《天乐集》Vol. 4

This passage covers two topics: the “Three Descents” (san zhong duo) proposed by Chan Master Caoshan Benji, and Master Wang’s parting instructions on how to conduct oneself after forming the elixir.

On the “Three Descents”

Chan Master Caoshan Benji established the “Three Descents.” “Resemblance descent” (lei duo) and “following descent” (sui duo) refer to a subtle state of moving with the world without losing one’s inner edge—harmonizing with dust while keeping the light veiled. The author holds, however, that without truly passing the “gate of turning upward” (the layer of pointing directly at mind and seeing one’s nature), it is hard to enter this state in earnest.

Appendix: Master Wang’s parting instructions

After the student has formed the elixir (the stage in neidan (internal alchemy) when the “Golden Elixir” is gathered), they fit the saying that when a person gains the One, spirit becomes vital—once there is real attainment on this path, the foundation is relatively firm. If one meets calamity by misfortune (violent death, great disaster, and the like), the spirit can still hold mastery; it will not perish from the dispersal of qi (vital energy), and may be reborn or take another body (duoshe) to finish the work.

Yet the further the practice advances, the more cautious one must be in the world—“when the Dao gains a foot, demons gain a fathom.” The way of the Golden Elixir draws the keenest jealousy from outside forces; what ancients called “three visitations of heaven’s reprimand” often came from showing off and inviting trouble, not from heaven’s arbitrary punishment.

After the work reaches the “return to youth” state (the body-and-mind condition like reversing age in the alchemical texts), worldly ties and human affairs should be wound down step by step, and one should withdraw to a quiet place. If one still stays in the noise, it is best to play dull and deaf—that is what alchemical books mean by “blending with the vulgar and hiding the light, squaring and circling to meet the world.” The author stresses that this section is crucial and must be kept in mind when that stage arrives.

The ancients said: “Those skilled at cultivating the Dao need roughly a thousand days of work.” They also said: “Two or three years of hard cultivation can buy joy that lasts through countless kalpas.”

In the early Qing, a woman in Yangzhou (Guangling) devoted herself to the Way. After three years she passed away peacefully in seated meditation (zuohua), leaving a verse that runs: “In stillness nothing happens; again and again one toys with empty space. When earth is old and heaven spent, amid the scattering of soul and spirit—a teacher opens the lineage of the Way, yet no method can rouse the dull and blind. Suddenly the void breaks open; the setting sun is still red.”

Lü Dongbin’s female disciple Zhang Zhennu left lay life, practiced in seclusion, and two years later achieved corpse liberation (shijie—the mortal body shed and ascended). The Cantong qi says: “Plant a pole and the shadow appears at once; call into a valley and the echo answers at once”—and so it is.

Among Master Ke’s disciples was Sun Jifu, nearly sixty. He received his master’s oral transmission, burned incense and practiced morning and evening (chanting and offering incense), never slackening. In three months the elixir foundation (danji—the root of internal alchemy) was set; six months later his body was youthful again. From first steps to completing the greater heavenly circuit took nine months in all. After ten months of nurturing the embryo, he obtained the “intent-born body” (yishengshen—a dharma-body formed from focused mind) and moved freely beyond constraint. The final return to void (mohou huanxu—merging back into the void ground) comes quickly in two or three years, or slowly in eight or nine, until one reaches that stage of the void itself. Thus, with single-minded pursuit of the Way, one may look to fruition of the Dao in three years and full realization in nine.

In Hai Shan Qi Yu, the Cao Tang Zi Ji states: Two years after Zhongli Quan left, I diligently cultivated the golden fluid great elixir in the Zhongnan Mountains; the nine returns were complete, and in the tenth month the spirit was whole. This shows that Lü Dongbin likely needed about two years to finish the great return and reach embryo perfection. Xian Ji also records that from age sixty-nine to seventy-three, Patriarch Lü completed the great path of return to emptiness. Taken together, Lü spent roughly seven years on the path from start to finish.

Zhuangzi, “Fables,” has Yan Chengzi You say to Dongguo Ziqi: Since I heard you speak of the Dao, in one year I was wild; in two, compliant; in three, penetrating; in four, at one with things; in five, arrival; in six, ghosts entered; in seven, heaven was complete; in eight, I no longer knew death or life; in nine, the great subtlety. Liezi’s own account of cultivation also reaches transformation in nine years. Compared with the ancients and checked against modern experience, the time frame for completing the path—for those who practice with utmost diligence—is roughly three to nine years to reach the supreme station of spirit.

Those crushed by duties should steal spare moments to regulate spirit and breath. An old master said, “Steal leisure amid busyness to tune the outer medicine”—that is the idea. If there is no time by day, one can still work while asleep at night: mind and breath stay together in sleep; on waking, stay with them again, then sleep again. One night’s work can bring spring back to the whole earth—the gain is no small thing. This is borrowing sleep for complete truthfulness; one can follow the path of Master Chen Xiyi of Huashan, and also enter the subtle way of Confucius’s “at dusk, enter into rest and repose.” For people tangled in worldly affairs, this is often the most practicable method of practice.

On Sleep and Rest

The Song Neo-Confucian Zhou Dunyi writes in Penetrating the Book (Tongshu): “In sleep, one is wholly true.” That is to say: the path of entering the Way through sleep, as practiced by the Huashan immortal Chen Tuan (Xiyi), can still be followed today; and the subtle point in Confucius’s saying “when the sun sets, then rest”—turning inward when the day ends—can also be investigated. For people caught up in worldly affairs, sleeping well and resting on schedule is often the most realistic and easiest place to begin as a form of “practice.”

44. The Benefits of Studying the Dao

Zhou Dunyi’s Penetrating the Book also says: Between heaven and earth, what is most honored is the Dao; what is most precious is De (virtue and inner power). What is hardest to obtain is a human body—and among human bodies, what is rarest is truly embodying morality and virtue in oneself.

Laozi says: Even if one were to set up a Son of Heaven and three ministers, and offer jade disks and teams of four horses in tribute, that would not equal sitting quietly and cultivating this Dao.

Manjushri Bodhisattva says: If a person can sit in stillness even for a single instant, that surpasses building as many seven-jeweled pagodas as there are grains of sand in the Ganges; pagodas eventually turn to dust, but one thought of quiet mind can lead to perfect awakening.

Layman Pang said: The world prizes wealth; what I prize is this present thought. When gold piles up, it disturbs the mind—in stillness one sees the nature of suchness (zhenru). He also said: Of all things in the world, none matters more than cultivating the Dao; once one awakens to the principle of “no birth,” afflictions in the three realms naturally subside.

Ziyang Zhenren (Zhang Boduan) said: People only crave fame and profit and chase prominence, unaware that their appearance grows haggard and withered; ask them—when impermanence arrives, mountains of gold cannot be bought or kept.

The Editor’s Intent (in Plain Language)

Glory and rank vanish in an instant—all belong to impermanence. Only studying the Dao can lift one beyond the bonds of yin-yang and cosmic transformation, free one from the suffering of birth and death in samsara, and allow one to enjoy lasting ease in wuwei and true purity—something worldly achievement cannot match. The ancients said: “Hard cultivation for two or three years brings ease for ten thousand kalpas.”

Even at the beginning, body and mind gradually settle, breath grows even, and daily life becomes easier and pain lighter: dust and toil cease, chronic ills improve, medical costs shrink, and clothing and food cost less (qi full, one does not crave food; qi full, one does not fear cold). One gains the pleasure of peaceful longevity and quiet freedom; the hundred vessels harmonize and body and mind feel light and strong. The benefits to one’s own body and mind far exceed what ordinary people know.

Plain-Language Reading of Tianle Ji (Collection on Heavenly Joy)

Lately the world’s population keeps growing, prices keep rising, and life grows harder. Unless we turn toward the dimension of emptiness (xukong) and draw on the primordial yang true Qi (yuan yang zhen qi) between heaven and earth to make up for material lack and improve human health, it is hard to find a fitting remedy. Material supplements material—and material always runs out; only emptiness is boundless and true Qi is inexhaustible. As long as one breath remains, one can regulate the breath and concentrate the spirit (tiao xi ning shen), gathering from without and returning within. One need only truly commit to practice—no money required—so this path suits rich and poor, wise and simple, young and old alike. Nothing is more practical for easing life’s shortages and lightening mental suffering.

(A line often quoted in cultivation circles: “When Qi is full, one does not crave food; when Qi is ample, one does not fear cold”—when true Qi fills the body, appetite naturally lessens and cold no longer bites. Together with the above, this means that through this method one may gain peaceful longevity, quiet ease, harmonious channels, and a light, healthy body—benefits far beyond what ordinary people enjoy.)

Minerals lie underground and belong to the earth store (di zang); primordial yang true Qi rests in heaven and emptiness—the heaven store (tian zang) and emptiness store (xukong zang). The earth store is finite and can only nourish the physical body; the heaven store is infinite and can also nourish the Dharma body (fashen) and wisdom-life (hui ming). Western Europeans have long pursued science and mining to develop the earth store; by comparison, sages in the East studied Dao learning to develop the emptiness store—is that not more subtle?

Laozi said: “Only the Dao (the Way) is good at lending and at bringing completion.” “Lending” here means: the Dao lends inexhaustible Qi for human use without demanding payment, yet helps each person reach fulfillment—this matches the earlier point that one need only sincere effort, not a price.

Laozi said: "The Dao is good at lending and completing the ten thousand things." What does "lending" (dai) mean here? It means lending you xiantian yi qi (the primordial single breath of vitality from before heaven and earth were divided). The sovereign who can make such a gracious loan dwells in the void right before you—near and easy to attain. If a person can return the heart to emptiness and unite heart with breath, and once enter the state of haziness and deep obscurity, this master will lend the xiantian yi qi: the declining grow strong, ordinary people become sages, the dull become wise, the sick recover, the withered flourish, the weak become strong, the blocked open; those who suffer cold receive clothing, those who hunger receive food—each wish is fulfilled. The method is utmost simple and easy; the results utmost miraculous and swift. Whether dull or wise, able or unable to practice, everyone can hear of it and go and do it—is this not resolving everything at once, bestowed equally on all?

Zhang Sanfeng the True Person said: When ordinary people nourish shen and nourish qi, shen is the master who gathers qi; gather one part of qi and gain one part of treasure; gather ten parts of qi and gain ten parts of treasure. Qi is so precious that not even a hundred taels of ordinary gold or jade can buy one part. Therefore the learning of the mysterious gate that takes qi-transformation as its core must unfold before the seamless tower (a metaphor for no fixed form—turn straight toward the void), weave its design in the cavern of emptiness, rise and rest in the hall of the empty king, feast and repose under the tree without shadow—through such metaphors, one draws forth primordial yang and gathers the pre-heaven. With zhenyi zhi qi (the single breath of the true one) one guards body and mind, transforms the ordinary bones, dissolves knowing-yin (discriminating mind and dusty thoughts), suddenly ceases worldly toil, transcends birth and death, forever escapes the three calamities (water, fire, wind—or heaven, earth, human calamities, depending on the scripture)—this teaching fits the present opportunity of the Chinese people best: it can resolve present hardship and long preserve boundless ease. Why would people not strive to practice it?

The True Person Qianxu in Daodejing Xuancan composed a verse: At the hundred-zhang shoals one arranges one's own fishing line; Peach Blossom Spring does not lure passersby with false promises; startled, the black dragon at the sea bottom awakens—one night of wind and thunder, and spring covers the great earth.

45. Subtle Metaphors for Fire Timing (Huohou)

The Zhuangzi carries forward the deep meaning of Laozi’s “doubling the mystery” (chongxuan) and unfolds the subtle Way without being tied to fixed formulas. Earlier in this book, key points from the Nanhua Jing were drawn out and explained again and again; here ten metaphors related to huohou (fire timing) are gathered for those who love the Nanhua to explore in depth.

1. Butchering an Ox (Pao Ding Jie Niu)

The “Nourishing Life” (Yangsheng Zhu) chapter says: The cook Pao Ding was butchering an ox for Duke Wen Hui. Wherever his hand touched, his shoulder leaned, his foot stepped, and his knee pressed, the sounds of huo huo and hua hua came forth, and his knife-work matched the Sanglin dance and answered to the beat of the Jingshou—as if by the book. Duke Wen Hui said, “Excellent! Your skill has reached this level?” Pao Ding laid down his knife and replied, “What your servant loves is the Dao; it has gone beyond ordinary craft. When I first began butchering oxen, I saw nothing but the whole ox. After three years I no longer saw the ox as one lump—I saw the gaps between sinew and bone. Now I rely on spirit and do not look with my eyes; the senses stop and spirit moves with heaven’s principle. I follow what is naturally there: splitting at the big joint gaps, moving through the large hollows, along the grain that is already there. Even where sinew and vessel meet, it is no trouble—how much less at big bones? A good cook changes his knife once a year because he cuts; an ordinary cook once a month because he hacks and breaks. Your servant’s knife has been in use nineteen years and has dressed thousands of oxen, yet the edge is still like one just taken from the whetstone. The joint has space; the blade has no thickness. Using what has no thickness to enter where there is space, the blade wanders in the gaps with room to spare—so for nineteen years the edge is still as if newly sharpened. Even so, whenever I come to a knotty place where bone and sinew tangle, I still feel caution: I focus my gaze, slow my motion, and move the knife with utmost subtlety—hua—and the ox falls apart like earth hitting the ground. I stand holding the knife, look all around, am fully satisfied, wipe the knife clean, and put it away. Duke Wen Hui said, “Good! From one talk with Pao Ding I understand how to nourish life.”

(In neidan huohou, butchering an ox is often used as a metaphor: at first one sees the “whole ox”—exerting everywhere and wasting qi; after long practice, “spirit meets it without the eyes looking”—spirit aligns with the Dao and follows heaven’s principle; a knife still keen after nineteen years stands for jing and qi not spent recklessly; when one hits a “cluster” (a hard place), still being wary, moving slowly, and using the knife very lightly means that at the critical moment one must not rush ahead but fine-tune huohou—only then can one “put away the knife in good order,” in the same vein as nourishing life and cultivating the mandate of life.)

This chapter covertly explains the zhou tian huohou—the timing and method by which true qi circulates, rises, and falls along the Ren and Du meridians and related pathways in neidan practice. The author takes Zhuangzi’s “Butcher Ding Carving an Ox” as a metaphor: the ox stands for the colored body (the visible physical form), and the knife edge stands for the sharp “gleaming point” forged when heart and breath mutually rely—when mind and the breath of life unite. That edge is like the intent of a sword.

At the start of practice one cannot yet achieve wuwei naturalness; attachment to the body and to form is not severed, and the slightest movement pulls one off course. Hence Zhuangzi says “what he saw was nothing but whole oxen”—the eye still sees the entire ox, obstacles everywhere. When skill is mature, body and mind are both forgotten and the colored body feels nearly empty in experience—that is “he no longer saw the ox as a whole”—no longer bound by the lump of flesh, one can see the gaps between joints.

