《天乐集》Vol. 6

What cultivation gathers is none other than the eyes. In practicing the way of yiyi (gain through change and reversing the easy transformation of form), one moves counterflow (niliu)—in and out of birth and death—and the eye pupils are the last part of the body to shift from round to square. Thus square pupils (fangtong) mark the great completion of physical transformation (xinghua) and are a sign of attaining the Dao.

Talk of immortals with square pupils (fangtong xianren) appears early in Liu Xiang and Ge Hong, and later in Su Shi and Song Lian. Liu Xiang’s Biographies of Immortals (Liexian Zhuan) records Woquan (an ancient immortal name): fond of pine nuts, hair several inches long on his body, both eyes turning square, able to fly and chase horses; he once gave pine seeds to Yao, who had no time to take them. The encomium says he took pine as food, body light and eyes square, could tread phoenixes and soar like a stallion, leaving the divine formula at Yao’s gate—full nature may decline, middling wisdom ought to apply. This is among the earlier literary mentions of square pupils.

Ge Hong’s Baopuzi (Master Who Emits Simplicity), “On Immortals” (Lunxian Pian): if all were as legend says, we should hear of square pupils on both sides. “Subtle Meaning” (Weizhi Pian): if my eyes had square pupils and ears longer than the crown, I too would command flying dragons and ride auspicious clouds, leap lightning and forge inverted reflections—how could you cross-examine me? “Dispelling Delusion” (Quhuo Pian): immortal scriptures say immortals’ pupils are all square; in Luoyang I saw Bai Zhongli, who told me his pupils were indeed square—such a person is truly extraordinary. Biographies of Divine Immortals (Shenxian Zhuan), juan 10, “Biography of Li Gen” (Li Gen Zhuan), again records Taiwen saying Li Gen’s two pupils were both square—according to immortal scripture, at eight hundred years a person’s pupils become square.

The passage ties square pupils to long life, becoming an immortal, and the eyes as what cultivation gathers, citing Liu Xiang, Ge Hong, and later literati as evidence.

Plain-Language Explanation

In my younger days I once asked Master Wang: why do immortals’ pupils turn square? Master Wang said: “It comes from the spirit arriving in full. Only in the late stage of cultivation, when one refines the spirit and returns to emptiness, does this change appear. When spirit transformation is verified, it can be read in the eyes. Human spirit dwells in the eyes; the Yinfu Jing says ‘the trigger is in the eyes.’ When the heart-mind opens, the eyes are also prone to change accordingly.”

I take it that the eyes and the heart-mind are linked: if the heart-mind is unmoved like a mountain, round pupils can turn square. Round stands for flow; square stands for stillness. The second line of the Kun hexagram in the Yijing speaks of being “straight, square, and great”—that idea fits here.

Square pupils are an auspicious sign of immortals, proof of spirit transformation, and the full fruition of form transformation. Grandmaster Wu once met Patriarch Li Hanxu in person at an ancient temple in Xi’an, saw that his pupils were perfectly square, recognized him as an immortal, bowed and sought the subtle Dao, and later became a true immortal himself. That is another modern instance of square pupils.

This passage comes from the Tianle ji (Collection of Heavenly Joy). It chiefly explains how in Daoism “fangtong”—eyes whose pupils appear square or unusually regular—is taken as a sign of immortal physiognomy and long life, supported by poetry and hagiography from successive dynasties.

Su Shi, “To Wang Yi, Departing for Fuzhou”

In the Song, Su Shi wrote in To Wang Yi, Departing for Fuzhou: I knew you early on for your martial skill; on cold nights we sat facing each other, drinking and talking at length. When the wine was gone and the lamp dying, our words were still unfinished; servants stood asleep, stiff beside the screen. You urged me again and again to learn the secret of “not dying,” and said you had received it in person from the “Fangtong Weng”—the old immortal whose pupils were square.

Song Li’s Eyewitness Account in the Ming

Song Li of the Ming said: When I traveled in Jiangnan, on Fenghuang Terrace I met Yuan Chu—that is, Zhou Yuanzhen, styled Yuanchu—whose square pupils were bright, whose long eyebrows were thick, who looked down on all things beneath him. Privately I felt he was like the immortal of Mount Gou, riding a crane and playing the sheng.

Shenxian shi (History of Immortals): Li Sheng

The Shenxian shi records: Li Sheng, a man of Jiangxia, studied under a Daoist of Mount Shaoshi in refining qi and nurturing the form; Yuan Weizhi and Bai Juyi both befriended him. In the gengzi year of Emperor Xizong, when Huang Chao attacked the capital, he moved to Wanling. After long time his complexion was moist, his beard and hair black again, his pupils square and his teeth sharp.

Tao Hongjing

It also records: Tao Hongjing lived in seclusion forty years, practicing bigu (grain abstention) and daoyin (guiding and pulling exercises). Past eighty he still looked robust; sometimes one eye showed a square pupil—truly an immortal countenance.

Huayang Taoyinju neizhuan (Inner Biography of the Huayang Hermit Tao Yinju)

Jia Song’s Huayang Taoyinju neizhuan says: In Hongjing’s later years his pupils suddenly turned square.

The Ziyang Zhenren’s Encounter with an Immortal

The Zhou ju zhuan (Biography of Zhou’s Residence) of the Ziyang Zhenren says: Once in the marketplace he met Huang Tai; seeing his square pupils, he knew him for an immortal and sought the art of long life, and then learned the other was Su Jun, Superior Minister of the Mysterious Isle (Xuanzhou).

Popular Saying

Some say: When the pupils are square, life lasts ten thousand years—a claim strange enough on its own.

Note

In immortal biographies, fangtong is mostly symbolic; it need not be read by modern medical standards. Personal names, place names, and book titles are kept as in the source text.

Wang Yangming wrote two poems. In one he says: sweep the stones clean, burn incense, and lie down as you please; when you wake, a guest comes to talk about the profound Way. The wind in the pines is your fan—there is no need for a palm-leaf fan; you sit facing a green cliff a hundred zhang high and a spring. In the other he says: an ancient cave, deep and still, far from the smoke of the human world; on the stone bed a fine breeze stirs and no dust rises. The daylight stretches on; one sleep feels as safe as in Fuxi’s age; when you open your eyes again, the round moon hangs on the peak. (Where the text repeats, the sense is the same: waking to discuss the Way with a guest, pine wind for a fan, facing cliff and spring; ancient cave and stone bed, a sleep like Fuxi’s, and the moon on the peak.)

Pei Jingong (Pei Du) writes: having eaten my fill I stroll slowly, just roused from sleep; a cup of fresh tea waits for my child to brew. I loosen my headcloth and lean on a rattan couch; the wind brings the sound of water to my ears.

Banshan Weng (Wang Anshi) writes: print too small—reading strains old eyes; on a long mat, lying down to sleep is comfort itself. I seize a moment of ease and pleasure, put the books aside, and feel young again.

Lu Fangweng (Lu You) writes: sleeping facing a meditation cushion—the savor lasts long; host and guest forget each other entirely. In a little while the guest goes and the host sleeps on, pillow at the west window, half the light already sunset.

The monk Yougui writes: reading already weighs on brow and hair; only on the pillow do sinew and bone feel at ease. Sleep blurs morning and evening; on the west window little of the setting sun remains.

Lu Rongyang writes: in old age books soon lose their charm; worldly trifles are nothing beside quiet. On a bamboo bed, tile pillow, in an empty hall, I lie and watch the hills after rain in Jiangnan.

Cai Chizheng writes: paper screen, stone pillow, square bamboo bed; hands tired, I toss the book aside—my noon nap runs long. I wake with a quiet smile; a few fisher’s flutes drift on the vast river.

Xiaoxian Weng writes: flowers and bamboo shade the quiet window; the afternoon dream is long—here I briefly forget the world. If the recluse of Mount Hua (a hermit in the mold of Chen Tuan) would visit, I would not ask for an immortals’ formula but for a “sleep formula.”

Yuchan (Bai Yuchan, a Daoist priest) has one poem that says: night after night the Primordial Spirit rests in the Dantian (the vital center about three cun below the navel, where Daoists locate stored essence and Qi); clouds fill the Dantian, the moon fills the sky. Two mandarin ducks float on green water; at the heart of the water blooms a golden-purple lotus. In another he says: deep in white clouds I study Chen Tuan’s way (the Five Dynasties master famed for sleep practice and “sleep as cultivation”); one pillow, a clear breeze—the world is wide. Moonlight seems to urge one to rise early, yet the spring’s murmur does not disturb the guest’s sleep. Just as I dream upward like a butterfly, a cuckoo shatters the dream; I open my eyes to half a window of red sun—it is as if an adept were firing the elixir by night.

Li Daochun’s lyric Full River Red says: good sleep is the family tradition; it has its own “sleep samadhi” (a Buddhist term for fixed concentration, here borrowed for quiet in sleep). If in sleep the heart is sincere and the intent clear, the method of sleep reveals the main principle and makes it easy to regulate Qi and Shen in sleep. The news of this sleep practice and the peaceful meditation within sleep are understood by few.

After investigation, I hold that in the Jin dynasty Tao Yuanming “lay at ease beneath the north window and called himself a man of the age before Fu Xi”—when body and mind had both grown still, he used sleep to nourish spirit and find rest. What Zhuangzi meant by “in sleep, ease and composure; on waking, expansion and contentment” is exactly this. Confucius also said: “Coarse rice to eat, water to drink, the bent arm for a pillow—the joy is in that too.” The joy spoken of here is the embrace of qi and intent in sleep, spirit and form merged in oblivion, the hundred vessels harmonized, the four limbs feeling pure ease throughout. The Yijing says “centered and penetrating in principle, upright in position and settled in the body—excellence stored within”—that too is this layer of meaning. Long ago the Yellow Emperor in spirit wandered to the land of Huaxu: “mist and cloud did not obstruct his sight, thunder did not disorder his hearing, beauty and ugliness could not sway his heart, valleys and hills could not check his steps”; “when he awoke, he was calm and at ease.” That is clear proof that the Yellow Emperor gained benefit from “stillness in lying sleep” (using sleep to enter quiet and nourish spirit).

Walking, standing, sitting, and lying down are the four postures of everyday life; among them, sleep is the most comfortable. After a day of labor, when your energy is spent, you lie on the bed and sink into deep sleep; when you wake, your spirit feels clear and your whole body at ease—much of that comes from the quiet nourishment of sleep. In a lifetime of a hundred years, working by day and resting by night, sleep is what regulates daily life and restores the spirit. Daoist practitioners, moreover, because they train in xinxi xiangyi (the mutual reliance of mind and breath, so that thought and breathing do not part), after they fall asleep the mind and breath still remain one.

When ordinary people sleep soundly, at the deepest stillness of the night they can only draw in the zhen yin (True Yin) of heaven and earth, not the zhen yang (True Yang). If one falls asleep through xinxi xiangyi, both yin and yang can be drawn in at once—using the harmony of one’s own mind and breath to resonate with the harmony of heaven and earth. That is the opening of tianren hefa (heaven and human activating together); the benefit is hard to measure.

