diet; when I have time I plan to excerpt it for publication in this journal. The issue bears on li de—cultivating moral character and laying the foundation for cultivation. We who cultivate the Dao are all heirs in the dharma lineage (fa yi) of the sage Laozi; as such heirs we ought naturally to observe the admonitions of our founding patriarch. According to Laozi’s teaching of the Three Treasures, “Ci” (compassion) comes first. He also says: “Therefore the sage is always good at nurturing and preserving the myriad things, so that nothing is discarded”; and again: “If Heaven would save someone, it is with Ci that it protects him.” Because people eat meat, nets are spread in the mountains and traps set in deep pools; cattle, sheep, fish, turtles, shrimp, crabs, and the like know no day of peace from capture, slaughter, and cooking. Ask yourself: does this accord with Laozi’s placing “great Ci” first and his constant virtue of saving the myriad things? If you yearn for the longevity and enduring clarity (chang sheng jiu shi) that Laozi speaks of and study toward it, yet spit out and cast aside his teaching of “great Ci in saving things” and “tranquil simplicity without desire,” you become selfish, turn your back on the sage and betray the Dao—virtue will likely fall short, and immortality will be hard to attain.

If you truly wish for long life, you should also wish that all things may live long and each keep its own nature and fate—that is what “great compassion” really means. Among ancient discussions of immortality, none is finer than Ge Hong’s Baopuzi. In juan 2, “On Immortals,” he says: the method of learning immortality is to be calm, content, and free of craving; he also says: the immortal way is to extend universal love even to crawling and wriggling creatures and not to harm lives that have spirit; and again: the immortal way is to give up meat and fish and to empty and cleanse the bowels. The Subtle Meaning chapter says something similar: those who seek long life must accumulate merit and virtue, have a compassionate heart toward things, treat others as themselves, and extend kindness even to insects—all in line with the spirit of the Daodejing.

If you nourish yourself by killing other beings, you stray far from teachings such as “benevolence reaching insects, love reaching the slow and wriggling, not harming sentient life,” and equally far from “cleansing desire.” Zhang Sanfeng said: “A good mouth is not as good as a good heart,” and cited the gentleman’s staying away from the kitchen; what follows is: nourishing Qi nourishes the belly—keeping the sage’s rule about “foul odors” (meat and strong smells) is enough. He meant that plain, balanced food is enough to nourish the five viscera; one need not cling literally to lines in the Neijing such as “when essence is insufficient, supplement with flavor.” “The sage’s rule about foul odors” means not eating meat; in the Analects, “do not eat what looks bad, do not eat what smells bad” expresses the same idea. Compared mouth and heart, of course a good heart beats a good mouth—but best of all is when both precept and heart are strict: heart and mouth both good.

I see that Master Feng’s words are complete and unobstructed; if you seize only the first line and drop what comes after, you become one-sided. “Wine and meat pass through the gut; the Dao is in the heart”—what matters are the three words “the Dao is in the heart.” People today fill their bellies with wine and meat while the heart holds no Dao, indulging only the mouth and the five desires—far from Sanfeng’s level; it hardly seems right to use that saying to excuse oneself or raise objections.

In short, both immortals and Buddhas prize a pure mind—a heart unstained by craving and kept clear and bright. If the mouth craves meat and fish, the eyes will crave beauty and the ears the five sounds. Day after day, pulled by the five desires (the pleasures of form, sound, scent, taste, and touch), one can hardly stay aligned with that pure mind. Worse still, taking life adds karmic creditors: what I kill will want to harm me in turn—cause and effect runs without error. We who cultivate the Dao are eager to clear old debts and lighten karmic burden (obstacles formed by past wrongdoing); how can we pile on new ones?