The body’s passes and meridians are originally much blocked. When practice deepens into great samadhi, one may feel pre-heaven true yang from without rushing through the hundred vessels; one qi cycles and pours up and down. Then one must follow nature and not arrange things by intent. If true qi ascends the Governing Vessel (Du) and meets occasional obstruction, one may lightly use Xun wind—gentle fetal breathing, a subtle breath to stir, not forced holding—to help it pass.

“When the knife moved ever so slightly, with a swish it fell apart”—the blade barely shifts and flesh and bone are already separated. The author says the real point is the wonder of “cutting along the gaps and guiding into the hollows”: when furnace fire is fully mature, force is not applied outward but the natural openings within are found.

Phrases such as “meeting it with spirit, not looking with the eyes,” “the senses stop and spirit wants to move,” and “following the natural pattern” show that when furnace fire is utterly pure and utterly natural, it is no longer ruled by the “self’s” intent; the primordial spirit (Yuanshen) presides entirely—what is called “let him be host and I be guest”: let pre-heaven Yuanshen lead and post-heaven consciousness step back as guest.

The four characters spirit meeting, spirit moving are most subtle: that is the true pre-heaven state; not a hair’s breadth may be arranged by conscious intent. The moment one arranges by intent, it is no longer “spirit moving.” Hence Perfected One Ziyang (a leading figure of the Southern School of neidan) said: “Furnace fire has its own natural truth”; and again: “Only settle spirit and breath and leave nature to itself”—simply settle heart and breath and let nature take its course; that is true furnace fire.

Plain-Language Reading of Tianle ji (Collection of Heavenly Joy)

I. Empty Operation and Naturalness

In the way of Heaven, the sun and moon seem to turn in empty, unobstructed motion; in Neidan (internal alchemy), what is called “contemplating the way of Heaven” also refers to this kind of “empty operation.” Zhuangzi’s account of Cook Ding cutting up an ox: using a blade with no thickness, he enters the gaps between joints, and the flesh falls apart as naturally as earth crumbling to the ground—that is precisely the subtlety of “empty operation.”

“Emptiness, non-being, and naturalness” is the master formula for grasping Huohou (fire phases—the rhythm of yin-yang waxing and waning, advancing and withdrawing the “fire” in practice). The classic says: “The subtlety of the natural lies in having some awareness; yet the true subtlety lies in not deliberately trying to know.” Thus balance between knowing and not-knowing is the highest standard of “naturalness.”

II. The Hunchback Who Catches Cicadas

Zhuangzi, “Attaining Life” chapter: Confucius was passing through Chu and saw in the woods a hunchback catching cicadas on a pole as easily as picking things up. Confucius asked: “You are so skillful—is there a method?”

The old man said: “There is. For five or six months I practice: two pellets stacked on the pole tip without falling—then I rarely miss; three without falling—misses are about one in ten; five without falling—catching cicadas is as steady as picking them up. I stand firm like a dead stump; I raise my arm like a dead branch. Though heaven and earth are vast and the ten thousand things many, in my mind there is only the cicada’s wing; I do not look east and west, I do not let other things divide my focus from that wing—how could I fail to catch it?”

Confucius turned to his disciples and said: “When intention is single and undivided, spirit gathers in one place—is this not what that hunchback shows?”

This chapter uses the story to show: the subtlety of Huohou likewise lies in practice so thorough that it happens of itself, entering a realm of spirit-transformation; that belongs to Xiantian (awareness and transformation that appear naturally), not to what Houtian (post-heaven) can reach by deliberately arranging and guiding qi and meridians with the mind.

Three. The Ferryman Who Maneuvers the Boat

In the “Perfect Enjoyment” (Dacheng) chapter of the Zhuangzi, Yan Yuan asked Confucius: Once when I was crossing the deep pool at Shang Shen, I saw a boatman handle his boat like a spirit. I asked whether one could learn that; he said one could—someone who can swim picks it up in a few tries; as for one who can dive and walk the bottom, he can handle a boat he has never seen. What did he mean by that? Confucius said: Someone who can swim learns in a few tries because he has forgotten the water; one who dives can handle even an unfamiliar boat because he treats the abyss as high ground and a capsized boat as like backing a cart. Every kind of upset and reversal may lie before him, yet none of it enters his heart—how could he ever be too late?

This passage uses the word “forget” to speak of huohou (timing in the firing process): forget, and you enter transformation. Once transformed, you flow through—like the Kun hexagram in the Yijing: “Without practice, nothing is unfavorable.” It is like the diver who can handle a boat though he has never seen one. When heart and breath rely on each other, you can cross the great sea of birth and death—that is the supreme “dharma boat.” To steer that boat you must reach the realm of mutual forgetting; only then do you enter the transformative state. When stillness and forgetting are pushed to the utmost, you meet the ten thousand affairs always within stillness, yet you may still act; whether you are in stillness or not, you yourself do not know; doing and not doing do not obstruct each other—like the diver steering the boat. Truly wondrous!

Four. Carpenter Shi Carving the Bell Stand

This is a famous passage in the “Perfect Enjoyment” chapter: the craftsman Carpenter Shi cast a bell stand by relying on fasting the heart, concentrating spirit, and shedding cleverness—and so succeeded. It shares the same thread as “forgetting the water” and “handling the boat like a spirit” above: when skill enters transformation, it lies not in post-heaven clever force but in spirit concentrated and natural.

In the chapter “Perfected Life” (Dasheng), it is said that Zigong—a carpenter from the district of Zi whose given name was Qing—carved wood to make a ju, an ancient stand for suspending bells and chimes. When the stand was finished, viewers were astonished and took it for the work of spirits or gods. The Lord of Lu asked him, “By what method did you achieve this?” He replied, “Your servant is a craftsman; what magic could there be! Yet there is one thing: before I make a ju, I never squander qi and shen recklessly. I must first observe purification to settle the heart-mind. After three days of purification, I no longer dwell on rewards, rank, or emolument; after five days, I no longer dwell on praise or blame, skill or clumsiness; after seven days, I suddenly forget that I even have limbs and a body. By then it is as though there were no affairs of court; my mind is wholly given to craft, and the slick distractions of external things fall away. Only then do I enter the mountains and forests, observe how each tree’s innate nature (tianxing) runs, and choose the one most fitting; in my mind I already see the finished ju as if it were there—only then do I take up the knife and carve; otherwise I do not act. In this way innate nature meets innate nature; that such objects seem god-made is roughly the idea.”

The “fire phase” (huohou)—the crux of inner refinement—in this passage lies in purifying the heart and in zuowang (sitting in forgetfulness): nurture inwardly, and the slippery pull of outer entanglements naturally subsides. When qi is full and shen complete, in movement it is like the heavens in their course; in stillness like a deep pool in silence—aligned with the rhythms of nature, without calculation or second-guessing. This is what is meant by “using heaven to meet heaven.” Thus merged with the great transformation (dahua), one stands far beyond ordinary deliberation.

V. Ji Zou’s Chickens

(Section title; if the main narrative continues in the following paragraph, it picks up the Dasheng story of Ji Zou training fighting cocks.)

The Wooden Rooster in the “Datong” Chapter

In the “Datong” chapter it is told: Ji Huizi was raising fighting cocks for the king. After ten days the king asked, “Are the cocks trained yet?” He answered, “Not yet—they are still inflated with empty pride and rely on bravado.” Ten days later the king asked again; he answered, “Not yet—they still react to things like moving shadows in sunlight.” Ten days later again; he answered, “Not yet—they still love to fight and their qi is still strong.” Ten days later once more; he answered, “Almost there. Even when other cocks crow at them, they no longer change. From afar they look like wooden cocks; their De is complete. Other cocks do not dare to fight and run away instead.”

This passage in the Zhuangzi originally comes from the Liezi. The image of the “wooden cock” means having no mind toward external circumstances—unmoving as wood; the firing process is pure and complete, and emotion is exhausted while breath rests. Master Ziyang said “body and mind still and unmoving”; Master Qing’an said “nature silent, heart empty, mind unmoving”—all the same meaning. Only at this level can one practice the “seven-day great heavenly circuit” without danger. Pang Jushi said: “Simply have no mind toward the ten thousand things—why worry if the ten thousand things always surround you?” An iron ox is not afraid of a lion’s roar, like a wooden man seeing flowers and birds—the wooden man’s essence is without feeling; flowers and birds meeting a person are not startled either. When the mind-environment is always like this, why worry that the bodhi path will not be achieved? The Chan “wooden man” and the Tang Emperor Xuanzong’s “wooden cock” are a unique pair in different traditions—meanings align: forget contrivance, still thought, unmoving in suchness. In former times when Patriarch Lü was refining the great return on Zhongnan Mountain, ten kinds of demonic appearances showed themselves yet his mind did not move—that is proof that Lü’s firing had truly reached the degree of the wooden cock. Hence Yuxian Weng said: “Toward the scene without mind—that is the great return.” When firing reaches here, one may sigh that there is nothing beyond this.

VI. Patriarch Lü Walking on Water

In the chapter "Perfecting Life" (Dacheng), it is said: Confucius was watching at Lüliang, where a waterfall plunged thirty ren (in ancient measure, one ren was about eight feet) and the spray stretched forty li; neither turtles, crocodiles, nor fish could swim through. He saw a man in the water and thought he had entered because he could not bear to go on living, so he told his disciples to go downstream with the current to rescue him. Instead, the man swam several hundred paces and then surfaced, hair loose, walking along the bank and singing. Confucius went after him and asked: "I took you at first for a ghost; looking closely, you are a man. May I ask: is there a method to treading water and swimming?"

The man replied: "None—I have no special method. At first I relied on habit; over time I relied on my inborn nature; in the end I was completed by Heaven's mandate (Tianming): I sink with the whirlpool and rise with the rushing flow, follow the water's pattern, and harbor no private intent—so I can swim like this."

Confucius asked: "What do you mean by at first habit, over time inborn nature, and in the end Heaven's mandate?"

The man replied: "Born among hills, I am at home in hills—that is habit; grown up in water, I am at home in water—that is inborn nature; not knowing why it can be so yet it is so—that is Heaven's mandate."

This chapter discusses fire timing (huohou—the moments and inner states of “advancing the fire” and “withdrawing the talisman” in internal cultivation). The whole argument turns on a single word: “an” (settled ease).

What does “an” mean? First, acting in accord with one’s innate nature, without clever contrivance or pretense. Second, ease and quiet leisure, with not the slightest trace of deliberate seeking or grasping in the mind. Third, forgetting both body and mind, blending utterly with whatever one meets, so that nothing sticks or obstructs.

When we speak of “not knowing why it is so, yet it is so”—when practice has ripened, the subtlety is exhausted in words, even the thought of “exerting effort” is forgotten, and it can no longer be captured in language. Lu Fanghu said: this resembles the image of “a diver steering the boat” from the Zhuangzi—where water swirls inward is called “qi”, where water gushes outward is called “mi.” The point is that water follows its ordinary course; if one simply moves with its ebb and flow, without forcing it by private will, one can “ attain one’s aim” (go smoothly). Born among hills, one rests easy among hills; raised in water, one rests easy in water. Look only at this one word “an”: in all things follow what is natural, without needing to ask “why it is thus”—precisely the sense of “acting from one’s proper place” and “entering nowhere without finding contentment there.” To speak of the learning of “easy dwelling” with such composure even in “perilous going” is wonderfully subtle!

According to the Sequence of the Hexagrams in the Book of Changes: after “Return” (Fu) comes “Great Peace” (Tai), and only then settled ease, hence the Tai hexagram follows. Mencius said: “When Yu controlled the waters, he did what amounted to doing nothing.” If fire timing can reach empty nothingness and natural spontaneity, so that one no longer knows “how it was done,” it is like Zhang Shen rowing the boat—doing what amounts to doing nothing—then the subtlety truly cannot be put into words.

The old man rests easy in water and can walk upon it; the Daoist must rest easy in emptiness (xu) and can walk within emptiness, becoming one with xu, so that body and mind are unobstructed: treading water as if treading earth, treading earth as if treading water; passing through metal and stone, ascending into empty space—nothing is not free.

(Notes: “A diver steering the boat” comes from the Zhuangzi, meaning to steer by the water’s tendency rather than by sight alone; “qi” and “mi” here denote water swirling in and gushing out; “doing what amounts to doing nothing” means not acting rashly but yielding to circumstances; “acting from one’s proper place” and “easy dwelling” come from the Doctrine of the Mean.)

The "Dalsheng" Chapter (an outer chapter of the Zhuangzi, on nurturing life and skill) says: Dongye Ji presented his charioteering to Duke Zhuang; going forward and back he matched the ink line, turning left and right he matched the compass. The duke thought the skill could not be faulted and had him drive a hundred circuits and return. Yan He met him, went in to see the duke, and said: “Ji’s horses are about to break down.” The duke kept silent and did not reply. Before long the horses did break down and the chariot returned. The duke asked: “How did you know?” Yan He said: “The horses’ strength was already spent, yet the man still drove them on—that is why I said they would break down.”

This passage also illustrates natural timing (the rhythm that arises of itself in practice, not forced urging): straight segments align with the line, curves with the compass; weaving and turning, subtle as brocade patterns. Familiarity breeds mastery; charioteering can reach the level of spirit. The Yijing says: “Refine the meaning until it enters the door, so that it may be put to use.” Is it not so? A hundred circuits and return—the horses’ strength could not keep up, so they failed; that was not Dongye Ji’s fault alone. It also warns people: do not use things to exhaustion; exhaustion brings failure.

VIII. Gong Chui’s Spinning Circles

The Dalsheng chapter also says: Gong Chui (a legendary craftsman of antiquity) could draw circles by spinning his hand alone and surpass compass and square (meaning he exceeded them; relying only on the hand’s spin, his skill already beat rule and measure—precision at the utmost). Finger and object became one; he did not use the mind to inspect and check, so the lingtai (the heart-mind) was single and unbound. Forgetting the feet means the shoes fit the feet; forgetting the waist means the belt fits the waist; knowing how to forget right and wrong means the heart is at ease; inner not changing, outer not following means affairs and circumstances fit; at first fitting, never not fitting—that is “forgetting that one fits” (when even “fitting” is forgotten, that is true fitting).

Plain-language gist: Both the charioteering and circle-drawing stories teach that skill moves from familiarity to spirit and that one must not drain the pond to catch fish; the latter follows Zhuangzi’s line of “transformation of things” and “fasting of the mind,” showing that when the heart is not stuck on rules, it can align with rules all the more.