Plain-Language Commentary

When beginners practice “heart and breath mutually relying” (xinxi xiangyi)—keeping mind and breath paired without drifting apart—if they can hold to “neither forget nor force” (wuwang wuzhu), neither dropping the awareness nor pushing too hard, and the breath stays “fine and continuous, as if present yet barely there” (mianmian ruocun), even for a short while, they often fall asleep. After waking, the limbs and body feel as if they have been tuned; qi and blood flow smoothly and the spirit feels light and refreshed—benefits that are hard to put into words.

As practice deepens, sleep often gives way naturally to ding (samadhi)—mind gathered and still, inner and outer clear. You can say: sleep is the doorway to ding, and ding grows out of sleep. At first there is mostly “sleep without ding”; with long practice there is “ding without sleep.” For newcomers, being able to sleep is already a sign it is working; falling asleep naturally and quickly is especially good.

This state is called the samadhi of sleep (shuimian sanmei)—similar ding (xiangsiding)—and it is nothing like ordinary muddled slumber. In Chan, sitting meditation fears falling asleep; in this Xuanzong (Mystery School) line of heart-breath practice, the worry is not being able to sleep. The point is exactly there: the samadhi of sleep is both the beginner’s entry and the path toward great ding and the realm of empty stillness.

In the Five Dynasties, Patriarch Chen Xiyi (Chen Tuan), a famed master of Daoist Neidan (internal alchemy), was said to have lain at rest on Mount Hua for months without rising, and to have attained the Dao in that sleep. The sleep formula he transmitted—thirty-two characters, called the “Dormant Dragon Method” (Zhelong fa)—is still essentially heart-breath practice, only carried out within sleep.

This passage explains the ten kinds of “lying down” (ways of resting or sleeping) described in the Avatamsaka Sutra, with special emphasis on “dhyana lying down” and “samadhi lying down.”

The Avatamsaka Sutra, “Chapter on Leaving the World,” states that great bodhisattvas have ten kinds of lying down. What are the ten? First, tranquil lying down, with body and mind serene and free of worldly attachment. Second, dhyana lying down, like practicing in accord with the Dharma and regulating the mind to nurture one’s nature. Third, samadhi lying down, with body and mind pliant and soft. Fourth, Brahma lying down, neither harming oneself nor harming others. Fifth, wholesome-action lying down, with no regret afterward. Sixth, right-faith lying down, with the root of faith firm and unshakable. Seventh, right-path lying down, with good friends able to instruct and awaken one. Eighth, sublime-vow lying down, skillfully dedicating merit. Ninth, all-affairs-completed lying down, with everything one set out to do already accomplished. Tenth, relinquishing all exertion lying down, letting go of every habitual striving. These are the ten. If a bodhisattva can abide in this teaching, he can attain the Tathagata’s “great-Dharma lying down” and awaken all sentient beings.

According to this sutra’s meaning: when in sleep body and mind do not stir, as if one has entered dhyana, that is called “dhyana lying down.” If within dhyana the true yang of heaven and earth enters the body, like sweet dew filling empty space or ghee pouring over the head, so that the whole body feels meltingly soft, blissful, harmonious as spring, and drunk with ease—that is called “samadhi lying down.” What the sutra means by “body and mind pliant and soft” is precisely this state.

Confucius’s “using my bent arm as a pillow, therein is joy”—that too is this kind of samadhi lying down. The Shenxian Shiyi Zhuan (Collected Anecdotes of Immortals) records that when Xiahou Dun crossed mountains and forded rivers he often closed his eyes and slept soundly; companions heard his snoring yet never saw him miss a step, and people of the time called him the “Sleep Immortal.” That is also samadhi lying down; it is said he practiced the “sleep samadhi” together with Old Ancestor Xiyi (Chen Tuan). When Confucius said, “Virtue is not solitary; it must have neighbors,” he likely had something like this in mind.

Plain-Language Reading of Tianle Ji

The Confucian sage Shao Yong (Shao Kangjie) wrote in Lin Xia Yin (“Under the Forest”): “In old age my body has long been well tended; in the Nest of Peace and Comfort there is a springtime all its own. The ten thousand affairs do not weigh on my heart; in leisure I lie down or stretch out, and my four limbs move freely as I please.” He also wrote: “At night I enter the Nest of Peace and Comfort; at dawn I rise to drink the breath of Grand Harmony. Probing spirit and mind, I know how to rest in ease; cultivating myself rightly, I receive Heaven’s generous gift.” This shows that Shao Yong had deeply grasped the samadhi of sleep—the practice of settling in sleep and aligning with the Way.

The Daoist immortal master Bai Yuchan wrote in verse: “Since I stepped through the gate of nirvana, one pillow in the clear breeze is like passing through ten thousand years.” This reflects Patriarch Bai’s attainment: he had reached the subtle state of “when all affairs are finished, then lie down in peace.” The silent gate of nirvana is precisely “the supreme great dharma sleep of the Tathagata.” At that level of great rest, one sets aside all purposeful striving.

Chan Master Linji was sleeping in the monks’ hall. Chan Master Huangbo entered and struck the sounding board with his staff. Linji looked up, saw Huangbo, and lay down again to sleep. Huangbo struck the board once more, then went to the upper section of the hall and found the head monk sitting in meditation. He said, “A junior in the lower hall is sleeping—what are you doing here lost in idle thoughts?” The head monk replied, “What is that old fellow up to?” Huangbo struck the board again and left the hall.

These passages illustrate how Confucian ease, Daoist transcendence, and Chan directness each treat sleep and rest as a field of cultivation—not laziness, but alignment with stillness and the Way.

Excerpt from the Tianyue Ji (Collection of Heavenly Joy)

Xuefeng and Yantou traveled together to Ao Mountain in Fengzhou and were trapped by heavy snow. Yantou slept all day, while Xuefeng sat in meditation without stopping. One day Xuefeng called out, “Senior brother, senior brother, get up a moment.” Yantou asked, “What for?” Xuefeng said, “This life has really been unlucky—going on pilgrimage with that fellow Wenrui, dragged down by him everywhere. Now we’ve come here, and you still do nothing but sleep?” Yantou shouted, “Go back to sleep! Sitting on the mat day after day like you’re stuck in some backwater hamlet—you’ll end up misleading laymen and laywomen someday.” Xuefeng pointed to his chest and said, “Things still aren’t settled here for me; I don’t dare deceive myself.” Yantou said, “I thought you would one day build a thatched hut on a lone peak and spread the great Dharma—yet you still talk like this.” Xuefeng said, “I really haven’t settled it yet.” Yantou said, “If that’s truly so, speak out everything you’ve realized and seen, item by item. What’s right I’ll confirm for you; what’s wrong you discard.”

Xuefeng said, “When I first went to Yanguan, I heard him ascend the hall and take up form and emptiness (rūpa and śūnyatā), and I got an entry.” Yantou said, “That was thirty years ago—after this, never bring it up again.” Xuefeng went on, “I also saw Dongshan’s Verse on Crossing the Water: ‘Do not seek from another—how far that would be from me. That one is now me; I am not now that one.’” Yantou said, “Even if it’s like that, you still haven’t thoroughly saved yourself.” Xuefeng went on, “Later I asked Deshan: In the matter of the essential teaching of the patriarchs (the heart-seal and root Dharma), is there any share for the student?” Deshan struck him with his staff and said, “What are you saying!” At that moment it was as if the bottom of a bucket had dropped away (everything fell through at once). Yantou shouted, “You didn’t ask: what you pick up outside someone else’s gate is not your own treasure.” Xuefeng asked, “Then how can one later be right?” Yantou said, “When he one day spreads the great Dharma, every word and every line must flow from his own breast and be used to cover heaven and cover earth—only then will it do.” When Xuefeng heard this, he greatly awakened, rose and bowed, and cried again and again, “Senior brother—only today on Ao Mountain have I truly attained the Way.”

Alas—people like Linji and Yantou may be said to have finished what needed to be done and to have attained the Buddha’s “repose in nirvana” (ultimate liberation, resting secure like the Buddha).

Wang Yangming’s Poem

Wang Yangming wrote: In the daylight of the human world, people are awake yet seem still asleep; Laozi in the mountains, in sleep, is truly awake. Waking and not yet sleeping are not two separate things—they return to one principle; above the stream the clouds are faint, the stream water clear and cold.

Chen Tuan’s “Sleep Poem” Presented to Jin Lijun

Ordinary people can hardly weigh the importance of sleep—only sleep matters most. The whole world treats sleep as rest: the hun-soul leaves the body while the spirit does not stir. On waking one knows nothing, and greedy desire only grows stronger. How laughable are people adrift in the red dust, not knowing that dreams are dreams. The perfected person originally has no dreams; their dreams are wanderings among immortals. The true person originally does not sleep—if one speaks of sleep, it is like floating clouds and mist. What is nearest in the furnace is the medicine; inside the gourd is another heaven. To know the principle of sleep and dreams is the foremost mystery in the human realm.

Patriarch Chen Xiyi’s Sleep Formula (also called the “Hidden Dragon Method”)

The dragon returns to the great sea; yang qi hides within yin. People call it the hidden dragon; I call it the hidden heart. Silently conceal its use; breathe with breath deep and fine—the breath must be deep and subtle. Reclining high upon white clouds, few in the world are kindred spirits.

Patriarch Lü’s Inscribed Verse

Reclining high on Mount Zhongnan, ten thousand cares empty; the sleep immortal long reclines among white clouds. In secret the dream-soul enters the aperture of yin and yang; in secret the breath applies the work of creation and transformation. Who knows the true formula? It is hidden in primordial chaos. The Daoist must first learn to be dull and deaf. The Hermit of Mount Hua left behind this sleep method; it is now made clear to the multitude so that all may awaken.

Zhang Sanfeng’s “Hidden Dragon Chant”

Sleep immortal, sleep immortal, leaning on the stone’s root, reclining high, forgetting month and year. The three lights sink away; the light of nature must first… (the original text is missing here.) The Hermit of Mount Hua left behind this sleep method; it is now promoted among the people so that all may awaken—in one line with what Patriarch Lü said: all lies in refining nature in sleep and storing the work in the breath.

Passages on Sleep Practice from Tianle Ji (Collection of Heavenly Joy)

Sleep Immortal Formula (Paraphrased)

Sleep Immortal, sleep Immortal—like lying long upon a high stone root, forgetting even the passing of months and years. The three lights of sun, moon, and stars seem to sink away, while original nature completes itself in wholeness. Qi returns to the mysterious aperture (xuanqiao); let breathing follow its own course. Do not scatter the mind; remain steady, calm, and free of agitation. Warm and nourish until the mercury nature (xing of mercury) is full and round, and wait until the lead flower appears. Neither lose spirit (shen) nor neglect vigilance. True firing cycles within: the “seven reversals” need not be hard, nor need one lament the “nine returns.” Quietly watch dragon and tiger contend within the body, and in secret invert Yin-Yang. Others may call me muddled; I sleep my sleep—I have not truly “slept to death.” When the practice is complete it is true sleeping Chan; when cultivation matures it is true embryonic origin (taiyuan). When the dormant dragon rises, one may ascend to heaven. Who handed down this dormant-dragon sleep method? “Pillow on the bent arm”—Confucius at Mount Ni did just this; joy within that outsiders cannot fathom. Five dragons leap from the deep pool—Heaven transmitted this method to Chen Tuan (Tuonan); who can carry on Tuonan’s line? The unkempt Daoist Zhang Sanfeng.