From nineteen, when I began learning the Dao, I ate meat as circumstances allowed. At twenty-seven I read Zhou Anshi’s Wanshan Ziji (Collected Resources of Ten Thousand Good Deeds) from the early Qing—a fine book—and went through it many times until natural compassion arose. Nourishing my own life by killing did not fit great compassion; it harmed harmony with Heaven and depleted hidden virtue, and went against the humane teaching of Confucius and Laozi. I meant to change at once. Long habit was strong: after a few days of vegetarian food I craved meat again, so I adapted—sometimes vegetarian, sometimes not—while stopping all killing. I no longer bought any living thing, fish or shrimp included. When I had spare money each month, I bought animals to release. After more than a year I ate only pure vegetarian food; that has been seventeen or eighteen years now. Immortals and Buddhas take compassion as their root and see all beings as themselves. Antiquity had the Compassionate Immortal and Taiyi Salvation from Suffering Heavenly Worthy (a revered Daoist deity who delivers beings from suffering). If compassion is your aim, giving up meat and stopping killing is not hard. How can one doubt this just because a certain immortal scripture does not mention it?

Confucius said: “Loyalty and reciprocity are not far from the Way”—put yourself in others’ place; what you would not want done to you, do not do to others. Zengzi said: “What the Master taught, in the end, comes down to loyalty and reciprocity.” Setting aside abstruse doctrine, the folk saying “compare hearts” applies: if you do not wish to be harmed or killed, yet every day you use sharp blades against small animals that cannot resist, that is failing reciprocity (bu shu). The sage Laozi taught compassion and saving life, yet you go against that and kill to satisfy appetite—that is failing loyalty (bu zhong). All creatures that stir and possess spirit (sentient beings) have awareness; at the outset this is not essentially different from the awareness that is the sage’s own nature when fully realized. Destroying sentient life is inhumane. So these matters bear greatly on cultivating virtue. If one’s human path—being human and building character—is not yet complete, yet claims to cultivate the immortal path, I have my doubts.

5. What is the difference between immortals and Buddhists in cultivation and realization? Please instruct.

Answer: After all, water flows east toward the sea; in the end, when clouds settle, one still seeks the mountain to return. (A metaphor: each returns to its root, each realizes its own Way—there is no need to force a ranking.)

6. In cultivation and realization, how do immortals and Buddhists compare?

Answer: Where clouds rest, every home has the moon; when spring comes, every tree blossoms. (A metaphor: the realm is inherently equal; it only manifests in the present moment.)

7. Does studying immortality hinder engaging the world (benefiting society, entering worldly life)? Does engaging the world hinder studying immortality?

Answer: Bamboo groves however dense cannot block water from passing; mountains however high cannot block white clouds from crossing. (A metaphor: the two can proceed in parallel without conflict.)

8. How should the style of a Daoist household be?

Answer: Walk with ease, speak softly; look after one another and keep the heart from clinging; only when you let go and return to the mountains does true carefree ease show itself.

9. You have read many alchemical books—which one resonates with you most?

Answer: Collected Works of Master White (referring to collections such as the literary works of the true person Bai Yuxuan [Bai Yuchan] and related Neidan literature).

10. Are the Seventeen Kinds of Daoist Books orthodox or heterodox?

Answer: If you have browsed the Longzang (the Buddhist canon), you can tell at a glance; if you were born in a humble rural home, your eyes may only be dazzled by the five colors. (Meaning: with scriptural standards one can discern; without such experience one easily misjudges.)

The worst mistake is like Zhu Bajie eating the ginseng fruit in Journey to the West: he swallows it whole in one gulp, then turns around and asks what it was and what it tasted like. In cultivation, when reading classics and grasping the Way, what is most to be avoided is this hunger for speed without real understanding—something goes into the belly, yet the heart makes no progress at all.

When what is genuinely real comes naturally before your eyes, you must be able to discern it on the spot—tell it apart clearly and recognize it for what it is, not let it slip by in a fog.

If someone comes from a humble gate (a poor household), heavy with worldly ties and short on insight, for a time let them be dazzled by the five colors—dazzled by the world’s gaudy show (five colors here means every kind of appearance, fame, profit, and desire). That is to say: do not demand crystal clarity from the very first; but take care not to imitate Zhu Bajie—having eaten and still not knowing what was eaten.

(According to the spirit of the appended notes in Seventeen Kinds of Daoist Books: it is not enough to ask about “taste”; one must also ask—why could the ginseng fruit grow nowhere but Wuzhang Abbey? In the story, Wuzhang Abbey is the seat of the Immortal Zhenyuan, symbolizing the root-place of cultivating the Dao; the ginseng fruit stands for long life and the true seed. If one cannot even distinguish these names and forms, and only wants to swallow in one bite, one is no different from Pigsy.)