Lu Fanghu said: What is discussed here is the supreme subtlety of pure, natural mastery. Consider how the term “yihua” (single transformation) is used—it corresponds to what the Confucians call “following what the heart desires without overstepping the measure.” Gong Chui, the legendary craftsman, shaped things without compass or square; he merely turned his hand on the material, and roundness and squareness arose of themselves. When we speak of “measure” (ju), we are only summing things up in fixed, verbal rules. At that point his fingers and the work were one; he no longer kept accounts in his mind at all—hence “not gauging with the mind” (bu yi xin ji). Though he did not deliberate and inspect, the mind was not absent; it was simply unified and no longer fettered by rules. If even a trace of forced attention or contrivance remained, however skilled the hand, the circle and square would not truly form. In learning, two things are most to be feared: a scattered mind, and a “mindful,” calculating mind. Scattering makes the work mixed and shallow; clinging with intent fixes one on things and blocks transformation. Only when one is unified yet “not shackled” (yi er bu zhi) can one enter the subtle.

Read Zhuangzi at its passages on utmost mastery: every word and line carries depth.

In my view, Gong Chui’s “fire phase” (huohou—the stage at which craft matures like alchemy) had already entered the realm of transformation, and that still depended on the word “forgetting.” The fire phase of returning the elixir (huandan, internal alchemy) is the same: it must be as purely natural as Gong Chui’s mastery before one reaches the wondrous realm of the pre-heaven (xiantian) and enters divine transformation (shenhua). The ancients put it thus: without aiming at Chan yet never apart from Chan—meaning just this.

(The closing line “Liezi practices archery” is likely a heading or the start of the next section; this passage ends here.)

Two Passages from “Tian Zifang”: Archery and Painting

Archery (Lie Yukou and Bo Hun Wuren)

Tian Zifang relates that Lie Yukou (Liezi) studied archery under Bo Hun Wuren. When he drew the bow, he could balance a cup of water on his elbow; after one arrow flew, the second was already on the string and the third ready—yet at that stage he still relied on ordinary skill. Bo Hun Wuren said: this is the shooting of one who can shoot, not the shooting of one who does not shoot. Once he had taken him up a high mountain, onto perilous rocks, and to the edge of a hundred-ren abyss, could he still shoot? So he led him to such a place: Liezi faced away from the chasm, heels over empty space, most of each foot hanging in the void. Bo Hun Wuren told him to step forward; Liezi fell prostrate, sweat running to his heels. Bo Hun Wuren said: the perfected person looks up at the blue sky, dives to the yellow springs, sweeps through the eight directions—spirit and energy unchanged. You are now fearful, your eyes unsettled; the mind already has a crack. In this state, to shoot is dangerous.

Commentary on this passage in the Tianle Ji (fire timing)

This chapter treats huohou (fire timing)—the moments and levels at which spirit and energy are applied in internal cultivation. One must first reach taiding (deep stillness) and shenning (spirit at rest), so that the outer world cannot enter and both emotion and appearance are forgotten; only then can one gather the dayao (the great medicine—the refined essence of true qi from inner practice) and proceed to seven days completing the great heavenly circuit (a full macrocosmic orbit in a seven-day cycle). Liezi’s trembling fear shows that renxin (the human mind—distraction, fear, and the like) is not yet fully extinguished. “The shooting of one who does not shoot” is forgetting achievement—neither chasing the target nor clinging to technique. Entering operation without deliberate effort is the highest layer within huohou.

Painting (Lord Yuan of Song and the painters)

The same chapter tells how Lord Yuan of Song wanted portraits painted. The court painters all arrived, bowed, and stood waiting, licking brushes and mixing ink; half of them were still outside the door. One man came late, easy and unhurried, not scurrying; after bowing he did not stand in line and was summoned inside. When someone was sent to look, they found him loosening his robe, sitting cross-legged at ease, half undressed. The lord said: enough—this is someone who truly knows how to paint.

(The painting passage is often read alongside attitudes such as “no fixation in the heart, spirit and energy appearing of themselves” in cultivation; unlike the archery section, the main text here does not develop huohou in detail—only the scriptural wording is translated.)

If a person moves at ease without hurrying or running, that is “walking meditation.” Master Chongyang said: “Let both feet go wherever they walk; one spirit constantly follows the qi.” Sitting with robes loosened and without fuss over outward form is also “sitting meditation.” Settling spirit and adjusting breath—the mind is not busy painting, yet the painting is already complete—wonderful! Zhuangzi’s writing truly can bear the Great Dao; within it there is another kind of Chan insight—hint enough, no need to say more. Historians wetting brushes and mixing ink, all their plotting, still churn in the layer of conscious thought; even if they produce a fine picture, it remains a dead thing. Better to loosen clothes and sit in informal posture, gather spirit and regulate breath, utterly still—naturally a living arhat. Intent before the brush, teaching through the body—exquisite to the limit; Song Jun calls this the “true painter,” which is also a hidden metaphor.

The ten pieces above differ in depth of firing, but most embed the gist of “hiding spirit and guarding qi” and “completing spirit and nurturing nature.” Only when body and mind are unmoving and one forgets together with the environment, entering wondrously into the realm of spirit-transformation, can one be round, penetrating, unobstructed, and apply things freely.

Forty-six: Secret for Subduing Demons

Among the demons in Journey to the West, Red Boy’s divine reach is widest and his power greatest—this symbolizes post-heaven evil fire. Later the Bodhisattva Guanyin casts down three rings and subdues him. Speaking of three rings, there are really only two—Qian above, Kun below; the move in the empty middle is placing mind and breath on the outside, and by this achieving true emptiness. Once the three rings are cast down, no demon-kind fails to submit—their efficacy is plain to see, and their office lies here too. Whenever post-heaven turbid things make trouble, or heavenly demons come, one need only on the outside make mind and breath mutually depend; when true emptiness is reached, all is safe and sound. This samadhi of “subduing demons in great emptiness” is therefore the most transcendent.

Appendix: A Saying from Master Wang (from my compilation Zhi Shi Ke Zhi [When the Duty Is Known])

This appendix reproduces one saying from Master Wang, taken from my compilation Zhi Shi Ke Zhi (When the Duty Is Known). Whenever post-heaven turbid influences act up, or celestial demons come to disturb you, you need only practice xinxixi xiangyi (heart and breath mutually relying) on the outside; when you enter true emptiness, all is calm and uneventful. This is called the samadhi of subduing demons in the great void—hence it is the most transcendent method.

Appendix: A Saying from Master Wang (from my compilation Tizhen Shanren Danjue Milu [Secret Records of Lord Tizhen’s Elixir Formulas])

This appendix reproduces one saying from Master Wang, taken from my compilation Tizhen Shanren Danjue Milu (Secret Records of Lord Tizhen’s Elixir Formulas): In Journey to the West, Red Boy (Hong Hai’er) stands for post-heaven evil fire—the false yang on either side of the Li trigram; the Black Wind Monster stands for post-heaven yin essence—the false yang on either side of the Kan trigram. The two use their arts to show off their power and nearly kill Sun Wukong; they are extremely dangerous. Unless Guanyin casts down a magic ring, they cannot be subdued. In other words, once you go out into outer emptiness, the Black Wind Monster naturally vanishes, and Red Boy turns into the Good Wealth Boy and no longer causes trouble.

Forty-Seven: The Marvellous Realm of Harmony and Penetration

When the firing process (huohou) of heaven and human joining in emission is without error, all kinds of changes arise in the physical body; broadly speaking, they can be summed up in the two words chonghe (harmonious penetration). Cui’s Ruyaojing (Mirror for Compounding the Medicine) says: “The pre-heaven Qi, the post-heaven breath—whoever obtains them is constantly like an infant.” (The latter line in the original text here appears incomplete; the sense is that one who obtains this Qi has body and mind as harmoniously soft as an infant’s.)

When the timing of “heaven and human merging and activating” is held without error, the physical body (this flesh-and-blood form) will gradually show various changes, which can broadly be summed up in two words: Chonghe (harmonious blending). Cui Gong says in Ruyaojing (Mirror for Taking Medicine): “Pre-heaven Qi and post-heaven Qi—whoever obtains them often feels as if drunk.” Once the method is right, one often feels loose and mellow, as after drinking. Jindan sibai zi (Four Hundred Words on the Golden Elixir) adds in its preface: “The pores feel slightly warm, as after a bath; the bones and channels feel soft, as in deep sleep; spirit feels blended, as when husband and wife unite; soul and spirit feel intertwined, as mother and child cling.” That is one example of the Chonghe state.

But it must be understood: as practice deepens layer by layer, the subtle realm of Chonghe changes with it. There is Chonghe within the Small Heavenly Circuit (Qi circulating once through the Ren and Du channels), Chonghe within the Great Heavenly Circuit, Chonghe when “passing the Great Heavenly Circuit in seven days,” and Chonghe in the nurturing the embryo stage (in Neidan, the metaphor of forming and raising the infant). It is hard to describe them all with one fixed formula.

As for the Small Heavenly Circuit (vital Qi completing one circuit along the Ren and Du channels), at first the whole body feels meltingly soft and joyfully intense; this then turns into numbness throughout the body. Numbness is actually a deeper layer of Chonghe; beyond numbness there are still deeper levels, which must be verified through Dading (a state of extremely deep absorption).

Wang Qiyun explains in Wudeng Chonghe Shuo (On the Five Grades of Chonghe): what is called chonghe—the inner qi brought into harmony and water and fire brought into equilibrium—depends entirely on “fire” (the intent of inner refinement and yang qi) to refine qi; verification of accomplishment is broadly divided into five grades.

First grade: After three or five years of practice, when mind does not stir with thoughts and form does not waver, one suddenly feels a surge of qi rise into the heart; the ears seem filled with wind, rain, and thunder, and the qi flows through all four limbs and every vessel—this is chonghe of “minister qi” (chenqi); it is not yet the true Way.

Second grade: After another three or five years, one suddenly hears violent wind, great crashing sounds, and war drums; qi rises to the crown at Kunlun and descends to the knees; the mouth tastes the five flavors, the tongue produces fluid, the eyes see light, and from the nose flows a clear liquid like a jade pillar—this is chonghe of bladder qi and “people’s qi” (minqi). With further progress, there is further verification.

Third grade: After yet another three or five years, one again hears wind, rain, and thunder; heat in the dantian spirals and gradually ascends; qi returns from behind the kidneys to Caoxi (the region of the lower dantian below the navel), rises to Kunlun, sweet fluid is produced again—above like ambrosia pouring over the crown, below like sweet dew sprinkling the heart; light in the eyes flashes like lightning—this is “flying golden essence from behind the elbow” (zhouhou fei jinjing). Advancing further from this stage brings further verification.

Fourth grade: After three to five years of quiet sitting and guarding the practice, thunder resounds in the ears; the belly feels as if silk were tearing; qi behind the kidneys strikes the weilu point, passes the Yuzhu pass, pierces the niwan palace and the peak of Kunlun—sound like violent wind tearing up the earth, surge like a cold spring descending—this is the mystic pearl falling into the elixir palace; or one may see blue sky, moonlight, and white snow arrayed in the void, or dragon and tiger in mutual union (longhu jiaotai), sun and moon exchanging palaces (riyue jiaogong). Though such visions appear, advancing another two or three years brings further verification.

Fifth grade: What arises depends on the Taiyi Primordial Lord (Taiyi yuanjun). Taiyi refers to northern Ren-Gui water: it penetrates upward to the niwan and downward to yongquan; again the ears hear a thousand battle drums and thunder over ten thousand acres, like violent wind tearing up the earth, like the great sea unleashing—complete ascent; above and below turn thoroughly red; the fire of the full celestial circuit (zhoutian) flares; pain pierces bone and thread through sinew over the whole body; nowhere among the four limbs and hundred vessels is qi not flowing; bones feel as if crushed; or one is lost for three to five days—chaos opens anew and heaven and earth are re-established—this is the firing process of the full circuit, heaven and earth in mutual union (tiandi jiaotai), sun and moon exchanging palaces; mulberry fields turn into a blue sea. When effort reaches here, ascent is assured; ending and beginning again, bones exchanged and sinews transformed—this is great chonghe.

Qiyun’s account may be read alongside Zhang Sanfeng’s Return and Verification (Fanhuan Zhengyan Shuo). The last grade in particular—the scene of completing the greater weekly cycle in seven days—is described by Sanfeng in especially full detail and is indeed the standard for internal alchemy “return” (fanhuan).

48. The Wondrous Use of Naturalness

The Ruyao jing (Mirror for Compounding Medicine) says: “With utmost sincerity alone, take naturalness as your model.” The Cantong qi (Token of Accord) says: “What naturalness completes is not achieved by crooked or false ways.” The Yinfu jing (Scripture of the Hidden Talisman) says: “Therefore the sage knows that the way of naturalness cannot be violated, and so he conforms to it in establishing norms.” The Great Penetration Scripture says: “Suchness is naturalness, vast and without limit.” The Yushu jing (Jade Pivot Scripture) says: “Heaven and earth secretly turn their mechanism so that people do not know it—this is called naturalness; even when they are made to know and yet seem still not to know, this too is called naturalness. The subtlety of naturalness, though wonder appears within ‘knowing,’ the true wonder comes from ‘not knowing.’”

Xuanjing said: What is called “not knowing” is forgetting the mind. In the world, every craft cannot enter the subtle without the mind pushed to the utmost; in methods beyond the world, one cannot enter transformation without forgetting the mind pushed to the utmost. Thus the Dao takes naturalness as its norm—it is the wondrous use of forgetting artifice: operating without deliberate intent, in constant use yet constantly empty, beyond full expression.

Wang Yiqing said: “Naturalness is what you cannot force to be so, nor force not to be so.” From this we know that naturalness is wonder itself. Spirit is spirit without anyone knowing why it is spirit; wonder is wonder without anyone knowing why it is wonder. Sometimes it cannot even be put in words or measured by thought—knowing the reason yet not knowing the reason; naming what is named yet not knowing why it is named—then where is the name “naturalness”?

My late master said: “The scripture says: the learning of dual cultivation rests entirely on firing times. Huo said: firing proceeds step by step, all in naturalness. Whoever can know naturalness has inexhaustible wondrous use.”

Forty-Nine: Essentials of Great Concentration (Dading)

The previous master said: “The scriptures say: in the learning of dual cultivation (Xingming shuangxiu), the whole pivot lies in huohou—the timing and intensity at which essence and qi are worked in practice.” It is also said: “Huohou must advance stage by stage, and all of it is ziran—‘according to what is so’; once you understand ziran, you understand the two tiers of heaven and earth and the four yin-yang as well—and those too are simply what is so.” Master Qianxu said: “Ziran has a further, deeper meaning. My teacher once pointed out to me: to follow ziran is not to let things drift and ‘leave them as they happen.’” I hold that when a student’s gongfu truly reaches the realm of ziran, every movement and every stillness is purely aligned with the Heart of Heaven (Tianxin), and not a hair’s breadth of deliberate scheming is allowed; if you still use intentional mind to arrange things, you are already far from ziran.