Lines from Zhang Sanfeng’s Yufu Ci (Song of the Fisherman)

(Continued) Who passed on this dormant method? Pillow on the bent arm, from Mount Ni; joy within that no one understands; five dragons fly out of the deep abyss. Heaven gave this method to Tuonan—who can succeed Tuonan’s lineage? The unkempt Daoist Zhang the Immortal.

Another Yufu Ci

The dormant method is sometimes silent, sometimes audible—each sound is addressed to the inner ear. Spirit is hushed, Qi is obscure—though the dormant dragon sleeps, within sleep it remains awake.

Colophon to the Dormant-Dragon Method

Some say Master Xiyi (Chen Tuan) had a separate sleep formula transmitted in the world, and that most circulated texts are spurious. The Image text of the Sui hexagram says: “The noble person enters repose at dusk.” It does not say merely “at dusk, repose,” but “enters repose”—the finesse lies in enter. “Enter” is sleep practice: spirit enters the Qi aperture (qi xue). Sitting or lying, one may cultivate sleep gong; why must one always sleep pillowed on high stone? Reading these thirty-two characters brings sudden great awakening. Patriarch Lü (Lü Dongbin) brought it forth plainly—out of compassion and to correct false transmission. Zhang Quanyi (Zhang Sanfeng) wrote this colophon while residing on Zhongnan Mountain.

Appendix

Master Wang wrote by letter to Mr. Meng Yangwu in Tianjin.

Letter from Master Wang to Mr. Meng Yangwu of Tianjin

The letter reads as follows: Enclosed with this letter is a chapter on the Sleep Formula transmitted by Chen Xiyi (Chen Tuan, a renowned Daoist master of the Five Dynasties period). This formula was passed down by Patriarchs Lü and Zhang. You may read it carefully and reflect on it. In short, it never strays from the four words “heart and breath mutually depend.”

In elixir practice there are four formulas—for walking, standing, sitting, and lying down—and among them the sleep formula is the simplest. Why is it simplest? In learning the Way, what one fears most is clinging to the physical body (the “form body”). Once you fix on the form body, what you rely on is post-heaven turbid qi, not the true yin and true yang of innate clarity and truth.

When you are about to sleep, you must first let body and mind both grow still. The formula says: “When the body does not move, the heart settles on its own; when the heart does not move, the spirit guards itself”—first settle the body, and the heart naturally calms; when the heart does not move, the spirit naturally keeps watch.

After a little while, proceed to heart-and-breath mutual dependence. Once you enter sleep, you naturally enter a state of no person, no self, forgetting things and forgetting form, like what the Zhuangzi calls “wandering freely in the village of nowhere.”

You must understand: you fall asleep by means of heart-and-breath mutual dependence; after sleep deepens, heart and breath will also depend on each other naturally. You must not deliberately arrange things with the mind. As said in the previous letter, “follow nature—this is not the same as ‘whatever happens, happens’ (it is not leaving everything alone)”; if you arrange things on purpose, you violate the meaning of following nature.

Whenever you have spare time, apply the practice. If the form body shows the slightest yang stirring, at once practice heart-and-breath mutual dependence toward the outside of the body; if there is the slightest soft tingling, likewise practice heart-and-breath toward the outside; if qi shifts or the limbs grow numb, again practice heart-and-breath toward the outside. Know that the form body is like a thief—those who learn the Way must not mistake the thief for one’s own child (must not treat the flesh as the real self).

You must reach a state where breathing seems to stop and you rest in great samadhi, not governed by “me.” Ziyang True Person said: “Let him be host and me be guest”—let nature lead and be host; I follow as guest. If you can hold this stability for about two hours, you are not far from infant truth (innate authenticity).

If you cultivate the sleep formula, it is best to eat little and take many small meals.

Respectfully,

Wang Hu

Fourth day of the third month, year five

Practitioners of the Xuanzong (Mysterious Ancestor) line, when their cultivation reaches the state of huanghu yaoming—awareness seeming both present and absent in a vast empty stillness—external breathing through mouth and nose becomes extremely fine, as if it were there and yet not there. At that point innate authentic Yang (the point of pure Yang Qi received from Heaven before birth) penetrates inward, steaming the four limbs and irrigating the upper and lower body; the whole person feels pleasantly mellow and thoroughly harmonized, yet also utterly still and wondrous, much like being slightly drunk.

What the Ruyaojing (Mirror for Compounding the Medicine) means by “pre-heaven Qi, post-heaven Qi—whoever obtains them is constantly as if drunk” is exactly this. The preface to the Jindan sibai zi (Four Hundred Words on the Golden Elixir) likewise describes: at first like clouds spread over a thousand mountains, then like moonlight filling ten thousand waters; the Jiaji (mid-spine passage) like a wheel turning, the four limbs heavy as mountain rock, the maokong (pores) opening as after a bath, the bones and meridians as in deep sleep, spirit as harmoniously joined as partners in intimacy, po and hun (corporeal and ethereal souls) as reluctant to part as mother and child. Such manifestations, stirred by the innate, are proof that Yin and Yang have truly united—the genuine mechanism of caiqu (gathering and refining pre-heaven Qi). If one can often enter this “as-if-drunk” state and the Xiyi realm (empty stillness without deliberate thought), one constantly draws down celestial harmony, Shen and Qi interweave, the xiantai (immortal embryo) takes shape, and the effects of lianji zhuji (refining the self and laying the foundation) become visible.

The word “drunk” here is a hallmark of Xuanzong cultivation. What ancients called the “land of intoxication” and the “realm of Xiyi” is precisely this domain; to abide in it constantly is to ceaselessly summon celestial harmony, join Shen and Qi, gradually form the immortal embryo, and see for oneself the work of refining the self and establishing the foundation.

The character zui (drunkenness) here is a hallmark of the authentic Daoist lineage. Ancient immortals who sang of this state are too many to count—such as Zhenyang Zhenjun’s Song of the Drunken Immortal’s Meditation, Zhang Sanfeng’s Song of the Pre-Natal Single Qi, and Ziyang Zhenren’s Song of the Stone Bridge. Zhang Sanfeng in his Essential Treatise on the Mystery especially often unpacks the word “drunk”: for example, “Take the elixir from within Kan; a branch of golden-flower dew. Auspicious clouds open at heaven’s edge; blessed light fills the foundation of death.” Again: “Wait until that single point naturally submits; within the body it turns into spring through the four seasons. A strip of white cloud, a whiff of fragrance; one shower passes and all is new again. All day long, soft and unbroken like a drunkard; idly guarding spring in the cave.” Again: “Drunk, drunk, drunk again—spring pierces the Dantian, red as jade.” Again: “Ride the dragon, hang the sword, drunk, return home; the three passes revolve toward the northern gate.” Again: “When hungry, drink the wine of long life; every day muddled, drunk as mud.” Again: “If you ask where the path home lies, in drunkenness you point far off toward the edge of white clouds.” Again: “The broth gathered in the eastern position becomes sweet dew; wine drunk in the west intoxicates brocade and silk.” Again: “The Yellow Woman urges you to drink tit wine; every day steamed and steeped, drunk for one bout.” Again: “Mysterious bright wine—drunk as if mad; all yin exhausted, the bright sun’s season.” Again: “In movement and stillness, add mercury and draw lead—mad as if drunk, the spirit never wearies.” Again: “The meaning from the west—drunk as if mad.” Again: “Wine of extended years needs no cup; sweet as honey, you drink the spoon of elixir yourself, muddled off to the Peach Banquet.” Again: “One sweep of light—see your lord; before flowers under the moon, drunk and dazed.” Again: “I pass by outside the village in slanting sun; who knows I am the drunk, swaying one?” Again: “From the western land and southern soil, friends come to honor you; once upon a time in drunkenness, as if in a daze.” Again: “Drunk and dazed, forgetting heaven and earth; fame and gain through the ages are all dust.”—One could say he truly grasped the samadhi of the “Drunken Immortal” in the profound teaching!

This passage collects sayings from several Taoist patriarchs on “drunkenness” (zui), clarifying a special kind of “drunkenness” in Neidan (internal alchemy) practice—not indulgence in wine, but the dazed ease when spirit and breath return to their root and one merges with the Dao (the Way); this is called “the wondrous drunkenness of the profound teaching.”

Xu Sun (Jingyang Patriarch) said: “Drunk, I think of immortals; drunk, I think of immortals—with nothing to do I visit the grotto heaven.” He also said: “After sudden awakening, drunk I think of the immortal isles and depart; the grotto gate stands half open, and a small boy watches nearby.”

Lü Dongbin (Patriarch Lü) said: “Cultivate, cultivate—only when you reach the Pure Yang, qian-strong state are you a true ‘drunken immortal’ among humans.” He also said: “With jade zither and precious se I play for you; with jade nectar and spirit dew I urge you to be ‘drunk.’” He repeats the lines on sudden awakening, the immortal isles, the half-open grotto gate, and the watching boy. He also said: “Unawares you intoxicate yourself as if entering trance; in that trance you seem to glimpse a thing.” And: “I say this drunkenness is real drunkenness—if you knew sorrow, how could sorrow arise?” And: “Once you obtain the true scripture, it is like drinking fine wine until drunk; breath and the hundred meridians all return to the root.” And: “When you obtain the medicine (the critical juncture in Neidan), do not grasp or scatter; like mad, like drunk, speak even less.” And: “Drunk on green wine you may sleep with sun and moon; when white duckweed settles on the wind, you may fish on rivers and lakes.” And: “All day no one to talk to—only a pot of spring wine, drowsily asleep.” And: “In gloom I sleep drunk at the mountain pass; at leisure I fish with a heart set on Dongting.”

Liu Haichan (Old Man Haichan) said: “Drunk I walk the land of white clouds, copper tail-handle inverted in hand.” He also said: “Liu the fool comes to the Longhua assembly; drunk toward the clear pool, the moon comes late.”

Tan Chuduan (one of the Quanzhen Seven Masters) said: “Since the clouds were gathered inside the cauldron, I often drink ambrosia and lie in the land of drunkards.”

Tang Guangzhen said: “But teach the day when the partners merge into elixir—fall drunk in the pot and need no support.”

Ma Danyang said: “All day holding the cup, spirit’s grace flows free; in drunkenness there is still one who steadies you.”

Zhang Ziyang in the Stone Bridge Song said: “The scene is very fine; I secretly rejoice—pour for myself and drink till drowsy-drunk; pluck a stringless zither; each note in the zither teaches you to look closely. Alas, after deep drunk no one knows—dazed and silent, just like folly.”