Someone asked: Laozi says “the Dao follows ziran (naturalness),” yet the Surangama Sutra says: “Pure awakening is perfectly luminous—not from causes, not from conditions, and also not ‘natural,’ not ‘not natural,’ neither ‘not not’ nor ‘is is’—thus leaving behind all marks and all dharmas.” That seems opposite to Laozi—how are they reconciled? Answer: What the Surangama refutes is the heterodox notion of “natural” as “whatever happens, let it happen”; what Laozi means by ziran is accord with what is originally so. When fixation on emotional views is broken, all dharmas interpenetrate as one suchness at a single level. “Causes and conditions” and “natural” both do not depart from the substance and function of self-nature—where is the conflict?

Great Stillness means that heart-mind and breath rely on each other and become one without movement; when even external breathing stops, both spirit and qi enter the state of stillness. After stillness lasts long enough, body and mind are utterly quiet and unmoving—you forget the physical form, forget images, forget outer things, and forget the self. At this point, the pre-heaven true yang (xian tian zhen yang) seeps into the flesh body, washing and irrigating it, steaming and permeating the defensive and nutritive qi (ying and wei—the circulation of qi and blood at the body’s surface), soaking through the marrow, reaching everywhere without exception—like replacing the old with the new in a cauldron, turning the coarse and heavy into the subtle and refined. This is called “refining the form in vacuum emptiness.”

Therefore, for every degree that body and mind settle in stillness, there is one degree of emptiness; for one degree of emptiness, the pre-heaven true yang advances one degree. If body and mind are empty to the full ten degrees, the true yang also advances to the full ten degrees—refining qi must take Great Stillness as its foundation.

Further: for every degree that body and mind are empty, acquired spirit (shi shen—the post-heaven mind of thought and discrimination) dissolves one degree; as acquired spirit dissolves one degree, original spirit (yuan shen—the innate authentic spirit) manifests one degree. As yang advances one degree, clarity increases one degree and obscurity fades one degree—until acquired spirit is fully transformed and original spirit is wholly revealed. Hence the saying “when the heart dies, spirit lives”—this is the essential method of refining spirit, and it too must take Great Stillness as its foundation.

Going still further: when body and mind are empty and still to the utmost, they merge with empty space— the six directions are all mind, the six expanses are all body, pervading and containing, harmoniously boundless without boundary; the body divides and responds in transformation, intention at once becomes reality, able at once to enter immeasurably many Buddha-realms and manifest immeasurable spiritual powers—this is the final stage of “returning to emptiness and merging with the Dao,” which likewise must take Great Stillness as its foundation.

On the essential meaning of “great stillness” (dading), the Zhuangzi already says enough. For example: “Fish depend on one another in water; people depend on one another in the Dao. Those who depend in water can be kept alive by digging a pool; those who depend in the Dao find the heart settling on its own when there is nothing to do.” It also says: “When the breast is at peace and settled, heaven’s light shines forth.” Again: “Uphold it with ‘great stillness.’” And: “One whose spirit-mind cannot settle— the Dao cannot sustain them either.” Thus the subtlety of entering the Dao can be summed up in the single word ding (stillness).

The Zhuangzi, “Human Affairs in the World,” says: “Gaze upon that open emptiness; the empty chamber gives birth to whiteness; auspiciousness rests in resting. If one cannot rest in resting, it is called ‘sitting while racing.’” A secret commentary explains: que means emptiness. At the depth of emptiness and profound stillness, at the juncture of the hai and zi hours and between the dark of the moon and the new moon, when the ten thousand sounds are silent—that is the moment of “gazing upon that emptiness.” “The empty chamber gives birth to whiteness” is the return of one yang; pre-heaven qi arrives at the palace. “Resting, resting” is great stillness. Always in motion yet always still—this is supremely auspicious—like a clear mirror reflecting things: responding to things without mind, simultaneously reflecting and still, stillness and reflection as one, movement and stillness not two—is this not “auspiciousness resting in resting”? If qi stirs and shen (spirit) races off, one cannot gather pre-heaven [ qi ].

The Dadong Jing says: “Stillness and harmony are like clear awakening.” It also says: “In initial stillness, breath is penetrated; grand harmony reaches a thousandfold; in great stillness, truth is complete; subtle practice connects with spirit.” The Lengyan Jing says: “When stillness reaches its limit, illumination arises; when illumination reaches its limit, awakening is fulfilled.” These all describe the scene in which long stillness brings forth wisdom and long quiet brings forth clarity.

In Li Daochun’s Zhonghe Ji (Collection of Balance and Harmony), the perspective is upright and free of bias. When I read the poetry in it, I find that he returns again and again to the essential point of dading—that deep, stable stillness at the core of body and mind—a focus that stands out among alchemical scriptures. For example, he writes: “By oneself one can settle body and mind, gather the spirit and secure jing and qi; the body rests in ease and transcends what leaks away, the heart is still and one enters the proof of non-arising.” He also says: “When body and mind are settled, the subtle teaching truly opens; jing, qi, and shen naturally blend in emptiness and stillness.” Again: “Refining mercury and cooking lead is not bound to any single hour; the student should investigate within stillness.” And: “Creating the Way was never inherently difficult—the work lies entirely in the character ding (stillness).” And: “The ‘medicine’ is taken only from within wu (non-being); the great elixir is entirely fired within stillness.” And: “Still and unmoving, one accords with the true constant; when all yin is exhausted, yang qi returns of itself.” And: “Nine returns and seven reversals are the crux of the great elixir; the learner must seek them inside stillness.” And: “If you can hold a single stillness in the living moment, you will know ‘noon striking the third watch’ (when stillness reaches its peak, yin and yang invert and the hidden mechanism appears of itself).” And: “Only when the tide rises does the water reach the dike; when the wind stops, the river’s heart is utterly waveless; nature still, emotions empty, the heart unmoved—sitting without dullness or scatter, sleeping without demons.” Those four words, “nature still, emotions empty,” are precisely where dading arrives. When self-refinement (lianji) reaches this level, whatever changes appear in the physical body leave one still and unmoving, like the great void; at this stage of huohou (timing in the firing process), one may say one has entered the hall and passed into the inner chamber. Hence the Yongjia Zhengdao Ge (Song of Enlightenment by Yongjia) says: “Even if an iron wheel turns upon the head, ding and hui bright and complete would never be lost.”

Longmeizi was a direct disciple of the Purple Clarity True Worthy (Ziqing Zhenren) and author of the Jindan Yinzheng Shi (Poems Verifying the Golden Elixir). Patriarch Lu Qianxu wrote a commentary (ce shu) to elucidate it. The poems also highlight the importance of “stillness in concentration” (jing ding). For example:

“All because extreme stillness again stirs into movement—thus the boundless is made bounded. Primordial Qi (xian tian yi qi) first shows itself from within emptiness; trust that the Two Principles (liang yi) turn and revolve within stillness.”

Qianxu explains in the Shu: Yuanduzi said that “pre-heaven primordial Qi comes from within nothingness,” hence “primordial Qi first shows itself from within emptiness.” Immortals grasp this single true mechanism: they gather in movement and refine in stillness, so turning the qian kun (Heaven and Earth), running sun and moon—all is accomplished within ding (stillness/concentration). The character ding is paramount; from start to finish the Golden Elixir never departs from it. At first, without ding, the mind cannot release worldly concerns and one cannot properly perform “approaching the furnace to gather the medicine”; at the end, without ding, the firing times (huo hou) cannot be adjusted and one cannot complete “ shedding the shell and spirit transformation.” Hence “trust that the Two Principles turn and revolve within stillness.”

The poem also says: “To scrutinize crucible lead and cinnabar you must first be settled within; when yang fire is about to rush, receive it on the lower spread. Without meeting a perfected person who personally instructs you, where would you resolve the mysterious pivot?”

Qianxu’s Shu states: the medicinal vapor in the crucible is extremely subtle; to examine it you must first settle the mind and clarify thought, with the six senses deeply stilled and both inner and outer concerns forgotten—only then do you gather, so you do not err. When yang fire comes rushing, you meet it on the lower spread. This absolutely requires a true master and true oral instructions before one can approach the furnace.

If the founding patriarch of the Eastern school spoke thus, then it is all the more credible that the Western lineage inherits “great stillness and true emptiness” (da ding zhen kong) as the secret key to making the elixir. Master Wang often said: “The method of the elixir comes down to one word—ding; this is what is meant by the utmost simple and easy Way.”

Still, to attain true ding one must forget both body and mind and leave inner and outer worlds utterly silent; without arduous practice, how could ding be easy!

The Tianle Ji (Collection of Heavenly Joy) cites the Zhuangzi, chapter “Knowledge Rambling in the North”: Guangyao (Bright Glory) asked Wu-you (Non-Being), “Master, are you here or not?” Wu-you did not answer. (These five characters are missing in the current Zhuangzi text; they are supplied from the Huainanzi, which makes the sense complete.) Guangyao could not get an answer, so he looked closely at Wu-you’s form: deep and empty—gaze all day and you see nothing, listen and hear nothing, reach and touch nothing. Guangyao sighed, “This is the utmost! Who can cultivate to this level? I can attain ‘having non-being,’ but not yet ‘non-non-being’; when one has become ‘non-being,’ from where can one still arrive here?”

This passage in the Zhuangzi describes very clearly what Great Samadhi and True Emptiness (da ding zhen kong—the stillness and genuine void of deep meditative absorption) is like. When one asks Wu-you and Wu-you does not respond, it parallels what happens in meditation: if over seven days one completes the Great Circulation of the Orbit and the firing process (da zhou tian huohou—the critical stage in Neidan when Qi circulates through the Conception and Governing vessels in one full cycle), similar phenomena can appear. That is why Cao Wenyi says in the Song of the Great Dao (Dadao Ge): “Why exhaust yourself on such side matters—better to calmly cultivate Great Samadhi.” Rather than spending effort on branches and details, it is better to settle peacefully in Great Samadhi.

This passage cites Zhuangzi’s “He who kills life does not die; he who gives life to life does not live,” and threads together Chan and internal-alchemy schools’ understanding of “kill and live” and “death and birth.”

The Zhuangzi lines

“He who kills life does not die”: one who can kill off delusion and the false self does not lose the true self; “he who gives life to life does not live”: clinging only within birth and death, one never reaches the unborn and undying.

Chan master Anyuan of Lingyan

He said: you must break through in “killing” (cutting delusion and attachment) and hide your edge in “living” (skillful use and accord with conditions); at that point even buddhas cannot fathom you and patriarchs cannot read you.

Layman Pang

“To protect life you must use killing; only when killing is complete do you dwell in peace”—to truly guard original awakening, you must first kill off afflictions and discrimination; “understand the meaning within, and an iron boat floats on water”—see this layer, and it is like an iron boat floating: against ordinary expectation, yet it holds.

Master Chunyang (Lü Dongbin)

“The living does not live, the dead does not die” shares Zhuangzi’s intent; he also said: already fallen into “life,” you must still learn “killing” (cutting delusion) within life; not yet dead through and through, first learn “death” (stilling thought, forgetting the body)—that is the path of long life. In neidan (internal alchemy) this borrows Buddhist language to speak of refining spirit and returning to emptiness.

Caoshan’s Q&A

A monk asked: Is a śramaṇa not a person of great compassion? Caoshan: Yes. Asked: When the six thieves (eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, mind) come, what do you do? Answer: Great compassion too. Asked: What is great compassion? Answer: One sword cuts all clean—when afflictions appear, cut them on the spot, without dragging mud or water. Asked: After everything is cut? Answer: Only then do you attain harmony with conditions—at peace with the world, neither hating nor clinging.

Chan master Shigu

Before leaving home he went into the mountains to hunt and passed Mazu’s hermitage. Mazu taught him: “Why not shoot yourself?”—turn the arrow on yourself; what you shoot is your own self-grasping and delusion. That is the secret of “killing life”: not merely killing outer things, but taking killing (cutting) as the method; understand the principle of shooting oneself, and you are on the same path as “to protect life you must use killing.”

The thread of the whole passage: Zhuangzi’s language of life and death, the Chan theme of “kill completely and harmonize,” and the alchemists’ “learn death for long life” all say one thing—use one fierce thought to cut delusion, then abide in empty stillness; that alone is true protection of life, compassion, and longevity.

Question: Someone asked again: “For a beginner, which method should be used to enter the state of ‘kill completely, then dwell in peace’?”

Answer: Through the twenty-four hours of a day, whenever the slightest wandering thought, delusion, or desire stirs, immediately place the mind outside the body and let heart-mind and breath work together in mutual reliance. While applying the method, the moment you notice the slightest outward stirring of yang qi, the slightest melting ease or pleasure, or phenomena such as numbness or twitching, you must at once drop attachment to the body and again practice heart-mind and breath relying on each other toward the outside. Continue until you no longer notice yourself doing it; then naturally inner and outer harmonize, the six thieves do not rise, and body and mind feel light and strong—this is the secret of “kill completely and dwell in peace,” and also the main point of refining the self (lianyi) in preliminary cultivation.

The Hidden Meaning of “She” (Restraint)

Laozi said: “In governing affairs and aligning with Heaven, nothing is better than she (restraint). Only she is called ‘early return’; early return is called ‘accumulating De heavily.’ Heavy accumulation of De then nothing is unconquerable; when nothing is unconquerable, others cannot fathom your limit. When your limit cannot be fathomed, you can hold fast to the realm under Heaven. The mother of having a realm can long endure—this is the way of deep roots, firm stem, long life, and lasting vision.”

Here she does not mean stinginess or unwillingness to give, but not turning with outer things, not leaking through the six roots. To leak is shi—to scatter outward. When the eye meets form, it is pulled by form; when the ear meets sound, by sound; when the nose meets fragrance, by fragrance. At every turn one follows the six dusts (the six sense objects: form, sound, scent, taste, touch, and mental objects); when the mind moves, essence and qi are inevitably shaken; when essence is exhausted, spirit departs, and life goes with it. Therefore Laozi also said: “If I had even a little true knowing and walked on the great Dao, what I would most fear is shi (outward leakage).”

Plain-Language Explanation

In cultivation, se (holding back, not squandering) means not leaking and not wasting: the six sense faculties—eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind—stay settled and unmoved, not dragged about by the six sense objects such as sound and form. Then spirit and qi naturally stay calm and full, taihe (harmonious qi) within is replete, and day and night are clear and bright. This is what Laozi called “zao fu”—returning early to the root. If you want long life and lasting clarity, the crux lies here.

The Cantong qi (Token for the Agreement of the Three) echoes this in many places. It says: “The three treasures are ear, mouth, and eye; block them and do not let them open”—the three treasures must be shut and not casually discharged outward. It also says: “The true person hides in the deep abyss, drifting yet guarding the center of the compass”—like one submerged in a deep pool, holding to oneness only in the central palace. Again: the qi of the Li trigram is taken into yingwei (nutritive and defensive qi); Kan need not be sought through the ears; the union of Dui need not be spoken through the mouth—few words accord with hongmeng (primordial, undifferentiated state). When the three (eye, ear, mouth) are strictly closed, breathe slowly in an empty room, let intent return to emptiness, and take no-thought as the norm. It also says: “Seal the place where they meet; strive to make body and mind whole and firm”—plug the junctions tight so body and mind are complete and solid; “Block the opening of Dui, fortify the spiritual root; the three luminaries sink within, gently nurturing the child pearl”—close Dui (mouth / the Dui trigram), strengthen the spiritual root, let sun, moon, and stars—the three luminaries—sink inward, and warm-nurture the child pearl (a metaphor for the inner elixir). And: “Can you be careless? The head of governing is to hold the subtle and tight”—can you be inattentive? The key to “ruling” is precise, fine control. All of this is practice on the character se.

In short, se is the gist of ning shen gu qi (gathering spirit and securing qi), the six faculties in deep stillness, and not letting the mind chase the six objects. What the Surangama Sutra calls “reverse the flow and unify as one; the six functions do not operate”—the six faculties turn inward to one, and the six uses do not arise; what Zhuangzi calls “be careful within, closed without”—guard inward carefully and shut outer entanglements; what the Great Change (Yijing) calls “guard against deviation, preserve sincerity”; and what the Analects calls “do not look, listen, speak, or act unless it accords with ritual”—all belong to the meaning of se. True Person Miaozheng also said: “Within seeing-as-such, cut off seeing and hearing; that alone is called great rest”—within the very act of seeing, sever the split of seer and seen, hearer and heard; that is the superior secret of se, and its subtle meaning can be said to embrace everything.

In the elixir path, “verification” falls into two broad categories: verification in the physical body (this fleshly form), and verification in the spirit body (the dimension of spirit and wisdom that accords with the Dao).

Physical-body verification—patriarchs such as Zhengyang, Ziyang, Cuixu, Sanfeng, and Qiyun have spoken of it at length. The Cantong qi says: when golden sand enters the five viscera, it is like mist dispersing in wind and rain; the steaming permeates the four limbs and the complexion becomes moist and lustrous; white hair turns black and fallen teeth grow anew; an old man regains vigor and an old woman becomes like a young girl; the form is transformed and worldly calamities are escaped—such a one is called a true person. Chen Cuixu said: hardship lasts only ten months; gradually gathering, gradually congealing, the whole body becomes white blood, and the four limbs know neither cold nor heat. He also said: when I practiced for a year, the six pulses had ceased and qi returned to the root; the infant in the dantian, in form and appearance, was just like me. Ziyang’s Four Hundred Characters, preface: when cultivation reaches this point, wind arises at the mud pill palace, the moon is bright at the crimson palace, fire blazes in the dantian, and the waves of the valley sea are clear; the jiaji feels like a turning wheel, the four limbs like mountains and stone, the pores like one just risen from a bath, the bones and vessels like one deep in sleep, spirit like a couple in joyful union, soul and spirit like mother and child unwilling to part—these are real states, not metaphors. Refined by measure and method, it gathers without scattering; refined by weight and proportion, it congeals and grows ever firmer; the hun is stored and the po extinguished, essence congeals and spirit concentrates; with single-minded harmony, the flesh becomes fresh and penetrating; day by day, hour by hour, it gradually congeals and gathers—essence without substance begets substance, forming the sacred embryo; once fetal qi has congealed, the infant appears, the mysterious pearl takes form, and the Great One embodies truth. Patriarch Sanfeng’s Essential Chapters of the Mystery reveals many such signs of the method, trustworthy and verifiable; his Discourse on the Signs of Return describes in detail passing the great heavenly circuit in seven days—among countless elixir books, this single essay alone leaks the secret; it is truly a great treasure of the profound teaching and a hidden storehouse of the alchemists.

(Note: In the base text, Ziyang’s preface to the Four Hundred Characters and the passage on “passing in seven days” appear in places to repeat or connect awkwardly; this translation follows the usual edited sense for continuity. If wording differs from the version you hold, defer to the original book.)

The essential method of neidan (internal alchemy) cultivation lies in first making the inner mind empty, pure, and still as death, so that one can thereby sense the innate true yang entering the body. The more the heart can be empty and still, the more fully the true yang arrives. It is like a teacup: only by emptying one part can another part of water be held. The more abundant the true yang, the more vigorous the yuanshen (original spirit), and the stronger one's power of concentration (dingli).

Therefore, when refining essence (jing) into vital energy (qi) has been brought to fullness, black hair grows anew and the skin takes on a lustrous glow. Going further, red blood turns white, the pupils become square, and bones, sinews, teeth, blood, and marrow are all renewed, as if old things were cast off and new ones established (gegu dingxin). At night one sleeps without snoring; in labor one does not feel weary. Eventually qi transforms into shen (spirit): one can sleep and eat less, the light of wisdom shines from within, and the outer world feels empty, harmonious, and unobstructed. All of this comes naturally, like water finding its channel—there is no need to force or arrange it.

In writings on the Neidan (internal alchemy) tradition, what is said about verification at the level of the Dharma Body is often very brief. What internal alchemy values is the Dharma Body—the spiritual body whose core is Shen (spirit) consciousness and true nature—not the physical body of flesh and blood. So from the very start one must leave the physical body behind: beyond heart-mind and beyond the body, let heart-mind and breath rely on each other and gradually enter great samadhi (deep absorption). That samadhi too must be established outside the body; use the power of stillness to subdue deluded thoughts and strip away desire, and use the power of insight to break through ignorance. Turn birth-and-death into nirvana, turn afflictions into unmoving wisdom; exhaust the five skandhas (form, feeling, perception, formations, consciousness), emerge from the five turbidities (kalpa, views, afflictions, sentient beings, lifespan), and leave views, thoughts, and habitual tendencies with nothing left. True nature is perfectly bright, pervading the Dharmadhatu; the Way is complete in every respect, and each intention is instantly fulfilled—verification of this kind is more precious than changes in the physical body. As Master Ziyang (Zhang Boduan) said: “Deep in the night the moon shines true; heaven and earth are one round mirror.” Li Qing’an said: “Ask what proof there is when work is gathered—moonlight fills the circuit of heaven, earth, and the self.” Patriarch Sanfeng (Zhang Sanfeng) said: “Raise the cosmic circuit’s samadhi fire of the three times; refine empty stillness and return to the great void.” Again: “Constantly, constantly apply the work; the bright moon in the sky reddens the crown; look and see your own master within.” Again: “Heart and sun-and-moon share great radiance; I and Yin-Yang heaven-and-earth are inside and outside each other; smashing empty space is no small matter—gather the six harmonies into one grain of millet.” All of these point to verification seen on the side of the Dharma Body, at the level of spirit.

Verifying the Dharma Body

In Daoist usage, the Dharma Body (fashen—the real presence that is one with the Dao and transcends physical form) is tested by its effects; concentration (ding) and wisdom (hui) are always the root. Ding means the mind rests in one place without scattering; hui means seeing reality as it is and telling things apart clearly.

Zhuangzi says: “Join the Great Dao and move through it freely; hold fast with deep ding.” It also says: “When the heart is empty like an empty room, clear light arises on its own, and good fortune naturally settles there.” And: “Do not chase what pleases the eyes and ears outward; turn inward and penetrate—then knowing no longer gets dragged about by outer things.” All of this describes how great ding is deep and still, and wisdom-awakening (huijue) is round and unobstructed.

The passage in the Surangama Sutra that dismantles the five skandhas (form, feeling, perception, volition, consciousness) likewise marks stages one commonly passes through in practice centered on ding—they should not be skipped.

53. The Scripture of Preserving Life

In “Gengsang Chu” in Zhuangzi, Nanrong Chu asked Laozi about the “scripture of preserving life” (weisheng zhi jing—the method of guarding life and keeping to the Dao). Laozi said:

“The key to preserving life: can you embrace the One (bao yi—hold to unity, never splitting from the Dao)? Can you never lose it? Can you know fortune and misfortune without divining? Can you still restless thoughts? Can you let go of clinging? Can you stop asking others and turn the question back on yourself? Can you wander freely? Can you be without knowledge and without cleverness, like an infant?

An infant cries all day yet its throat does not go hoarse—that is Qi (vital energy) harmonized to the utmost. It clenches its fists all day yet its hands do not open—that is De (Virtue/Power) gathering of itself. It looks at things all day yet its eyes do not dart—that is because attention is not fixed on outer objects. Walking, it does not know where it is going; staying, it does not know what it is doing—it only yields to things as they come and rides the same wave. That is the gist of the scripture of preserving life.”

Nanrong Chu asked: “Is this already the conduct of the perfected person (zhi ren—one united with the Dao, whose De is complete)?”

Laozi said: “Not yet. This is still like ice thawing and bonds loosening. Perfected people eat together on the earth and rejoice together in the way of Heaven; they do not stir each other with human gain and loss, do not jointly make oddities, do not jointly plot schemes, do not jointly run worldly errands—they wander off freely and arrive without knowing how. That is what truly counts as the scripture of preserving life.”

Explanation: The scripture speaks of the constant Dao. This chapter explains that the essentials of nurturing life and preserving the body lie in holding to the One without letting go, aligning with the virtue of the chizi (newborn infant).

Embracing the One means harmonizing mind and breath into unity; when the two aspects (heart and breath) meet, they merge into one whole. Concentrating qi to achieve softness makes body and mind supple, like an infant. Stopping is stilling; ceasing is resting—namely concentrating the spirit and entering the qi cavity (spirit inwardly guarded, intention resting on the dantian or similar vital points), so the mind settles. The ancients said: suddenly cut off all worldly ties and become one clear expanse; cross beyond the stream of birth and death. Being able to cease entanglements is the most crucial point on the path.

Xiaoran (carefree, unburdened) is a state free of dust and burdens; tongran (simple, un-knowing) is a state without knowledge or deliberate intent. What follows focuses on the infant’s virtue of refined harmony, softness, and not-knowing: “walking without knowing where one goes, dwelling without knowing what one does”—stressing the subtlety of forgetting things and self, and responding to things without deliberate mind.

Nurturing life: reaching a hundun (primordial chaos) state and matching the infant’s virtue gathers spirit and concentrates qi. “Yielding with things and sharing their waves”—weiyi (yielding, winding along) is the finest phrase: toward things, neither clinging nor rejecting; when affairs come, respond; when they go, do not retain—like mirror and light, wave and shadow, universally responding yet without deliberate mind, following events without emotional attachment. The newborn has no deliberate mind, no fixed emotion, neither opposing nor clinging; hence: gazing all day without blinking, crying all day without the throat (ai) growing hoarse, grasping all day without the hand clenching tight (na).

“The perfected person eats together with others upon the earth, yet shares joy with Heaven”: mind and breath mutually support, drawing the true yang of heaven and earth, receiving harmony and nourishment for life, content with fate and delighting in Heaven; one enters only the samadhi of self-enjoyment (finding joy within, holding one’s own stillness), not hanging cares on people, things, gain, or harm—hundun chaos, returning to the great void. “Carefree in going, simple in coming”—in accord with Heaven’s virtue; the meaning of the scripture on nurturing life is complete here.

The gist of the verse runs like this: When the mind is empty and still, desires are few and light, and heart and breath are united as one; outwardly one resonates with the “harmony” of heaven and earth and nature, and the inner wellspring of life can be opened. When that vitality does not run dry, the root of life is not easily exhausted—one can nurture body and mind and also seek long life. Among the methods of the mysterious gate—refining with qi and uniting spirit with Dao—this path is the most excellent.

Fifty-Four: The Wonder of “Living Burial”

Chan Master Linji once said: “Elsewhere they mostly talk about cremating the body; here I speak of living burial.”

Perfect Realization Adept Chongyang also composed verse, repeatedly using “the living dead” as a metaphor. The gist is as follows:

• “Living dead, living dead—when you bury the four false shells of form, qi, spirit, and mind yourself, that is the cause of entering the Way. After sleeping your fill in the ‘tomb,’ you are sprinkled (awakened), split open empty space, and tread dust to pieces.”
• “Living dead, living dead—seeking what seems like death while still alive and cutting off clinging is the good cause. In the tomb, stillness is like true emptiness; worldly dust is shut out.”
• “Living dead, living dead—in emptiness upon emptiness, take emptiness as the cause. In the tomb the scene of true emptiness often appears; realizing emptiness upon emptiness, one is no longer stained by worldly ties.”

(Some lines in the original repeat; the meaning is the same: “in the tomb” and “living dead” stand for closing the door to quiet practice, resting the mind and forgetting artifice—not actually burying the physical body.)

Overall reading: “Living burial” is a shared metaphor in Chan and Quanzhen—being in the world as if in a tomb, gathering heart and breath inward, letting go of the false body and false conditions; it continues the thread of “empty stillness, heart and breath as one, opening the wellspring of life,” and stresses that inner refinement surpasses seeking outside.

Question: Among the essential secrets of cultivating truth in the Xuanzong (profound teaching) tradition, nothing surpasses the wonder of “living burial while alive and dead.” Where exactly should one perform this “living burial”?

Answer: Xukong (emptiness/void) is the place for living burial. Settle the Shen (spirit, original spirit/consciousness) in emptiness, fuse it with Xi (breath, true qi), and enter all the way into the state of Dading (deep samadhi, great stillness-samadhi). With one such “living burial,” you obtain life amid death; naturally, beyond calamity, spring vitality arises, withered wood blooms again, and then there is endless enjoyment and vitality—what is meant by “this time a great death; only now have I truly come alive.” Hence it is said: “Only after you have been born do you learn non-birth; before you have died you first learn to die—then you can attain long life.” Zhang Sanfeng said: “At this point qi cuts off like a small death; only when body and mind merge as one is it true Quanzhen (Complete Perfection).” Wang Qiyun said: “When the Zhou Tian (circulation of the microcosmic orbit) fire is aroused, pain runs through the whole body, piercing bone and threading sinew; the hundred meridians of the four limbs have nowhere that is not open; the bones feel as if shattering, qi cuts off like a small death—only when merged as one is it true Quanzhen.” He also said: “When the Zhou Tian fire is aroused… one may be disoriented for three to five days, Chongkai Hundun (reopening chaos), Zaoli Qiankun (establishing heaven and earth anew)—this is Zhou Tian Huohou (fire phases/timing); when gongfu reaches this stage, ascension is assured.” The ancients used the image of “one coffin, two corpses” to describe the wondrous state in which shen and xi both settle in emptiness. When gongfu reaches the point where body and mind are utterly still, the true meaning of living burial is attained.

Verse: Zhou Tian huohou—body ground to dust. Three days in Hundun (primordial chaos), dead then alive again. The fetal sack is refounded; heaven and earth remade. The wonder of the Xuanzong Dao (Way) far exceeds ordinary understanding. The wise who believe and practice it will surely attain long life.