Chen Cuixu said: “When you fall drunk in deep sleep and dreams ripen, a boat full of treasure crosses Caoxi.”

Lu Qianxu said: “To get Master Zhang drunk, you need Master Li’s wine; wait until their household’s winter solstice—a cup of ambrosia just enters the mouth.” He also said: “We who came together lean on the rail; drunk in spring wind we wait for the moon and return.”

Li Xuan’an said: “First take primordial yang as millet grain; next steam true Qi to brew yellow millet; in between brew out the wine of long life—one day you turn over and drunk you are once.”

Bai Yuchan said: “Soul adrift, free and easy—a drunken immortal; smiling, I lean on a vine staff at the sunset edge.”

Li Qing’an said: “At leisure we drink together in Zhuling Mansion; drunk we sleep together in the Purple Ultimate Palace.”

What these masters call “drunk” mostly figures the body-and-mind state in entering stillness, obtaining the medicine, and silently merging with the Dao—not ordinary wine intoxication. The closing line sums it up: this is that ineffable “drunkenness” within the profound teaching of internal cultivation.

This passage comes from a Chan discourse-record style work. It preserves several Chan masters exchanging gathas in call and response. Most verses depict drunken repose in mountains and streams, free roaming and forgetting worldly schemes, using wine and natural scenery to express how Chan adepts do not cling to outward form and wander as one with heaven and earth.

Chan Master Huanliu Wen opens with a gatha: he says he went into the Zhongnan Mountains to cultivate (tending his fields), yet people mistakenly call him an immortal in a mountain cave; wine brewed in his jar is like elixir of long life, and all day long, drunk, he sleeps with his head on a rock.

Chan Master Falinyin responds: after drinking, one no longer knows whether heaven and earth are wide or narrow; he moves plum branches outside the window, and when the bright moon shines in—

Chan Master Jian’an Yi responds: accustomed to borrowing joy from another’s piped music, he idly gets drunk in a world of falling blossoms.

Chan Master Tiefan Zhou responds: in Dongyue they have met and slept off wine together many times; the full moon fills the tower, reflected beside Mirror Lake.

Chan Master Daoquan Gao responds (two slightly different versions): buying village wine among ten thousand flowers, mooring a fishing boat on the nine-bend river; drunk, he casts the silk line from his hand at random, the rain cape slung askew—once by Mirror Lake, once under the setting sun.

Chan Master Zhizhi Nan responds: he laughs at those flower-and-wine idlers in Chang’an, one drunkard leaning on another as they go home.

Chan Master Tianzhang Yu responds: drunk, he steadies himself; the golden hall and pearl curtains are hushed; the fragrance of flowers once pierced through, and a deep after-scent remains.

Chan Master Shangfang Yi responds: the spring of Jingu is always before his eyes, red peony tips blooming with rich scent; last night a cold blast from the west wind stripped the ground of fallen fragrance beyond counting; the noble youth lies drunk and does not know the way back, still at the railing asking for another golden cup.

Chan Master Fachang Yu responds: how can one tell hemp cloth from ordinary cloth? Tea brewed with winter snow can sober you; and travelers on the road have not yet arrived—wild flowers smile on old branches in spring.

Chan Master Wuwen Can responds: singing and sleeping under a thatched roof, drunk then awake again; Jun Mountain is only between his two brows; the whole household ignores rise and fall of dynasties, and simply dwells with the clouds over Dongting.

Chan Master Zhe’an Fan responds: for years like tangled duckweed he has lain deep in clouds, hearing golden pipes and silver flutes in his cups; revisiting the road below the mountain in autumn hues, on the white duckweed shore he meets you again.

Chan Master Qianrengang responds: among the scent of peonies her bearing is graceful; in the shadow of pear blossoms the moon is round and full; the host lies drunk on the pillow of the Emperor of Antiquity (a metaphor for carefree sleep like primordial times), and simply gazes at the inverted image in the pearl curtain.

Chan Master Tianyu Bao responds: rain stops, clouds thin, the cleared sky is serene; in spring a young lord gets drunk in a spring tower; boundless romance—with no one to tell it to—a single cry of a bird and all heaven and earth feel like autumn.

Chan Master Xiaoyue Lang responds: squeezing his whole body into an azure dragon’s cave, he pulls out several coral trees; knocking down the usual price of firewood and grass, he trades the cash for wine and gets drunk on Flower Street.

Throughout, “drunkenness” is the thread, and each master shows a distinct turn of phrase: sometimes roaming freely in landscape, sometimes satirizing worldly ways, sometimes forgetting self and things alike. It is a familiar Chan method of teaching through poetry and pointing at the Way through scenery.

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

This section gathers verses by several Chan masters who take “drunkenness” as their theme or use wine as a metaphor for the Way. In Chan, “drunk” rarely means encouraging heavy drinking. More often, worldly pleasures—wine, flowers, moon and wind—serve as contrast or pointer: even amid sound and color, the mind must still recognize what is originally so; or drunkenness stands for ease and letting go. Below is a plain-language gloss in the order of the original text.

Master Zhengtang Ban says: Ask what, in the end, people rush about for in this world. Better to hand the whole business of spring—just as it is—back to spring itself. Even if you drank yourself drunk under the blossoms every day, a single spring is only ninety feasts at most. (The point: spring’s affairs and banquet tables are limited; use that to reflect on how pointless our usual scrambling is.)

Master Qie’an Ren says: When we meet, I pour wine and sing with you; drunk halfway home, you still want me to carry you on my back. I get you home and you curse and grumble—who knows what you’ll be like when you sober up. (A sketch of entangled worldly feeling—or a jab at how even drunk, one finds no peace.)

Master Tianduo En says: Spring is thick around the Wuling region; the east wind at your back never stops blowing. In drunkenness you call to the guest on the river not to return; the cuckoo’s cry is spent, and on the green willow branches spring’s color is already fading. (Wuling: the five tombs of Han, later a byword for wealthy pleasure grounds.)

Master Lan’an Shu says: The wine brewed in bamboo tubes ought to be ripe by now—no regret if your hat sits crooked in your cups. Turquoise rose has fragrance to spare, but what truly makes people drunk is wine, not the flower. (The punch line: what really beguiles is the “drunk” mind—not flower or wine as such.)

Master Foxing Tai says: Meeting you, I would not waste this garden visit; I have plainly entrusted everything to you. You drunk, I help you up; I fall, and you help me in turn. Host and guest swap roles; coming and going is already familiar—no regret for a crooked hat in wine. Turquoise rose has its scent, yet what intoxicates is still wine, not the flower. (The text continues:) Host and guest go arm in arm, entering the capital together. (Mutual support, shared “drunkenness,” and entering the city depict master and disciple—or fellow travelers—moving together within conventional truth.)

Master Lü’an Yue says: Zhang wanted to urge Li to drink and was instead fined one cup by Li. At the table they still play rapid drinking games; drunk on the way home, the mountain moon shines on the cold plum. (Human give-and-take and playful wine commands; the close returns to a clear moonlit night.)

Master Biefeng Yin says: A thousand-foot silk line drops straight into the water; a brocade scale fish splashes as it takes the hook. Singing your way home through slanting wind and fine rain, you lie drunk by the rush window, knowing nothing of the hundred affairs. (Fishing, the homeward boat, and drunken repose express a carefree distance from dusty toil.)

Master Yinshan Xian says: Torch Mountain’s lamps blaze bright; the crowd revels all night, the whole scene mirrored in jade-green water. The moon sets, the watch runs out, dawn nears—you drunkenly steady the young lord up to the high tower. (Aoshan often suggests a mountain of lamps, a lamp fair, or banquet scenery.)

Master Zhenjing Wen says: The spring of “directly pointing to the root” and “a separate transmission outside the teachings” (the moment of sudden awakening)—who is not sage, who does not penetrate spirit? Though you have already left the snake’s den on the Way (the home of affliction and birth-and-death), you again become “the constantly drunk person of no-mind.” (“No-mind constantly drunk” is Chan idiom: not literal intoxication, but not dwelling on appearances and going along with circumstances in freedom.)

Master Su’an Ding says: In summer, red lotus sway in a jade-green pool; fish swim up and down, busy too. Rosy light on both banks and a fragrant breeze feel like drunkenness—wash body and mind with the river country’s clean scent. (Lotus, fish, and water’s fragrance evoke a cool realm.)

Master Duanqiao Lun says: In a short awning, a green-cloaked old man dead drunk; the moon sets over the river village, sleep runs deep. At dawn both eyes are clear and bright—a single stir of breeze on the heart of the waves. (Drunken sleep set against waking clarity is a familiar Chan move: drunk yet awake within.)

Master Hengxiu She says: What is there to “sit upright with robes draped” (the emperor’s rule through non-interference)? Rivers and mountains unified in great peace. Beyond the night-bright curtain the spring wind rises; you lie drunk on the dragon couch, knowing nothing of the hundred affairs. (Imperial imagery and universal peace contrast with the Chan adept’s mind free of affairs.)

Master Meng’an Lü says: Loving flowers, you rise early to sit in the spring wind; an ardent companion has already played with the crimson blossoms. Arm in arm you get drunk under the flowers, unaware of cloud, moon, and shadow layered upon layer. (Romance among blossoms—or a hint of being lost in form and color.)

Master Tian’an Sheng says: After Zhang Xu (“Mad Zhang”), no one matches his frenzy; the “sage of wild grass” script is called an immortal in wine. Broken halberds and short spears he ignores entirely—on paper to this day mist and cloud still rise. (Praise for Zhang Xu writing in drunken absorption, hand and mind forgotten.)

Master Boji Jian says: One round bright moon shines on the southern realm; arm in arm you climb to the wine tower. So long as the host can keep me drunk, why stir up homesickness again? (Wine to dull sorrow—or settling in wherever one is.)

Master Su’an Ding also says: Cold mist and setting sun fill the treetops; cups pass often and spirits run high. A fine guest can still ride the wind and drink deep; when the host sobers, he pours the guest another rich brew. (Host and guest at full joy.)

Editor’s note: The above are the various Chan ways of using “drunkenness” to reveal the subtle point—sometimes wine as metaphor for the Way, sometimes drunkenness within wakefulness and wakefulness within drunkenness. On the surface these are poems of wine and flowers; in intent they still turn on seeing one’s nature and not clinging to appearances.

Song-dynasty Confucian Shao Yong wrote in Jirang Ji (Collection of Pounding the Earth): “In the Nest of Ease and Joy, a cup of wine not only nourishes Qi but also nurtures what is true. Sip after sip until lightly drunk; pat your full breast and it is all spring. What difference from ruler and minister first meeting, or heaven and earth freshly mingling in primordial breath? The flavor of deep intoxication cannot be named; the art of brewing cannot be pointed to.” He also said: “In intoxication, the subtlety of a thousand sages; drunk, embracing the spring of ten thousand flowers.” Ming-dynasty Confucian Chen Baisha wrote: “Alone I dance with fishing robe by the swift stream; in moonlight drunken shadows sway together. In hand the line of Tong River—enough to fish open heaven and earth, no more needed.” He also said: “West grove gathers rain, turtledoves keen; roll up bedding, open window to dawn’s clarity. Wind and sun drunk, flowers drunk, birds drunk—through bamboo gates two or three cries.” And: “A thousand peaks silent, keeping you drunk—grant humanity a painted boat.” Such is the “intoxication” in Confucian brushwork at its finest.