Brief note: “Living burial while alive and dead” is not literal burial in earth; it is letting shen and xi unite in Xukong, entering Dading, passing through Zhou Tian huohou likened to qi cutting off, bodily pain, and bones breaking, and in samadhi experiencing “dead then alive again”—metaphorically, shen and xi both fixed in the coffin. Wang Qiyun and Zhang Sanfeng belong to the Neidan (internal alchemy) / Quanzhen line; Zhou Tian refers to the stage in which true qi circulates paths such as the Ren and Du vessels.

In the “Mountain Tree” chapter of Zhuangzi, Zhuangzi is walking in the mountains when he sees a large tree with lush foliage. A woodcutter stands nearby but does not cut it down. Zhuangzi asks why, and the man says, “This tree is good for nothing.” Zhuangzi remarks that the tree has lived out its natural span precisely because it is “useless.”

After leaving the mountains, Zhuangzi stays with an old friend. The host is delighted and tells his servant to kill a goose for a meal. The servant asks, “One goose honks and one does not—which should I kill?” The master says, “Kill the one that does not honk.”

The next day a disciple asks Zhuangzi: “Yesterday the tree in the mountains was spared because it was useless and completed its natural years; today the host’s goose was killed because it was useless. Master, how do you intend to conduct yourself in the world?”

Zhuangzi smiles and says, “I intend to stand between ‘useful’ and ‘useless.’ Standing between useful and useless looks as if it were right, yet it is still not right, so one still cannot escape being dragged along. If one drifts freely through the world in accord with Dao and De, it is not like that: neither chasing praise nor inviting slander; at times rising like a dragon, at times hiding like a snake, shifting with the times without clinging to one fixed posture; sometimes above, sometimes below, taking harmony as the measure, floating upon the root source of the myriad things. Outer things remain things, yet one is not enslaved by outer things—how then could one be entangled? That is the way of the Yellow Emperor and Shennong.

“As for the real state of the myriad things and the constant patterns of human relations, it is not so: what gathers will part, what succeeds will be ruined; integrity meets with setbacks, eminence draws reproach; acting brings loss, worthiness invites scheming, unworthiness invites bullying. How can one always preserve oneself? Pitiful! Disciples, remember: turn toward the homeland of Dao and De.”

This passage from the Zhuangzi uses allegory to show that worldly affairs are like hooks and files: they gather and scatter, succeed and fail. Whether one is worthy or not, scheming or deceiving; whether one has talent or not, slain or butchered—none can escape entanglement. Only by roaming prior to the Image Emperor, with heart and breath wondrously united, dragon and snake alike transformed, practicing the dual cultivation of nature and life, harmonizing above and below, blending subtle being with true emptiness, returning to the obscure stillness (xiyi), passing through the five yin, and forever leaving birth and death can one be truly carefree and transcend unsupported death. Therefore, to free oneself from the pain of cyclic rebirth and the burden of birth and death, nothing suffices except meticulous cultivation of the utmost Dao.

In the "Mountain Tree" chapter of the Zhuangzi, it is told that Shinan Yiliao went to see the ruler of Lu and found him wearing a troubled look. Shinan Yiliao asked, "Your face shows worry—why?" The Duke of Lu said, "I have studied the way of governing passed down from the ancient kings and have carried on the work of my predecessors. I revere spirits and ghosts, honor the worthy, and put these into practice myself, never for a moment leaving them aside. Yet I still cannot escape misfortune, and that is why I am troubled."

Shinan Yiliao said, "Your way of removing trouble is far too shallow! Fat foxes and spotted leopards live in mountain forests and hide in rocky dens to find quiet; they move at night and lie low by day to stay on guard. Even when hungry and thirsty they keep to hidden paths, yet still go to rivers and lakes for food—that too has its pattern. Even so they cannot escape the harm of nets, snares, and traps. What crime have they committed? It is their pelts that bring disaster upon them. Lu today—is it not your 'pelt'? I wish you would drop outward show, strip away that 'skin,' sweep clean your inner heart, and cast off desire, and wander where no human crowds gather. To the south there is a place called the Country of Established Virtue. Its people are plain and simple, with little selfishness and few wants. They know work but not hoarding; they give to others without demanding return. They do not know where 'rightness' should lead, nor what 'ritual propriety' should follow. They move freely as impulse takes them, yet tread upon the great Dao (the Way). Alive, they are glad; dead, they are fit to be buried. I wish you would leave your state, set aside worldly affairs, and go in companionship with the Dao."

The Duke of Lu said, "That road is long and dangerous, and there are great rivers and mountains—I have neither boat nor carriage. What am I to do?"

Shinan Yiliao said, "Do not put on the airs of a ruler, do not cling to your position as if to a manger—take that as your carriage."

The Duke said, "That path is deep, remote, and without fellow travelers—whom shall I have as neighbors? I have no grain, nothing to eat—how can I reach that place?"

Shinan Yiliao said, "Cut your expenses, lessen your desires; even without stored grain, your heart can be content. You cross rivers and put out to sea until the far shore is out of sight; the farther you go, the less you know where the end lies. Those who see you off return from the bank, and from then on you truly journey afar. Thus, those who treat 'possessing people and things' as a burden are worn down; those who treat 'appearing to possess in others' eyes' as a burden are also anxious. Yao did not 'possess people,' nor did he 'appear to possess in others' eyes.' I wish you to drop your baggage, remove your anxieties, and wander alone with the Dao in the vast, empty realm."

Liu Xuxi remarked that what deserves to be kept constantly in mind is how Confucius could roam beyond things and remain unstained by worldly dust, yet still point out and relate everything he saw, line by line. He also sent him off with a four-horse carriage and ample provisions—whether one takes that as illusion or as an immortal’s journey is for each reader to decide. When one reads the passage about “returning from the cliff’s edge,” there is almost a sense of wanting to shake off old shoes and leave the former self behind. To speak of the “village of Dao and De” and the subtlety of the writing, to reach this level is truly rare. Those who read the whole chapter only as idle drifting and wandering, or who treat the farewell as no more than setting a rabbit snare or leaving hoof-tracks as a decoy, have understood it far too shallowly.

Lu Fanghu, in Nanhua Fumo (Supplementary Ink on the Zhuangzi), said that the chapter reads throughout like scratching an itch through one’s boots, yet in the story of the fox and leopard pelts it casually draws in teachings of stillness, precepts, and concentration. Clearly this old master’s every fable is speaking the Way: the fox meets disaster because of its fur, and the ruler of Lu is troubled because of his state—both are “the burden of having life.” Hence the wish that the ruler, outwardly, cut away form and strip the skin, cleansing the body; inwardly, cleanse the heart and discard desire; and then go to a trackless wilderness and walk alone in solitude, so that within he does not see himself and without he does not see others—there is no greater release under heaven than this, so why fear being dragged by outer things? Tracing the original intent of Zhuangzi and Laozi, it is simply to urge people to turn the heart back to Dao and De, naked and bare, utterly without thought of worldly burdens—that is the sage’s frame of mind of “having all under heaven yet not possessing it.” If one weighs ancestral temples and altars of soil and grain too heavily, how could one teach him lightly to cast Lu aside? Unless one reads it on the level of “cutting attachment and abandoning the embryo of calamity”: everyone has a leopard skin, everyone has a “State of Lu”—grasping the meaning beyond the words is enough.

On Profound Stillness (continued from the previous section)

This section uses Dao and De to lead people out of the burning house of worldly toil and dust—life bound up in secular cares—and into a state that is clear, still, subtle, and full of inner joy.

The so-called realm of Great Nothingness is the land of the obscure and silent and the wilderness where no one dwells—a domain of great stillness and freedom from disturbance.

Those who cultivate the Way regulate the breath and concentrate the spirit, letting spirit and qi return to the root: from trance and obscure void they enter supreme stillness (taiding); forgetting things and forgetting self, with neither person nor self, unknowing and unrecognizing, in utter chaos and simplicity—they are as if wandering with the Dao in the realm of Great Nothingness.

When practice goes deeper, body and mind become deep and still; the six dusts (the six sense objects) no longer stain them, and worldly desires no longer tug at them. Naturally one is at ease and open, transcending the ten thousand phenomena.

This work is mainly on the level of principle, at the edge of the dharma realm—what is called keeping principle far from dust. It does not mean one has no profession or household duties at home.

If one can truly let go of everything and, with two or three kindred spirits in the Way, withdraw from the dust to nurture one’s nature, roaming green mountains and clear waters, at ease in thatched huts and stone chambers, far from the busy market—where the environment is still the mind is easily still, dhyana concentration is easier to achieve, and the work of the Way is easier to complete.

Han Qingfu’s poem says: “Green mountains and a cave of flowing water—this place is my home.” Many ancients who attained the Way did so in forests and mountains; this is why. It is called both principle and affairs kept far from dust, and is most excellent.

57. The Journey of Gathering the True

Zhuangzi, “Heaven’s Revolutions” chapter, says: The utmost person of old borrowed the Way from benevolence and lodged in righteousness, wandered in the void of carefree ease, fed in the field of simple sufficiency, and stood in the garden that asks nothing in return.

Carefree ease (xiaoyao) is wuwei (non-action); simple sufficiency (goujian) is easy to sustain; asking nothing in return (budai) is no outward drain. The ancients called this the journey of gathering the True (caizhen zhi you)—a roaming state in which one gathers and holds the True Way through simplicity, freedom from burden, and carefree ease.

In the Collection of Heavenly Joy (Tianle Ji)

Explanation: Those who attained the Dao in antiquity treated benevolence and righteousness as expedient measures for ordering the world. They regarded them like temporary grass shelters for rest—places where one does not linger in attachment—and roamed at ease only in the vast, indistinct realm of “xi-yi” (the subtle and the hidden), each finding their proper place.

“Gou jian” (simple and easy) carries the sense of “easy to nourish and sustain” in the Book of Changes (Yijing). Confucius said: “The Qian trigram is known through what is level and easy; the Kun trigram shows its work through what is simple. What is level and easy is readily understood; what is simple is readily followed.” The “field of gou jian” refers to that vital point in the void beyond the physical body. In Daoist internal alchemy (Neidan), it is called the Yellow Court (Huangting), the Hub (Guizhong), the Spirit Chamber, the Earthen Cauldron, the Dantian (energy center), and the like. When spirit is gathered and held there, in subtle harmony with the breath, one enters fetal breathing—the state like a fetus in the womb, breathing through the navel and scarcely through mouth and nose. Then one can resonate with the congenital qi (xian tian yi qi), draw it inward, permeate the nutritive and defensive aspects of qi and blood (ying wei), and steam and melt the fluids. That is the work of truly “eating” and nurturing within the “field of gou jian.”

Ordinary people till garden plots to make a living; Daoists cultivate the Dantian to nurture life. The great harmonious qi of heaven and earth (Taihe yuanqi) can be drawn without end, like jade nectar and immortal dew, endlessly taken as nourishment. Such is its wonder—hence the saying that what is simple and easy is easy to sustain.

“Bu dai wu chu” (no debt, no outflow): In ordinary life, inhalation and exhalation are not fully under one’s own command; when a single breath fails to return, life is no longer in one’s hands. That is what it means to stand in the “garden of indebtedness.” “Dai” means debt: the debt lies in another’s hands and is never secure; the creditor may demand repayment at any moment, and one cannot escape. Only when heart and breath depend on each other, until outer breathing stills and one settles in great stillness—like an antelope hanging by its horns, leaving no trace—does the power over life and death rest not with others but with oneself, and transforming and creating (zaohua) cannot bind one. That is the subtle point of “bu dai” (freedom from debt). Where there is “dai,” there is in-breath and out-breath; where there is no “dai,” there is neither. When both in and out are absent, one aligns with “Liao Tian Yi” (the vast unity of heaven)—and that accords with the subtle Dao of the most ancient beginning. This great silent stillness without in-breath or out-breath is the inner secret of Neidan and the true mechanism of gathering the medicine—the so-called “play of gathering the true,” unfathomably deep.

Plain-language reading:

In Zhuangzi, “Human Affairs in the World,” Yan Hui says: “My family is poor; I have gone months without wine or meat—is that fasting?” Confucius replies: “That is the fasting of sacrificial rites, not xinzai (heart fasting).” Yan Hui asks: “What is xinzai?” Confucius says: “Make your heart single-minded. Do not listen with your ears; listen with your heart. Do not listen with your heart; listen with qi. The ears stop at sound; the heart stops at matching things. Qi is empty and can receive what is outside. Only the Dao gathers in emptiness. Emptiness is xinzai.” Yan Hui says: “Before I had xinzai, I still felt it was ‘I, Yan Hui’ who was fasting; after attaining it, it seems there is no longer clinging to ‘Yan Hui’—is this emptiness?” Confucius says: “That is enough.”

(Note: A duplicated or misjoined passage in the source text is here aligned with the usual meaning in Zhuangzi.)

Essence of xinzai: It is not outward abstinence from meat and wine but singleness of heart—layer by layer letting go of “listening with the ear” and “listening with the heart,” until one listens with qi: empty and receptive, in accord with the Dao. When the heart is empty, the Dao can gather there—that is xinzai. Yan Hui moves from “there is still a me” to “no me”; Confucius’s “That is enough” marks xinzai as complete.

This passage explains the exchange between Confucius and Yan Hui in the Zhuangzi, using it to unfold the subtlety of xinzhai (Heart-Fasting).

Li Qing’an says in the Song of Refining Emptiness (Lianxu Ge): “To become an immortal, a buddha, or a sage—Confucian, Daoist, and Buddhist alike transmit one word: xu (emptiness). Those who have transcended through the ages all worked in this xu.” When the Zhuangzi says “only the Dao gathers in emptiness; emptiness is Heart-Fasting,” it means that both Confucian and Daoist paths begin from xuji (still emptiness)—that is, moving from “mind and breath mutually resting” to dading zhenkong (great stillness, true emptiness), until body, mind, and world are utterly quiet and one reaches what is “before the Lord-on-High”; person and dharma are forgotten, principle and affairs both extinguished. That is the wonder of Heart-Fasting.

The crux of this method is “turning hearing inward until hearing rests in the breath itself.” Yiruozhi means holding the will in one place, undivided. “Hearing with the ear, hearing with the mind, hearing with qi” are three stages. Zhuangzi deliberately speaks in paradox—“do not listen with the ear, do not listen with the mind”—so that one may penetrate deeply: at first one listens to the breath with the ear; when skilled, one need not rely on the ear—a single turn of inner light (huiguang) and one already senses the breath. Going further, even the thought of “turning the light back” is forgotten; mind naturally meets breath, breath and mind naturally merge, and one simply follows what is empty, void, and natural. When inside and outside, body and mind, are all forgotten, that alone can be called “qi listening.” From “listening to qi” to “qi listening” is entirely the realm of the pre-heaven (xiantian). In the end, “qi listening” is the true message that leaves behind mind, intention, consciousness, and knowing—what the Surangama Sutra calls “emptiness and awareness perfectly round.”

The next line, “the ear stops at hearing” (some editions read “hearing stops at the ear”), means the ear’s function reaches its limit in the power to hear; “the mind stops at matching,” means the mind’s function reaches its limit in illuminating awareness. Yet at this stage the traces of hearer and heard, illuminator and illuminated, still remain. Only in true emptiness (zhenkong), when subject and object are both extinguished and nothing remains but one emptiness, does one enter the “samadhi of the adornment of the one dharma-realm”—and only then does one accord with the wonder of Heart-Fasting.

Yan Hui said: Before practicing Heart-Fasting, the bodily form was not empty and one still felt a “self” present; once Heart-Fasting is practiced, body and mind are both empty, self and other no longer stand—like the Book of Changes, Hexagram Gen (Gen): “Gen on the back, the body is not obtained; walking the courtyard, the person is not seen.” Is this “emptiness”? Confucius answered “Jinyi” (it is complete)—a provisional approval. One must know: abiding in emptiness and nothingness is itself a rut; one must reach what the Zhuangzi calls “there is no one, there is no ‘there is’”—neither being nor non-being is clung to—before one reaches the ultimate of Heart-Fasting.

“Following the current, one falls into the sea of birth and death; only by going against the current can one leave the sea of birth and death.”

Here “fan” (counter-flow) is not mere opposition but swimming upstream, tracing back: all the way to before one was born, aligning with the ground of “before the image of the Emperor”—when the Great Dao had not yet taken form and the sovereign principle was still unshaped.

There is also the sense of “xuan” (turning/reversion), namely “xuan yuan gui fu” (turning the origin and returning to restoration): spinning the scattered spirit and qi back inward to the source.

The Surangama Sutra says: “Enter deeply against the current through a single gate, and the six roots can be purified at once.”

It also says: “When the counter-flow is complete and one, the six functions do not operate.”

—Instead of being swept outward by circumstances, one turns inward and upward in reverse, concentrating on one gate (often inner contemplation, mantra, or guarding the One), so that the six roots of eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind no longer grasp at objects and all settle at once; counter-flow reaches a state of complete unity, and the six modes of functioning (seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting, touching, knowing) cease their restless activity.

The Book of Changes says: “Fu: penetrating; the firm returns.” (The character read as “cooking” is likely a corruption of “heng,” penetrating.)—The Fu hexagram describes yang qi returning from below; firm qi turns back, hence penetration.

It also says: “From the origin one reflects on the end; from the end one reflects on the origin—thus one knows the doctrine of life and death.”—Seeing from the beginning through to the end, and from the end back to the beginning, one can truly understand where life and death come from and where they go.

Laozi says: The multitude are bustling, as at a feast or on a spring terrace; I alone am plain, as if there were not yet any sign, as an infant who cannot yet smile, drifting as if with no place to rest.

The multitude all have surplus; I alone seem to lack. My heart is that of a fool—muddled and dim! Ordinary people are sharp; I alone am obscure. Ordinary people are clever; I alone am blunt.

He also says: “Profound De is deep and far; it turns against things.”

And: “Return to the root, return to simplicity, return to the limitless, return to no-thing.”

All of this is the hidden meaning of counter-flow and the practice of turning the origin.

“I alone seem abandoned”: not truly cast off, but forgetting inside and outside, not clinging to a self.

“Dim and dark”: not stupidity, but muddled and unknowing—undisturbed by worldly cleverness.

Zhang Sanfeng (Sanfeng the Elder) said: “Return to oneself, dim and silent, as if drunk and as if mad”—that is this realm.

When forming the elixir (condensing the Golden Elixir in Neidan practice), one must gather the hundred meridians to the source—circulation throughout the body converges on the Dantian (or the designated pass); when qi seems to cut off, it is like a small death. That is the true state of obscure stillness, and the true news of Xuanzong (the profound teaching): counter-flow complete and one, the six functions stilled—not falling asleep, but outward grasping ceasing, spirit and qi returning inward, merging in one source.

At the assembly of the Surangama Sutra, twenty-five great worthies who had already achieved perfection of penetration each described the method of that perfection they had realized. Aniruddha (foremost among the Buddha’s ten great disciples in the divine eye), for example, spoke of “turning the root of seeing back and following it to the original source”; Kanakavatsa spoke of “returning to the essence of taste and turning knowing around”; Subhuti spoke of “turning back within the Dharma and returning to the markless”; Shudhipanthaka spoke of “looking back at the breath and following it into emptiness”; and the Great Bodhisattva Guanyin spoke of “entering the stream of sound and forgetting where one abides.” All of these point to “reverse flow”—turning the six faculties, which ordinarily cling outward, back inward toward the source.

The practice spoken of here as cultivated by Patriarch Xuanzong begins with regulating the breath; the subtle point is the union of “revolving hearing” with the breath, and of “revolving breath” with return to the original root—closely aligned with the Buddhist intent of “reverse breath following into emptiness.” So-called reverse breath is the gradual passage from “having breath” to “no breath”; the breathless state that appears naturally, not from forced suppression of breathing, is true breath (zhenxi). Xuanzong enters the vacuum through revolving breath, and from that vacuum brings forth subtle manifestation; with emptiness and form both perfected, body and spirit both subtle, he realizes the three liberations and attains patience toward non-arising of dharmas, sharing the joy of liberation with the twenty-five sages.

Sixty: The Beauty of Yang Harmony

Spring qi is harmonious; spring wind is mild; orioles call and swallows converse; flowers open and water flows—at this season all things generate and nourish. Patriarch Xuanzong’s realization matches this timing: heart and breath unite subtly; Yin and Yang are properly paired; flesh and bone are harmonious; spirit is joyful. The pre-heaven single breath cleanses, irrigates, steams, and circulates, moistening nutritive and defensive qi (ying and wei—the circulation of blood, qi, and the body’s protective functions)—not for a moment outside yang harmony. Poets of immortality through the ages often use the character for “spring” to evoke balanced, tranquil delight.

Zhuangzi says: keep the heart’s qi harmonious and unobstructed, without losing joy—that is precisely allowing one to dwell in yang harmony at every moment. Ancient immortals’ verses likewise often invoke “spring” with the same image for that balanced, serene pleasure.

The Zhuangzi says: One should harmonize body and mind in ease, penetrate through without losing joy, so that day and night know no break, and together with the ten thousand things one dwells in the state of “spring”—this is how the seasons continue to arise within the movements of mind. The commentary explains: The four seasons do not exist only in the turning of heaven and earth; when in mind there is no interruption, the seasons are born in succession within the mind.

The Cantong Qi (Token for the Agreement of the Three) says: When cultivation never ceases, Qi moves like clouds and rain; it is full and moist like the waters of spring, flowing and blending like ice thawing.

The Jindan Sibai Zi (Four Hundred Words on the Golden Elixir) says: The view of the inner landscape is bright and clear—precisely when wind and rain weave together and the mood of spring is at its height.

Patriarch Zhong said: That one primordial true seed, once it enters the Dantian (the energy center about three cun below the navel, where essence and Qi gather in Neidan practice), is like everlasting spring through the ages. The pre-heaven and post-heaven worlds return to one place; in the undivided chaos, what trace could there be? Growth and flourishing naturally accord with the sage’s principle; green leaves and red blossoms are made new again. He also said: Hunyuan yiqi—the primordial unified breath before heaven and earth were divided—is the “medicine” that does not decay for a thousand years; through ten thousand kalpas it remains like an endless spring night that never ends.

Lüzu said: Clouds and mist carry fragrance; on the ridge, jade-like shoots grow lush. The bright moon climbs the green peak, and the crimson crane on the summit (or resting with the moon). Tidings arrive from the grotto-heaven—when spring qi is at its height. Immortals travel the divine path to and fro; the common world can hardly keep the thread.

He also said: Spring hangs from the staff; the gourd holds a flask of wine. Cinnabar in the furnace is like ten thousand specks of gold. Since realizing the true body, one wins an everlasting spring in Penglü (the immortal realm) through kalpas without end.

He also said: Through ten thousand two hundred jiazi cycles (a way of saying endless time), this one flask of flowing rosy clouds is eternal spring.

He also said: Strengthen bone marrow; refine and nourish the spirit root. Peach petals open layer by layer in the cave—all of it is spring light.

He also said: The green serpent in the hand (whether as ritual tool or true qi) rises under the white sun; immortal fruit from the grotto fills the wine jar, preserving eternal spring.

He also said: The guest’s jar always holds good wine; in the furnace where elixir is refined, there is spring besides.

He also said: Grass cloak and tree fruit—passing spring in grotto-heaven; an ancient sword across the brow, refining the pure spirit.

He also said: All day, no one—only wordless news; a flask of spring wine, drunk till lightly dazed.

He also said: The medicine of long life is picked from the heart of the flower; petals and stamens in layers, bright as spring.

He also said: The numbers one, three, and five all accord with spring; below pre-heaven and post-heaven one can see Lord Lao (Laojun). Flowers in Xichuan open like brocade; the moon over the North Sea shows auspicious clouds.

He also said: Forget every form—color and emptiness alike—and brew a spring for every dawn and dusk.

He also said: Creation in the belly turns of itself; the furnace’s cosmos is spring from utmost antiquity.

He also said: When the face is fully formed, the three realms seem small; yet the host (yuanshen, the original spirit) is always spring through the four seasons.

Cui Xu Weng said: Primordial qi returns to the furnace; spirit does not scatter—spring mountains, spring waters, and spring wind on their own.

He also said: A million jade dragons neigh without pause; one river of spring moonlight on the fishing boats.

He also said: Only in the spring hue of the jade pot (the dantian or the immortal realm), pluck one blossom to ask Fuxi and Huangdi (the ancient sages and the lineage of the Way).

Plain-Language Reading of Tianle Ji and Related Passages

The Yuchan Weng (a sobriquet of Bai Yuchan, a major Southern Song internal-alchemy master) used verse to pin down the essentials of practice:

He said: “Within yourself, seek again the ‘self beyond the self’; when harmonizing, empty, still qi gathers, it is like a pot full of spring—spring qi brimming in one vessel, a image for the dantian alive with vitality.”

He also said: “Azure Dragon and White Tiger (in inner alchemy, the hun in the liver and po in the lungs, or the Kan and Li trigrams) encircle the golden cauldron (the dantian or furnace); yellow sprout (nascent true qi, the seedling of the golden elixir) sprouts at midnight, like ‘a single branch of spring.’”

He also said: “Flowers open with the spring wind, birds call on their own—all this is the spring of nature; who knows that the Creator has turned the whole sky into spring?”

He also said: “Golden Elder and Radiant Maid (images for lead and mercury, yin and yang qi) are joined in marriage; peach blossoms at the cave mouth (the pass of mystery, the pulse of life) are spring day after day.”

He also said: “In the Qimiao Hall (the quiet room for practice), settle the spirit and nourish qi; spirit concentrated and qi gathered—that again is a pot of spring.”

He also said: “At Wuyi I thatched a hut for more than two years; flowers laugh and orioles sing—spring held in one pot.”

He also said: “Mercury, Tiger, Lead, and Dragon (mercury and tiger as yin, lead and dragon as yang—in inner alchemy, jing, qi, and shen) are refined together.”

(The lines on Qimiao Hall, Wuyi, mercury-tiger-lead-dragon, and yellow sprout echo what came before, circling the same realization in different words.)

He also said: “Refine spirit and qi among mercury, tiger, lead, and dragon; last night the yellow sprout broke forth, like one branch of spring.”

He also said: “On a long night of white clouds filling the sky, the yellow sprout blooms like a single flower of spring.”

Huandan Pian (Return of the Elixir) says: “In ten thousand li of sunken yin, spring qi harmonizes; in the clear depths of the nine heavens, dew essence congeals”—at the deepest yin and stillness, spring qi turns inward; heaven high and dew thick, an image for jing and qi condensing.

Xinglin’s Huanyuan Pian says: “After clouds scatter, crabapple in moonlight; when spring is deep, willows meet the wind. Who can know this meaning? Lift your eyes and ask the empty sky.”

It also says: “No weeds or dust on the field of the heart; nature far from flying dust; on a still night under a bright moon, one spring bird calls”—to refine the heart is to return to the source, in tune with heaven and earth’s spring mechanism.

Fuming Pian by Zixian (an author in Zhang Boduan’s lineage or related elixir texts) says: “Having taken the spirit elixir (the inner pill of practice), the purely yang body is free to be human; penetrating constant stillness and constant illumination as one, Penglai (the isle of immortals, a metaphor for the realized realm) holds eternal spring in place.”

It also says: “Weary of worldly affairs, I gladly meet a guest of the Purple Mansion (heaven’s court, or the upper palace within the body); one word of awakening, and jade grotto and green peach are spring”—turning from dust toward inner work, touched by the master’s pointer, like Peach Blossom Spring renewed.

Note: Most of the above are neidan (internal alchemy) verses. “Spring,” “pot,” “yellow sprout,” “Golden Elder and Radiant Maid,” and similar phrases stand for refining jing into qi and gathering spirit and qi—not landscape for its own sake. Read with the intent that there is heaven and earth within the body, and one turn of inward light; do not stop at a literal reading of spring scenery.

In the Tianle Ji (Collection of Heavenly Joy), Cao Wenyui says: it is as if one carries in the sleeve a three-foot length of “sword” qi (referring to the inwardly refined “sword” of neidan), or as if one holds a flask of spring wine—xiajiang, the rosy essence gained through practice.

Qianxu Weng (Elder of Hidden Emptiness) says: the black dragon at the bottom of the sea is startled awake; in one night of wind and thunder, the whole earth turns to spring—describing how inner qi surges and the realm shifts abruptly, like a dragon rousing and spring arriving.

Ke Baozhen says: when the “three minds” (past, present, and future mind—or greed, anger, and delusion) are extinguished, one nourishes primordial qi (yuanqi) through tiaoxi (regulating the breath); when the “four marks” (self, other, and the like) are forgotten in form, one goes to seek the “master”—true nature (zhenxing) and primordial spirit (yuanshen). The Peach Blossom Spring is right before the eyes, with no need to seek outside; then it is like flowers opening and leaves gestating, waiting only for one clap of thunder so that the ten thousand things are spring—speaking of the emptiness and stillness of mind-nature and the firing times (huohou) of inner refinement.

Ma Danyang (Ma Yu of Quanzhen) says: when fire flares within water, one must stop the mind that clings and climbs; when flowers bloom in the snow, one must quell the restless “spring” of deluded yi (intention)—shuihuo jiaoji (water and fire interacting), seeing life within stillness; when yi does not stir, true spring appears of itself.

These masters all use sword, water, wine, dragon, thunder, spring, water-and-fire, and flowers in snow as images for qi movement, mind-nature, and firing times in neidan (internal alchemy)—not for worldly swordplay or drinking wine.

Patriarch Zhang Sanfeng said: “Drunk—drunk—drunk again! Spring qi (chun qi) bursts forth from the dantian, flush and lustrous as fine jade. It is like the lingering scent at the lip of a jar of wine brewed from immortal peaches: the wind at the Xun position stirs the body’s primordial qi (yuanqi) into harmony. Once the yin demons are beaten back, the chest brims with spring; spirits wail and ghosts howl as if heaven and earth were turned upside down.”