Broadly speaking, intoxication falls into pre-heaven (xiantian) and post-heaven (houtian) kinds. Post-heaven intoxication comes from drinking too much: spirit and Qi are muddied and weighed down by the fumes of wine. Pre-heaven intoxication is when the Yin-Yang of the whole person mutually accord; one outwardly receives the “Qi of primordial harmony” (yuanhe zhi qi—the first, harmonizing breath of heaven and earth), which steams and melts the fluids; spirit reaches the utmost of mutual harmony and enters a realm of trance and dim oblivion, as though one were drunk. In former days, when the ancestral master instructed disciples who had entered the chamber, he often cited this line as the rule to follow in cultivation and refinement. If one can dwell often in a country that seems drunk, one is purely pre-heaven, free of ailments that cling to the body, and the various confirmations in practice arrive without being sought.

The phrase “often as if drunk” is the essential method of the intoxicated immortal’s samadhi (zuixian sanmei) in the deep teaching of the Mysterious Gate (xuanzong): purely pre-heaven, not attached to the body—every verification comes of itself.

“Often as if drunk”—these four words are the secret formula of Xuanzong’s samadhi of the drunken immortal, and they echo the Book of Changes: “the yellow in the center penetrates principle” and “preserving and harmonizing the great unity.” The phrase “beauty lies within, and flows through the four limbs” is exactly the picture of that drunken state. The Ming Confucian Chen Baisha said: “Waking is easier than being drunk; only one deeply versed in the Changes can truly be ‘drunk’”—has one already glimpsed the depth of sage learning?

Appendix: Cangmingzi’s poem and notes on Mirror for Entering Medicine, “Those who obtain it are often as if drunk”

Poem:

The great Dao of the Golden Elixir is utterly subtle; learners throng, yet who in the end can truly penetrate it? Once obtained, treat it as forever obtained—then act at once and fix the foundation. In the great void, dim and silent, being and non-being interweave, beyond all reckoning. The square inch is like a jar that never empties when poured; every day is spring breeze in one’s own house.

Notes: This describes the scene after the medicine is obtained. Once the golden fluid return elixir is swallowed and the ordinary body is transformed into a true person, natural signs appear. The Cantong qi says: “Rich as spring rain, liquid as melting ice, from the head it flows to the feet, then in the end rises again; coming and going through the boundless void, gentle and at ease in the chamber of the heart; the complexion grows moist, the bones and joints grow firm”—all beauty within, showing in the face, filling the back, flowing through the four limbs and reaching the whole body. Without words, these are all natural confirmations.

Appendix: Excerpt from Teacher Wang’s letter to Meng of Tianjin

The two characters “gather” and “take” were originally inseparable… (continuing the sense of “reaching the four limbs” and “natural confirmation” in the passage above.)

The two characters cai and qu—“gathering” and “taking”—were never meant to be explained apart. If gathering and taking cannot be split, how could innate Jing, Qi, and Shen be split either? Some say: “In deepest obscurity and dimness, you are taking innate Jing; in vague trance-like stillness, you are taking innate Qi; in undifferentiated chaos, you are taking innate Shen”—that is speaking from the angle of principle. Whoever sees that obscurity, vagueness, and chaos are one body and cannot be divided will also see that original Jing, original Qi, and original Shen cannot be divided.

Others say: “Take within obscurity; welcome within vagueness.” Again: “When using it, no form is seen; you must meet it in vagueness.” Again: “Gather the vague, take the indistinct—in obscurity receive the true substance.” In the end, every true master who wrote a book used different images for the same matter. Among them only the Ruyao Jing (Mirror for Compounding the Medicine) speaks most directly and subtly: “Innate Qi, acquired Qi—whoever obtains them is constantly as if drunk.” Those three words, constantly as if drunk, are truly crucial. Step by step, the Golden Elixir path from start to finish—each stage’s signs, proofs, and firing—are nothing other than this constantly as if drunk. If there is the slightest clinging to the physical body, it is not constantly as if drunk; if it is not constantly as if drunk, it is not the Dao. Whoever understands constantly as if drunk knows that even the dullest person can in one step enter the sage’s realm.

I have four or five commentaries on the Yuhuang Xinyin Jing (Jade Emperor’s Heart Seal Scripture) at hand; among them Lu Qianxu’s Xinyin Cesu (Heart Seal Probing Commentary) is the best. I am sending you one fascicle especially—read it thoroughly and reflect on it; perhaps then you will grasp the wonder of constantly as if drunk.

The cultivation practice of the Xuanzong lineage generally begins like this: one first moves from the state of “asleep” gradually into the depths of vagueness and obscurity; from that vagueness and obscurity one enters “great concentration” (da ding)—at which point breathing through the nose and mouth seems to stop. In the early stages of concentrated stillness, the mind is like a small boat gently swaying on the current and drifting with it; after sitting for a long time, it is like the moon reflected in a cold, clear pool—ten thousand miles of clarity, a single stretch of pure azure, and the duration of concentration grows from short to long. The superior stages such as “casting off the shell” and “spirit transformation” are all completed within this concentration. This is the critical pass into sagehood and the essential gate to transcending the ordinary.

Master Dongshan said: “Directly in the center, yet slightly off—before the moon shines, in the first watch of the third night.” Tong’an said: “How does one sing the tune of returning home? Withered wood flowers in the hall before the bright moon.” Zhang Sanfeng said: “A round of moonlight as my companion,” and also: “A full moon shining over South China.” Liu Wuyuan said: “A full moon shining on the heart of heaven.” Shao Yaofu said: “The moon on the parasol tree shines into my embrace,” and also: “The moon reaches the heart of heaven; the wind stirs the surface of the water.” All of these describe scenes within concentration. Whether in Chan, Dao, or Confucian learning, most take concentration as the destination. Zhuangzi speaks of “auspicious stopping, stopping,” also says “hold to great concentration,” and again: “When the spirit is not settled, the Dao will not carry you”—if the heart is not settled, the Way cannot bear you up; the meaning is extremely subtle.

“Concentration” can be divided roughly into two kinds: in one kind, breathing still remains within concentration; in the other, breathing has ceased. Xuanzong practice cultivates the latter: body and mind both still, in-breath and out-breath stopped, even the eyelids unmoving—this is true quiescence and extinction. If only the mind is settled while the breath has not yet stopped, that is merely like quiescence and extinction, not yet true concentration.

This passage cites Buddhist texts such as the Mahāratnakūṭa Sūtra (Great Heap of Jewels); the author of Tianle Ji uses them to discuss how exceptional it is to enter deep samādhi and to leave ordinary breathing behind. In plain language:

Mahāratnakūṭa Sūtra, Chapter 49, “The Assembly of the Broad and Vast Immortal”

The Buddha said to the immortal: “Great immortal, you should know: among my disciples, the foremost śrāvaka Ghoṣaṃdīya is the one who truly enters quiescence and extinction. If the mind has only a little concentration and the breath seems not to stop, that is merely resembling quiescence and extinction—it is not true samādhi.”

The same sūtra also records that the Buddha said Ghoṣaṃdīya was of pure Brahmin lineage, dwelling in dhyāna and compassion; with that power of concentration he opened the eye of compassion and entered samādhi (deep concentration). Only once every seven days did he show a single in-breath and out-breath. When he entered samādhi, a “wind at will” came in response to his thought. Even if the fire at the end of an aeon burned heaven and earth into one great flame, it could not harm his meditative body by so much as a mustard seed; yet his limbs stood firm like Mount Sumeru, unmoved. The two dragon kings Nanda and Upananda have tremendous strength; when they raise wind it is fierce, enough to shake Mount Sumeru and turn the four great seas salty. But when Ghoṣaṃdīya was in samādhi, the two dragons used all their strength and still could not disturb him in the least.

From this the author concludes: since “only once every seven days does he show in-breath and out-breath,” it is clear that when he truly entered samādhi he had already left ordinary breathing and could remain in that state for a full seven days; the mighty dragon kings could not move him by a hair’s breadth, and the aeon-ending fire burning through everything could not harm him—thus we know: that great quiescent samādhi without breathing is most supreme; it is not something ordinary thinking can grasp.

Also the Collection of Essential Teachings of All Buddhas

It records that Mañjuśrī Bodhisattva, when this world of endurance (i.e., our world) entered extinction, went to the land of the Buddha King of Heavenly Kings in Universal Light. To the right of King Tathāgata sat a woman named Vimala (Free from Distress), seated in full lotus, established in the samādhi of universal moon, free from defilement and luminous. Mañjuśrī asked King Buddha: “How long has this woman aroused the mind of unsurpassed bodhi? Her practice is so solitary, her vows so lofty—why is her samādhi mind like this?” The Buddha replied: “Since she aroused the mind of unsurpassed bodhi, so long has passed that it cannot be counted.”

Summary (meaning of Tianle Ji)

Both passages show that in the deepest samādhi one can long leave ordinary breathing; the body is unmoved like Mount Sumeru, and outer conditions (dragon kings, aeon fire) cannot destroy it. In practice, this great quiescent samādhi without breathing is regarded as extremely high.

Vernacular Explanation

One must cultivate diligently and act with resolve, hold sincere faith, and never lapse into negligence. With giving, precepts, patience, and diligence as one’s practice, single-mindedly focused and fully endowed with wisdom, one completes the Buddha-way—everything that needed to be done is already done. Manjushri, please have this woman rise from samadhi; you may question her on the meaning of the true and correct Way. Since she set out on this path, the years and months have become too many to count.

(The Buddha added:) Cultivate diligently, cherish faith, and never be careless; with giving, precepts, patience, and diligence as your path, unified in wisdom, complete in the Buddha-way, all necessary deeds already fulfilled. Manjushri, have this woman rise from samadhi and question her; since she vowed to spread the Way, whether she can persevere long—you will see for yourself in her bearing and her replies.

Then Manjushri, heeding the Buddha’s instruction, rose from his seat, went before the woman, and with utmost sincerity snapped his fingers, producing a loud sound, intending to call her out of samadhi. The woman remained peacefully abiding in stillness and did not rise from samadhi.

Manjushri then, in accordance with his original nature, manifested countless bodies and snapped his fingers with even greater force; the sound of those finger-snaps was heard throughout innumerable worlds in the ten directions, yet the woman still remained silent and did not rise from samadhi.

Manjushri next entered the samadhi of correct concentration on forms and displayed great spiritual powers: throughout the great trichiliocosm, all beings—humans of the world, devas, naga kings, gandharvas, and hundreds of thousands of millions of such beings—all their music played without being struck; he also manifested myriad instruments such as lutes, zithers, harps, and flutes, all sounding at once, performing gentle tones, clear, harmonious, and refined, yet also containing strains of sorrow; each kind of music proclaimed immeasurable wondrous sounds, penetrating the ten directions and countless worlds, and still could not make the woman rise from samadhi.

Manjushri again, in accordance with his original nature, while in samadhi of correct concentration, transformed the great trichiliocosm: Mount Sumeru, the Snow Mountains, the Black Mountains, Mount Vinataka, Great Mount Vinataka, the Cakravāla Mountains, the Great Cakravāla Mountains, and the like struck against one another and could not remain steady—as when a brave man claps his two palms with great force, or like mighty thunder, its roar reaching far so that none failed to hear—yet even such powers still could not make the woman rise from samadhi.

They joined their palms before them and addressed the Tathagata Heavenly King: “It is indeed so, Great Sage. The way this bodhisattva acts is unheard of and beyond our reach. Even if we strained our minds, we could not make the various things in empty space appear, stand or turn, move or speak; even if we exhausted limitless divine concentration to shake all great sounds with transformation, to collapse Mount Sumeru and the Iron Ring Mountains, to uproot the buddha-lands, and to shift the worlds of the ten directions, we could never make her rise from that samadhi. I should bow humbly to this woman; the other great beings in training, and sons and daughters of good families—whether they have first aroused the mind of unsurpassed, true, and correct bodhi, have achieved it or not, or are just beginning to learn—whoever delights in such immeasurable great wisdom should all pay reverence. Why? The bodhisattva’s conduct cannot be repaid with words or similes.”

The Tathagata Heavenly King replied to Manjushri: “As you say, the armor of virtue that bodhisattva great beings don on is inconceivable. All śrāvakas, and even pratyekabuddhas, cannot know it—how much less could ordinary people keep pace? It is like the three thousand great thousand worlds: if one lifted a mallet as large as a thousand worlds and beat a great drum before this woman for one kalpa, and then for another kalpa, she still could not hear the drum—how much less could one make her rise from samadhi? Such a thing has never occurred. Manjushri, you should know: this woman’s samadhi is tranquil, settled, and will never be shaken; her wisdom of the Way is such, and her majestic virtue is immeasurable.”

According to the meaning of the scripture: for the intentionless woman to enter such samadhi of right concentration, she must already have left behind in-breath and out-breath. Otherwise, even if Bodhisattva Manjusri used his divine power alone to cut off her breathing, this woman would surely not remain steady. Yet now, when Manjusri tosses her about and hurls her to the ten directions, she does not stir; when he lifts her to the Brahma heavens, she is unaware. Even without Manjusri’s divine power, nothing in the outer world could move a single hair of hers—her still absorption remains. Unless breath and thought have both vanished and one has returned to nothingness, who could accomplish this? Again, if breathing stopped but the pulse did not, Manjusri need only use divine power to clamp her arteries and this woman could no longer maintain her concentration. Only when breath is stilled and pulse is stilled, when body and mind are extinguished like empty space, will she not be shaken by any force in the world. Emperor Xuanzong’s “great quiescence samadhi” matches this realm. I see this woman’s samadhi as truly complete—like a living corpse—so even Manjusri cannot disturb her. That she could draw near the Tathagata Heavenly King is precisely because body and mind are clear and still like empty space.

This gong’an has two layers of meaning. On the surface: when body and mind are extinguished and one enters deep samadhi, like empty space, every force in the world cannot shake one; to rise in thought or intention and leave concentration, there is no path. This displays the excellence of dhyāna concentration. On a deeper level: Manjusri represents wisdom (prajñā), the intentionless woman represents concentration (dhyāna)—wisdom and concentration are one, so he cannot “exit” her samadhi; it is not that Manjusri’s divine power is inferior to hers. Master Dayu Zhi’s saying “a monk lodges at a temple” is wonderfully apt—it displays the subtle point of wisdom and concentration as one suchness.

In the “Entry into the Dharma Realm” chapter of the Avataṃsaka Sūtra, the youth Sudhana visits the bhikṣu Hai Zhang and sees him seated in full lotus, rightly entering samadhi, apart from in-breath and out-breath, with no other thinking or awareness—breath and thought both forgotten—likewise a realm of oneness and suchness.

This passage comes from the “Entry into the Dharma Realm” chapter of the Avatamsaka Sutra: Sudhana goes to visit the bhikṣu Master of the Sea Banner and sees him seated in full lotus, truly entered into dhyāna—breathing in and out has ceased, and there are no other thoughts or perceptions in the mind; both breath and thought are forgotten on both sides. This is the same state described in the text when Xuanzong enters correct samādhi. Master of the Sea Banner remained in that concentration for six months and six days. While in samādhi, from crown to heel he manifested immeasurable, innumerable bodies of buddhas, bodhisattvas, pratyekabuddhas and śrāvakas, Śakra, Mahābrahmā, elders and lay devotees, kṣatriyas and brahmins, immortals, nāga kings, asura kings, yakṣas and rākṣasas, kiṃnara kings, gandharva kings, and the like—emanating bodies in the ten directions, filling the dharma realm. The splendor and strangeness of that realm left Sudhana full of praise. This most profound samādhi is called “Universal Eye Samādhi,” also named “Gateway of Universal Adornment and Purity”; it is the vastest of all.

Xuanzong’s meditative absorption can be extended from a few minutes to several hours, even a full day and night; with further diligence it is also possible to remain in one samādhi for six months—not difficult to catch up with Master of the Sea Banner and stand shoulder to shoulder with the ancients.

The Avatamsaka Sutra, “Chapter on Ten Samadhis,” records that the Tathāgata, in the Hall of Universal Brightness, entered the “samādhi of buddhas at the instant’s edge,” abiding in śamatha—the still, silent sphere of concentration—utterly tranquil, fully endowed with great power and virtue, unattached to defilement, so that all who beheld him could awaken. The Lotus Sutra, “Introductory Chapter,” states that after the Buddha finished expounding the Sutra of Immeasurable Meanings, he sat in full lotus and entered the “samādhi of the realm of immeasurable meanings,” body and mind unmoving; then from heaven fell mandārava and mañjūṣaka flowers, filling the buddha worlds, and the great earth shook in six ways—these are the auspicious signs and ritual accompaniments commonly seen when the Tathāgata enters concentration.

The Qingliang Shan Zhi (Gazetteer of Mount Qingliang) records that in the Ming dynasty the monk Mingshan first built a thatched hut in a valley south of the Central Terrace and cultivated the Way there. Patrons who came to offer support grew day by day; someone envied his thriving incense offerings and hired an assassin who lodged with him intending to kill him at night. In the middle of the night the assassin peered in and saw only Mingshan sitting upright without moving, his gaze clear and still as autumn water, his breathing so fine it was almost imperceptible. The assassin at once knelt in prostration, confessed everything, and repented.

According to this account, “sitting upright without moving” is precisely the appearance of entering samadhi; what is called “nasal breath nearly ceasing” does not mean the breath has stopped, but that breathing continues yet is extremely subtle. This belongs to a meditative stillness in which breath is still present, yet it was enough to move the assassin to confess and repent—the efficacy of meditative power can indeed be called marvelous.

The Six Paramitas Sutra says: The Buddha’s Way is lofty and far; ordinary people find it hard to verify in person. There is only one method that can benefit sentient beings abundantly, and that is right concentration (correct, stable meditative absorption). If bodhisattvas have not yet realized the mind of samadhi… the efficacy of meditative power can likewise be called marvelous. (The final sentence echoes the passage above, stressing the power of right concentration.)

This passage comes from a Buddhist scripture and explains right samādhi (samādhi)—the still, focused practice in which the mind rests in one object without scattering and can illuminate reality—as the essential gate to the Buddha’s path and to benefiting sentient beings.

The sutra says: the Buddha’s path may seem distant and hard for ordinary people to verify directly, yet there is one path that truly benefits beings—and that is right samādhi. If bodhisattvas have not yet realized this samādhi, their minds cannot be truly pure and unmoved, and they cannot yet genuinely experience the meaning that saṃsāra and nirvāṇa are originally not two. Therefore, in order to deliver beings, bodhisattvas skillfully employ expedient means, diligently cultivate concentration aligned with dhyāna (meditative stillness and contemplation), signlessness, and right knowledge (wisdom that accords with reality), so that the mind becomes as pure and undefiled as empty space and abides without change. They further contemplate this right samādhi as like the full moon: all discursive thoughts are like drifting clouds and cannot long remain.

This right samādhi is also like a cool breeze that scatters every cloud and haze, so the mind becomes clear and cool, brightly penetrating; all sentient beings who encounter it feel joy in their hearts. The full moon’s radiant majesty can give beings cool ease and happiness; likewise, this cool breeze within dhyāna removes the haze of discursive thought that veils emptiness of nature. Right samādhi, like the full moon appearing in the world, uses the light of great compassion to dispel the heat of beings’ manifold afflictions and guide them toward the cool ease and peace of nirvāṇa.

Then the Bhagavān (an honorific for the Buddha, “World-Honored One”) spoke in verse: “Stillness gives rise to wisdom; wisdom accords with principle; the great bodhi of Buddhahood takes concentration and wisdom as its root.”

He also said: one who can realize profound, marvelous divine samādhi without dullness can, through this dhyāna, give rise to the five supernormal knowledges. Which five? Divine eye, divine ear, knowledge of others’ minds, recollection of past lives, and supernormal powers (unimpeded transformation and manifestation).

The sutra also says: when bodhisattvas abide on the Immovable Ground (the tenth bodhisattva stage, where the mind no longer wavers), they attain true quiescence, far from sorrow and suffering and from disturbances such as vitarka and vicāra (coarse and subtle mental discrimination), joy and bliss, and in-and-out breathing; they enter what is neither born nor destroyed and abide in the true dharma realm (understanding that in the Buddha’s teaching, true dhyāna samādhi is so still that even in-and-out breathing ceases—only then is it called true quiescence). At that time they can manifest various supernormal transformations at will, and no one can shake or destroy this—except the World-Honored Buddha, no one can break this state.

The following is from the “Chapter on the Pāramitā of Tranquil Contemplation (Dhyāna)” in the “Assembly of the Bodhisattva Treasury” of the Mahāratnakūṭa Sūtra, in gist:

The sūtra states that the state of concentration realized by great bodhisattvas is exceptionally excellent and unfathomably deep; apart from bodhisattvas, no one can disrupt such samādhi.

When the bodhisattva abides in that concentration, gathered by an equal mind, that state is called samāhita—mind fixed on a single object, abiding in one-pointedness. It further says: Śāriputra, the meditative absorption that great bodhisattvas obtain through the perfection of tranquil contemplation (dhyāna pāramitā)—the path of practice that reaches the other shore through meditation—is subtle and profound; only wisdom can enter it, and it may also be called samāpanna. This sublime concentration is not different from the suchness of all phenomena; it is equal and without distinction.