He also said: “The myriad sights are nothing like ordinary things; only a thread of red light is utterly true. That red light is spring qi itself, and within it is something as subtle as motes of dust on a bright window.”

He also said: “When that single point returns and submits of itself, the body becomes the spring of all four seasons. A band of white cloud, a breath of fragrance—after each rain, all is new again. All day long you drift like a drunkard, calmly guarding nothing but the spring within the cave.”

He also said: “When every trace of yin essence in the body has been stripped away, you become a single ingot of pure yang gold.”

He also said: “Right at the hour of the first-quarter moon, gold and water are full to overflowing—just like the spring of the second month, when orioles sing and flowers bloom.”

He also said: “Flowers open and birds sing; the whole day is spring. In deliberate reversal, take dragon saliva and pair it with tiger blood.”

He also said: “In sudden, harmonious union, spring intent knows no bound; an infant is born, called the sacred embryo—the ‘infant’ condensed in neidan (internal alchemy).”

He also said: “The Yellow Dame—the go-between that harmonizes lead and mercury in inner refinement—joins the three families into one. Drink wine and view flowers: everywhere is spring.”

He also said: “Sun and moon in the gourd, spring in the cave—twenty-three years of quiet self-cultivation.”

He also said: “One sweep of clear light reveals the true nature; slap the full chest and it is all spring.”

He also said: “One sweep of clear light reveals the spiritual nature; by day you wander, by night you lodge in the Exquisite Pavilion. Awake, you are at peace; asleep, you are at peace—when spring arrives, nowhere is not green.”

He also said: “When intention is extinguished and spring deepens, seal and guard the inner chamber—the room of inner-scape practice—and keep far from sights and sounds, holding fast to true constancy.”

He also said: “The heart is like a lotus rising from the water; intention is like lightning in the clouds. Last night, over a small matter, I wandered by mistake into the Courtyard of Beautiful Spring.”

He also said: “In that courtyard the moon wheel hangs high; jade-tree blossoms newly open, breaking the silence.”

He also said: “When the host of yin is wholly gone—the season of bright sun—one spray of spring color: golden flowers in full splendor.”

He also said: “I only wait for the moon to rise over Qujiang at gengshen (the time-image used in practice), and in Xingshan tread snow to seek spring. I gather gold essence just as it leaves the Red Water and blend it with true breath so it circulates through the whole body.”

He also said: “Pluck flowers, wear flowers, gather the heart of the flower—layer upon layer of stamens, gorgeous as spring.”

Fuqiu Weng said: “Emptiness resides within spirit; whether it divides or reunites, all is spring.” Shao Yaofu said: “Wandering freely through the depths of a thousand sages, drunk and embracing the spring of ten thousand flowers.” He also said: “Again and again it reaches the mouth and slightly becomes intoxication; patting the full breast, all within is spring—as when lord and minister first meet in harmony, or as when heaven and earth first stir with primordial mist.” He also said: “When Qian meets Xun, observe the moon’s cavern; where earth meets thunder, see heaven’s root. Heaven’s root and the moon’s cavern come and go at leisure—thirty-six palaces, all are spring.” Chen Baisha said: “Outside, not a hair’s breadth of extra affair; in the mind, constantly full with the fullness of spring.” He also said: “The rustic is no mourner of spring—the spring is in the rustic’s cup of wine.”

Such poetic gāthās could be cited without end. In sum, when practice reaches maturity, the whole body grows soft and yielding, true Qi (Zhenqi) steams and warms, and one enters the realm of yang harmony (yanghe). Each advance of primordial yang (yuanyang) by one measure diminishes yin by one measure. To enter the realm of yang harmony again and again is to summon primordial one Qi (xiantian yiqi) into the palace again and again; over time yin is exhausted and yang is pure, and one naturally transforms form and becomes an immortal.

The Daoist school (Xuanzong) indeed holds yang harmony as precious; the Chan school is scarcely otherwise. At the moment of great awakening in the Chan lineage, the wondrously bright true mind and the nature-pure luminous body suddenly appear; yin, entrance, field, and station melt away one by one, with the image of the great earth returning to spring. Reading books such as the Song Mirror and the Forest of Dharma, I find poems and gāthās by ancient worthies celebrating “the beauty of yang harmony”—they cannot be counted.

This passage gathers verses from several Chan masters. Their shared message is that genuine vitality and awakening often appear in what looks withered, ordinary, or even “unlike the Dharma”—and each master’s lines point to that in its own way.

Master Dongshan Liang (Dongshan “Price”)

“When a withered tree blooms, spring lies beyond the kalpas; riding an elephant backward, one chases the qilin.”

A dead tree suddenly flowering is spring outside the kalpas—spring beyond long ages and ordinary time. The image of riding an elephant backward to pursue a qilin means turning usual reason upside down and refusing the beaten path—that is how one meets the Chan pivot.

Master Daming Bin

“A withered tree roars like a dragon; the great earth is spring. From cold cliff rock, a single blade of grass shows its spiritual root.”

Dragon-sound from dry wood, spring over the whole earth; even in a crack on a frozen cliff, one stalk of grass reveals the root of awakening (the root that was always there). Death and life, cold and warmth, can be one body in the Chan eye.

Master Fengxue Zhi

“I often recall the third month south of the Yangtze: where the partridge calls, every place is fragrant with flowers.”

No need to seek far away—just remember the Jiangnan third month: partridge cry, flowers everywhere—the scene before you is the meaning of Chan.

Master Ping Zhiyang

“Clouds part: moon at every door; spring comes: flowers everywhere.”

When clouds break, every household sees the moon; when spring arrives, flowers are on every hand. Same flavor as above: universal, plain, nowhere that is not it.

Master Nanjian Wen

“Wind fans the fire—little force—yet spring seems to fill four hundred prefectures of the imperial capital.”

Wind helping fire has no great miraculous power, yet spring can feel as if it spread across the realm.

“Kick the great earth over and bare the hidden spring; mishear the oriole and wander into the willow shade.”

Only by “kicking over” the earth do you expose the spring beneath; if you mistake the oriole’s song for a signpost, you may only go deeper into the willows—a sharp turning phrase: awakening and delusion often hang on a single thought.

“At the dull end of night, sober from wine—laugh that he still lodges in the deep village.”

Night spent, wine worn off, nothing much to get excited about—yet you laugh that someone still sleeps on in the old deep village: after awakening, looking at those not yet awake—or laughing that you still dwell in habit.

Master Lian’an Ding

“The clay ox bellows at the moon; the deep pool stays cold; the wooden horse neighs in the wind; Mount Tai looks new.”

A clay ox roaring at the moon while the pool remains cold; a carved horse crying in the wind while Taishan seems freshly made—even in false appearances, the real landscape can play out.

“Looking up and down, heaven and earth are not two; in one instant grass and trees harmonize with spring.”

Raise the head, bow it—heaven and earth were never two; with one turn of mind, even plants seem tuned to spring.

Master Xiuyan Rui

“Village songs and festival dances can be Naga samadhi; scabby dog and mud pig are the pure Dharma-body.”

Village revels and dance can be Naga samadhi (deep absorption—not necessarily apart from the world); on a mangy dog or a mud-smeared pig, the pure Dharmakaya is not ruled out—no picking high and low, clean and dirty.

“Penetrate root and dust thoroughly and there is no ‘Dharma’ left; the udumbara blooms and ten isles are spring.”

If you truly see through roots and dust (the six faculties and six objects), you no longer find “a separate package called Dharma”; then like the udumbara (the rare flower that opens but seldom), the ten isles all seem returned to spring.

Master Fohui Quan

“Before your parents bore you, where were your nostrils?”

A classic Chan question: before birth, before there was a ‘me,’ where were your nostrils?—to press you toward original face.

“The old masters of the grove all miss the phrase of hiding the body.”

Veterans in the monastic community are sometimes said to miss the line about truly dwelling in the Way (preserving and abiding—not performing).

“Gushan could meet the occasion, but still had to prop up the gate and door.”

Master Gushan could handle students’ turns, yet still could not avoid holding up sectarian face and founding a style.

“Fanning, writing the character ‘Taiyuan’—all just fiddling with idle furniture.”

Fanning, writing characters—all household props, outer show, not the ultimate.

“Spring in the mountains runs deep; countless flying blossoms fall.”

Spring in the hills is truly deep; blossoms drift down, countless and silent—in the end, back to nature, arguments dropped.

Overall drift of the passage

The masters’ styles differ, but they agree: do not cling to withered versus flourishing, sacred versus ordinary, or the label “Dharma.” In everyday affairs, inverted images, even in “no Dharma,” one can see spring beyond kalpas and spring over the great earth. Fohui Quan’s lines add a warning: while you inquire “before birth,” beware of clinging to gates and clever turns; it ends like flying blossoms in deep mountain spring—spring deep, petals fallen, at rest.

This passage records Chan masters exchanging verses using spring scenery as metaphor, from the Tianle Ji (Collection of Heavenly Joy).

Master Zhun of Leketan said: In the second and third months, the harmonious wind blows through all under heaven; flowers bloom everywhere, and mountains near and far look like painted scrolls. Spring birds call at the fork in the road; spring water rushes down the high cliffs. Every place is a gate of samadhi; empty clarity shines over the broad wilds. This is excellent, genuine news—I write it for you to take back with you.

Master Banwolu said: On the ancient path at sunset among fragrant grasses, the valley mouth is sealed in white clouds and few people pass. When spring returns, moss turns green along the way; it lifts the traveler up, yet no trace of a person is seen.

Master Zong of Chengtian said: Not all of it can be gathered in the palm-leaf scriptures; one word without self-interest seals the myriad gates of Dharma. Even if a thousand sages spoke with full mouths, they could not exhaust it—the spring mood of plum blossoms beyond the ridge is hard to believe.

Master Tie Fanzhou echoed the spirit of Bai Juyi’s Peach Blossoms at Great Forest Temple: By the fourth month on earth, the fragrance of flowers has faded, yet in the mountain temple the peach blossoms have just opened. We often regret that spring has gone with nowhere to seek it—little knowing it has turned and come here.

Master Yi of Shangfang said: Mountain fragrance fills the road as one walks; wild flowers scatter and grass leaves spread. In the spring wind there is meaning without end, yet there is no oriole to tell it to.

The whole passage uses spring scenes to point at Chan insight: the outer world is like a painting, while inwardly it is “samadhi in every head” and “one word without selfishness.” Sealed paths and no visible trace mean that awakened reality cannot be grasped as a fixed form. Peach blossoms that open late in the mountain temple suggest that the true pivot often appears only where ordinary people think spring has already ended.

This passage from Tianle ji mainly cites several Chan masters’ gāthās, using “spring” as a metaphor for the awakened state that is complete from the outset—not for hunting some separate “spring” somewhere outside.

First, an old verse on awakening: all day one seeks spring everywhere yet feels it cannot be found; in straw sandals one treads until the clouds on the hills and fields are worn thin. When weary, one returns and, laughing, points beneath the plum tree—spring was already full on the branches, ten-tenths complete. The point: awakening is not found by distant seeking; turn the head and the present moment is it.

Chan master Wuliangshou said: inside the cave one does not see ordinary clouds, yet there is another heaven and earth; peach blossoms like brocade, willow like mist. Immortals do not reckon by human winter and summer; stone crumbling and branches withering are, in their eyes, merely the turning of a year—speaking of an awakened realm beyond birth-and-death and calendrical time, not literal weather.

Chan master Yu’an Gui said: what is picked up through a crack in the door or from outside is not the treasure of one’s own house; what truly counts is that there is another “gourd” that opens onto the spring light of the great earth. If one hears the words as two layers of clinging to form and sound, the ears gather extra dust—urging people not to spin in words and in the marks of states.

Chan master Langting Ti painted the scene: on a clear day purple swallows wheel; in the evening breeze yellow orioles call; the spring of the old homeland runs deep, pairs disport among the flowers—using vivid spring before the eyes to point out that the original mind is never lost and moves freely as conditions allow.

Chan master Baizhang Duan said: on a frosty moonlit night the gibbons’ cries are sharp and clear; in the spring color of the imperial garden the flowers seem to laugh; amid the vast red dust, whatever one meets, each thing is an old acquaintance—not that outer things are new, but that one recognizes original face; everywhere is intimate.

An ancient worthy also cited the meaning of scripture: all dharmas from the beginning are constantly the mark of quiescence; when spring comes the hundred flowers open by themselves, the oriole sings on the willow branch—flowers need no forcing, nor birds their song; the awakened state likewise needs no outward fabrication.

Chan master Weizhong Fu said: on the bed of ten thousand years one is too lazy to sleep long; leaning on a staff one walks through mist on the ridge; whipping the iron ox to plow beneath the bright moon, in one song even the spring light of aeons is complete—using farm work, ox and plow, and song to liken practice at its peak merging with spring throughout heaven and earth.

Chan master Tiantong Jue said: the white ox in snow leaves no track to find; when effort is exhausted one is suddenly one with brightness; reed flowers in moonlight, before dawn, the subtle sprout freely follows the distant spring breeze—again the same “no trace,” “effort spent,” and “following conditions.”

Chan master Baofeng Jian said: spring days mild, flowers like brocade spread over the earth; the first calls through the grove are the wild orioles—saying the ordinary spring scene in full so one may awaken right where form and sound appear.

Read as a whole: the masters’ names differ, but they say one thing—there is no need to wear out straw sandals treading clouds to find spring; spring is on the branches, in the gourd, in every encounter in the red dust, in the moment of blossoms and oriole song. Mishear form and sound and dust arises; recognize what is originally so and everywhere is spring.

Master Banwolü said:

“Footsteps hurry through the dust of the world; like dancing wildly in the west wind, yet leaving no trace. How much deep sincerity cannot be held in the end—better to let it wander through the garden’s full spring light.”

The ancients also said:

“The three realms are nothing but what the mind manifests; the myriad dharmas are originally clear and bright. Bottles, plates, hairpins, and bracelets differ in shape, yet all are the same gold. The jade grass before the steps catches the light with its own spring color; the oriole hidden among the leaves—however lovely its song—is only an empty sound.”

Brief notes:

• Red dust (hongchen): worldly life and the arena of fame and gain.
• Bababizhizhi: describes hurried, restless steps.
• The three realms are mind-only: a Buddhist phrase—the desire realm, form realm, and formless realm all appear through mind-consciousness; there is no fixed, independently real “three realms” outside the mind.
• Bottles, plates, hairpins, and bracelets are one gold: a Chan metaphor—forms differ, but the essence is gold; it illustrates “myriad dharmas, many faces, one substance without difference.”
• Empty fine sound: pleasant to hear, but if one clings to outer conditions and does not awaken to the original mind, it is only an “empty” sound—not something to grasp as real.