It also says: skillfully abiding, having realized unshakeable stability; in every deportment—walking, standing, sitting, lying, and all modes of conduct—the mind is always in samādhi, yet without discriminating “I am now in such-and-such a deportment”; the nature of mind is mature, delighting in deep concentration, the mind neither restless nor floating, far from dullness, knowing the right occasion, skillfully adapting to all worldly affairs without mixing with worldly nature; transcending the eight worldly conditions—gain and loss, fame and disgrace, praise and blame, pleasure and pain—so that afflictions and defilements cannot stain; leaving clamor behind, far from tainted object-seeking, always abiding only in the equal nature of dharmas, not abandoning deep samādhi while still manifesting all worldly activity.

The sūtra further says: through the perfection of tranquil contemplation, great bodhisattvas can enter immeasurable merit of this kind. A verse says: through tranquil contemplation and liberation reaching the other shore, diligently cultivating this practice across oceans of kalpas; mind pure, without turbidity, unstained by worldly dharmas, like the lotus. There is great tranquil concentration pervading and illuminating; this concentration is cultivated to reach the other shore… (middle omitted) … or each concentration is said to be great universal illumination, the domain of buddhas and tathāgatas; realizing such silent concentration, and countless other immeasurable merits. Cultivating tranquil contemplation to the other shore, bodhisattva merit is vast and immeasurable; in going and staying one always roams the realm of tranquil contemplation, mind undisturbed, ever serene; whether moving or lying down, all is in samādhi—no deportment is outside concentration; in samādhi one can also utter a great voice, because the nature of all dharmas is eternally silent, without odd discrimination, without grasping at mastery, without self, without life, without discrimination—such and other merit immeasurable and boundless, an ocean of merit beyond reckoning. The wise bodhisattva, pitying sentient beings, cultivates tranquil contemplation to the other shore.

Plain-Language Reading of Collection of Heavenly Joy

On Dhyana-Samadhi

A verse in the Avatamsaka Sutra says: From the very first act of making offerings to the buddhas, one cultivates gentle forbearance; one enters deep samadhi and contemplates the true character of all dharmas. It also says: All buddhas are the equal great muni (i.e., the Buddha); diligently cultivating samadhi, one realizes the mark of nonduality; the mind ever abides in concentration and enjoys quiescence—whoever can universally illuminate everything walks this path.

A verse in the Sutra of Complete Enlightenment says: Voice-of-Disputation Bodhisattva, you should know that the unobstructed pure wisdom of all bodhisattvas is produced in dependence on dhyana-samadhi.

Chan Master Daoshi said: Supernormal powers and extraordinary accomplishments cannot arise without a settled meditative state; the root of wisdom free of outflows will not manifest except in stillness. Hence the sutras say: By deeply cultivating dhyana-samadhi, one may obtain the five superknowledges. When the mind rests on a single object, that is the mark of samadhi. Gather the mind in one place, and even a tiger may crouch before your knees; the “conch-top knot immortal” (a type of ascetic) could have birds that nested on him alight on his head—by this one knows that great bodhisattvas constantly practice seated meditation; they do not wait until afflictions are utterly cut off before entering nirvana.

It is said that when Subhuti was seated in meditation, flowers rained from the sky. In the Five Dynasties, Chan Master Yongming Yanshou practiced samadhi for ninety days on Tiantai’s Tianzhu Peak—again the path of “entering nirvana without first severing afflictions.” On ninety days of samadhi on Tianzhu Peak, Yongming Yanshou is said to have seen Bodhisattva Guanyin anoint his head with sweet dew, whereby he gained unobstructed eloquence. In the Sui, Master Zhiyi of Tiantai practiced the Lotus Samadhi, entered stillness in concentration, and saw the assembly on Vulture Peak as though the Dharma gathering had not yet dispersed. In the Tang, the great master Sangha entered samadhi on the central terrace of Qingliang Mountain in the open wild; flowers clustered around his knees, and only after seven days did he rise.

The sublime states within samadhi—even if one used the ocean for ink, they could hardly all be written; here only one or two examples are offered to awaken faith.

75. Forgetting Is Most Divine

When samadhi reaches its utmost, one enters the “samadhi of no-mind”: neither clinging to being nor to nonbeing—this is called wondrous forgetting.

Yan Hui’s “sitting in forgetfulness”—forgetting the body, sloughing off clever knowing, merging with the Great Way—Confucius bowed to inquire, bowed again, until both extremes were exhausted: this is what the Confucian tradition calls “forgetting.”

Tan Zi's Huashu says: Only when you forget attachment to the bodily form can you nourish Qi; only when you forget attachment to Qi can you nourish Shen; when you even forget attachment to Shen, you can nourish emptiness (xu). When emptiness and fullness interpenetrate, this is called “Great Unity” (datong).

Yuchan Weng says: Forgetting the form to nourish qi belongs to the path of “Golden Fluid” (jinye); not giving rise to emotional fixation toward outer conditions is “Great Return” (dahuan); forgetting the form so qi transforms, and qi in turn transforms into Shen—the Great Dao then passes through the Three Passes (sanguan, the key gates in practice where jing, qi, and shen successively transform).

Cao Wenyi says: When yin and yang blend into one, and then even that “one” is forgotten, you can rise and fall together with primordial transformation. She also says: This way is easy to understand but hard to carry out; when practice reaches “forgetting what one is doing,” the Dao passes through the Three Passes / the work of the Dao is complete.

Sun Buer says: When qi again flows through the Three Isles (sandao, key loci or realms in the body related to cultivation), and Shen is forgotten, one merges with the Great Void. She also says: Forget Shen and there is nothing to cling to; when you unite at the utmost point, both emptiness and being are left behind.

Lü Zu says: Pine wind intoxicates one—twofold forgetting of clever contrivance; stilling thought and forgetting contrivance, one accords with nature; seeking truth in stillness—the true must be still; the heart goes from “forgetting” to “forgetting forgetting”; from there one spirit silently attunes, the Great Void is pure and still—forgetting form.

Sanfeng Weng says: Facing the scene, forget feeling—play with the moon’s splendor; in the immortal chamber, blood and qi are wholly forgotten—the precious cauldron and golden furnace need not be watched.

Li Qing’an says: Suddenly forget self and things—the Three Flowers gather; in the world, forget contrivance and let affairs run their course; harmonize with light and blend with the common—forget self and others; what precedes the Image of the Emperor, only you yourself know.

Ziyang Weng says: When the realm is forgotten and feeling exhausted, rely on heavenly truth, to verify the dharma-patience of non-arising.

Chiwen Donggu Jing says: Forget the eyes and light overflows without limit; forget the ears and heart-knowing stays ever deep; when both faculties are forgotten, that is the gate that cuts off all marvels.

Yushu Jing says: When wisdom-light arises one becomes one with the Dao—this is called “true forgetting” (zhenwang).

The above concerns “forgetting” as taught in Xuanzong (the internal cultivation line of Daoism): not muddle-headedness, but in practice progressively releasing grasping at form, qi, shen, and outer realms, so emptiness opens to fullness and one unites with the Dao.

Chan Master Huangbo said: Only when both mind and environment are released on both sides is it the true method. Forgetting the outer environment is still relatively easy; forgetting the mind is the hardest.

Master Sengcan (the third patriarch of Chan) said: Within the substance and function of “suchness,” penetrate the subtle principle and rest unmoved, forgetting all grasping at conditions. He also said: The utterly small and the utterly large are originally one body; one must realize this in the state where conditions are forgotten.

Master Zhenjue said: If thoughts do not turn with conditions and can come to rest, one has not yet left the dust of the world; if the dust of conditions does not arise with thoughts and can come to rest, one has not yet left thoughts. When dust ceases and thoughts also cease, that is true forgetting; when thoughts cease and dust also ceases, that is true forgetting. Forgetting the dust and ceasing—ceasing until there is no “I who cease”; ceasing thoughts and forgetting—forgetting until there is no “I who forget.” The outer environment no longer stands opposed to the mind—not by forcibly suppressing opposition, but because opposition naturally falls away. Thoughts also cease until there is no “I who cease thoughts”; where thoughts are extinguished, it is not knowing by the discriminating mind, but the nature of non-knowing that is not ignorance—this is not the dead stillness of wood or stone. This is the initial ground of entering the path; to truly grasp it is extremely difficult.

Master Huangpan (or the same Huangbo line) said: Simply cease thoughts and forget the mind, become one with the Dharma realm, and you attain freedom.

The above is what Chan means by “forgetting”: one must in the present moment suddenly forget all distinctions of delusion and awakening before one can pass the final barrier—not abiding on the side of “awakening that comes later,” but merging darkly with the awakening that is originally present.

(The passage from Master Zhenjue repeats some sentences with the same meaning; in plain language it need only be stated once.)

The character wang (“forgetting”) is the most wondrous in cultivation, and also the most powerful. When Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism reach the utmost in practice and realization, all gain strength through wang. Only through wang does the split between subject and object empty out, so one can break free of old patterns; only through wang do emotional clinging and discriminating thought quiet down, and inner and outer merge into one; only through wang does meditative stability deepen and the embryo of the Dao reach completion.

The late master said: “If students take wang as the guiding thread, results come as easily as splitting bamboo. Ten thousand people study the Dao, and ten thousand miss the point—the one thing worth cherishing is this single word wang.”

Yuanming jushi said: “Worldly learning cannot be mastered without pushing the mind to the limit; the method of leaving the world cannot be penetrated without reaching the utmost of wuxin (no-mind).” That hits the mark. What is called “the utmost of no-mind” is the state of wang: the three times (past, present, and future) flow as one, and myriad entanglements are clear and still—only then can one enter the gate of manifold subtleties and accord with the true, constant Great Dao.

The Purple Clarity immortal, in the Treatise on Revealing the Secret of the Mysterious Pass, cites Master Tan: forget the body to nourish qi, forget qi to nourish shen (spirit), forget shen to nourish emptiness—the crux is this word wang, which is also “nothingness.” Originally there is not a single thing—where could dust alight? If one can grasp this principle and work on the word wang, one can enter the subtlety of the Great Dao, seize the wonder of nature, in an instant lay the foundation of the elixir, and in one body wield creation and transformation.

Again, the main drift of the Commentary on the Moral Treasure Chapters is to arrive at forgetting things, forgetting self, forgetting mind, forgetting nature, forgetting form, forgetting spirit, and forgetting words; unless one has deeply penetrated the Dao, one cannot speak at this level.

Tianle Ji says: Cultivating the Dao is not really difficult; what is hard is achieving complete forgetting (hunwang)—letting go of attachment and the mind that splits things apart. Zhuangzi returns again and again to the usefulness of “forgetting.” Examples follow.

Those who nurture aspiration forget the body’s burdens; those who nurture the body forget calculations of profit; those who seek the Dao forget idle thoughts in the heart. Fish in rivers and lakes forget one another in their mutual ease; people in the arts of the Dao forget one another in the same way. Forget outer things, forget Heaven’s mandate—this is forgetting the self; only one who can forget the self is said to enter into Heaven. No “nothing” and no “something” either; when the heart is tranquil without limit (danran wuji), every kind of good naturally follows. When the spring dries up, fish crowd on dry land, moistening one another with dampness and keeping each other alive with spit—how much better to return each to rivers and lakes and forget one another there. Rather than praising Yao and condemning Jie, better to forget right and wrong and let the Great Dao nurture all. Who can ascend to Heaven, wander in mist, turn in the boundless, live by mutual forgetting without end? The fish trap (quan) exists to catch fish; once you have the fish, forget the trap. The snare (ti) exists to catch rabbits; once you have the rabbit, forget the snare. Words exist to carry meaning; once meaning is grasped, forget the words. Where can I find someone who has forgotten words, to talk with? Shed the body, spit out cleverness, forget distinctions together with the ten thousand kinds of things, and merge in great sameness with the vast, undifferentiated realm (xingming). One must fast (zhai) to still the heart: fast three days and dare not think of rewards, titles, or stipends; fast five days and dare not think of right and wrong, skill or clumsiness; fast seven days, and suddenly one has forgotten that there are even four limbs and a body. Forget the feet, and shoes fit; forget the waist, and the belt sits right. The inner self unchanged, outer things not followed—what comes before the eyes naturally fits. At first one feels the fit; later even “fit” is forgotten—that is forgetting the fittingness of what fits. Forget liver and gall, cast off ears and eyes, wander lost outside the dust, roam free in the work of Wuwei (non-action). Forget years, forget duty, rouse oneself in what has no end—therefore one lodges in the endless. Such a person’s heart has already forgotten. Forgetting, then returning again; then, not feeding when called yet forgetting others—forgetting others draws one near to being a Heavenly Person (tianren). It is not that they will not tell me—they want to speak from the heart but forget. I learn from you in deep forgetfulness; you learn from me in deep forgetfulness—even so, why should you worry? Though the old self is forgotten, something unforgetting (true, constant nature) still abides.

(The above follows the sense of Zhuangzi, showing that cultivation takes “forgetting” as essential: forget form, profit, and mind, even to the point of forgetting words and forgetting “fit”—only then does one align with the Dao.)

Zhuangzi is perhaps the finest expositor of the subtle power of the word wang—“forgetting.” Inwardly one forgets liver and gall (that is, inner temperament and fixations); outwardly one forgets others and self. When nothing cannot be forgotten, nothing cannot be possessed; when the mind is calmly without limit, every kind of goodness arrives of itself—unless it is the most sublime state under heaven, who could reach this?

In Xiaoyao You (Free and Easy Wandering), “the perfect person has no self” means forgetting “I.” At the opening of Qiwu Lun (Discourse on Making Things Equal), Nanzi Ji of the wall “answered as if he had lost his counterpart,” and again, “today I have lost myself”—forgetting the bodily form and the fixed “I.”

Renjian Shi (In the Human World) reveals the secret of Yan Hui’s “heart-mind fasting”: “Before Hui had truly received instruction, there was indeed a Hui; once he had received it, there was no longer a Hui—can this be called empty?” Here body and mind are forgotten together.

Da Zongshi (The Great Ancestral Teacher) reveals “forgetting the world, forgetting things, forgetting life”—forgetting everything inner and outer; it also shows Yan Hui’s “sitting in forgetfulness,” merging with the Great Thoroughfare, because long practice of forgetting both body-mind and inner-outer suddenly realizes the wonder of inner and outer, body and mind as one.

Zai You reveals “great unity without self”; Tiandi (Heaven and Earth) reveals “xiangwang obtains the pearl”—all are subtle work on the character wang. One may say that Zhuangzi as a whole reaches its peak in this single word wang. If one can truly reach the state of forgetting both aspects of mind, entry into the one true dharma realm is not far off.

The profound teachings of internal alchemy (xuanzong) take ding—a mind and breath that are settled and undistracted—as their foundation, and wang (forgetting)—releasing fixation on form, qi, and spirit and the habit of splitting them apart—as their goal. Yet if between heart and breath there is still something you “do not forget,” you have not reached true ding. One can say that from beginning to end on the path of the elixir, a single word, wang, sums it all up; there is no exception.

When refining Jing (essence) to transform Qi, if you cannot forget form—not clinging to the body or following wandering desires—you easily lose essence. When refining Qi to transform Shen (spirit), if you cannot forget qi—not treating qi as something to grasp or guard—you easily lose qi. Jade Toad Elder (Yuchan Weng), in his Poem on the Elixir Not Completing, wrote: “At midnight suddenly wind and thunder; smoke and vapor fill the empty vastness. Such feeling and flavor—like a mute biting through his tongue”—painting the agony of deviated fire and chaotic qi; it stands as a warning.

When you reach refining Shen to return to xu (emptiness), if you cannot forget shen—not holding fast to the self-image of “spirit”—you cannot merge with the Great Void, nor will you know the verification of “the dharma-body shattered, filling all of empty space.”

Therefore Master Tan (Tan Qiao), in the “Dao Transformation” chapter of the Book of Transformation (Huashu), runs all three layers of practice—nourishing qi, nourishing spirit, and nourishing emptiness—through a single thread: wang. Among those who have spoken of the profound teaching through the ages, few have been as precise and concise.

In general, whether in innate cultivation or acquired practice, if you never reach the state of wang, true transformation cannot occur. Hence Zhuangzi says: “You must forget your spirit and qi—then you are getting close!” Is this not what Cao Wenyi (the female elixir master) meant by “blend into one (heart and breath mutually relying), then forget that one (heart and breath both forgotten)—and you can rise and sink with primal transformation”?

Students of the profound teaching often know only the benefit of uniting heart and breath, and do not know that when heart and breath together dissolve into total forgetting, that is the wonder within wonder—for without forgetting there is no true ding. The principle here is both deep and subtle.

Plain-Language Reading of Tianle Collection

Fire phases in the Mystic School (how internal alchemy [Neidan] speaks of huohou, “fire timing”): If one character were used to pierce the main point, it could be unpacked in four layers: first harmony (he), then intoxication (zui), next stillness (ding), and finally forgetting (wang). Yet within “harmony” there is already “stillness”; within “stillness” there is already “intoxication”; within “intoxication” there is already “forgetting.” Consider someone thoroughly drunk who falls from a carriage yet often does not injure the body—because in drunkenness heart and breath are both forgotten (xinxierwang: neither mind nor breathing is grasped or held apart). If the postnatal state can be like this, how much more so the pre-heaven (xiantian)—the undifferentiated prenatal qi and original condition! So although four words are distinguished, in practice they can contain and penetrate one another. Alas! The crux of cultivation can be said to be laid bare here.

Chan Master Yulin Xi of the early Qing was a eminent monk; his Guest’s Questions (Ke Wen) strongly highlights a single word: “forget.” He writes: “If you cannot forget the body, you cannot study the Way; if you cannot forget the mind, you cannot study the Way; if you cannot forget the world, you cannot study the Way. If fame cannot be forgotten, you cannot study the Way; if profit cannot be forgotten, you cannot study the Way. If wife, children, and kin cannot be forgotten, you cannot study the Way; if home and livelihood cannot be forgotten, you cannot study the Way; if views and knowing cannot be forgotten, you cannot study the Way; if memorized learning cannot be forgotten, you cannot study the Way.” Only when inside and outside, body and mind, are forgotten altogether and everything is released—when the dusty world is forgotten in one great sweep—can one draw daily nearer to the Dao. At the beginning of Mystic School practice, heart and breath mutually rely (xinxixiangyi): heart and breathing stay paired and do not part. If one does not reach the level of twofold forgetting, even sleep is impossible; if sleep is not yet possible, how much less stillness (ding)? Thus the word “forget” is most subtle and potent.

76. Leisure Is Most Precious

What is “leisure” (xian)? It means the body and mind are free and unburdened—without miscellaneous tasks, disturbance, or fatigue—and also carry a sense of calm ease and comfort. The Zhuangzi says: “Can we be together in non-action? Plain and quiet? Vast and clear? Harmonized and at leisure?” That is the idea.

There are broadly three realms and flavors of “leisure” (xian) on the path of learning the Dao.

The first is tranquil leisure (xianjing). It means that the practitioner outwardly ceases all kinds of grasping and clinging, fixes the mind in concentration, and within gives rise to stillness, clarity, and stability—putting to rest the turmoil of worldly toil. Only then has one truly begun to enter the Way.

The second is secluded leisure (youxian). The “recluse” (youren) in poetry is one who withdraws to mountain peaks and river margins, content in solitude, seeking no fame, not contending with kings and lords, passing the days in free ease: rising and falling with the white clouds, as unrestrained as water birds. This is what is called the “Daoist who has nothing to do.” If one has already laid the foundation in Neidan (internal alchemy) practice, such an environment is especially suited to nurturing the “sacred embryo”—the innate spirit condensed in the course of inner elixir accomplishment, likened to a fetus that must be nourished in the mother’s womb. Even to remain a lofty hermit for decades, unless one sees through the glitter of rank and wealth and settles the heart in simplicity, is hard to achieve. Long ago, Chan Master Zuoxi Shanlang wrote to Chan Master Yongjia Jue, describing life in the mountains: “Since coming to Lingxi, my mind has been at peace; on high peaks I often take my staff and wander in contemplation, or sit in stone chambers and cliff niches, brushing cloth and cushion. Among green pines and jade pools the bright moon shines of itself; the wind sweeps the white clouds and the gaze reaches a thousand li; famous flowers and fragrant fruit are brought by peak birds; the gibbons’ long cries are heard near and far; I take the hoe for a pillow and fine grass for a mat. All the strife of the world is nothing but contention over ‘self and other’; only when the heart-mind has not yet arrived does one rush about so. If you can steal even a sliver of time, I would welcome your visit.” From this one may glimpse something of the flavor of “secluded leisure.”

The third is easy leisure (qingxian). What Chen Xi Yi (Chen Tuan, the famous Daoist of the Five Dynasties and early Song, renowned for sleep meditation and quiet non-action) expressed in verse points to the same idea: the strife of the world is mostly competition tied to self and other; when the heart-mind has not yet penetrated, one can only be trapped in it. If one can become idle and no longer be entangled by these things, that is “easy leisure”—body and mind without affairs, not enslaved by fame and gain, finding joy in simplicity and stillness. This runs in one vein with dwelling in seclusion among mountains and outwardly quieting all conditions; it only stresses more a mind at leisure, few affairs, and not letting worldly toil fill one’s days.

The Collection of Heavenly Joy · Part Three: On True Leisure

This third section treats “true leisure.” Chen Xiqi (Chen Tuan) wrote in verse: I look at people in the world—all rush about like fire; if that rush is not for nurturing life, a little busyness might be excusable. Shao Yaofu (Shao Yong) said: Across a thousand miles it is hard to keep both eyes forever clear and still; live a hundred years and you may never meet someone who has truly settled into leisure. He also said: Water follows its course while the scene stays quiet; flowers fall often yet the mind stays at ease—not like people in the world, who grow old inside “busyness” and never really smile in a lifetime. Zhou Maoshu (Zhou Dunyi) said: In the red dust of daylight there are no idle people to begin with, and all the more when official rank and salary (the “fish-red” of official dress) tie them down. Chen Baisha (Chen Xianzhang) said: Both market and mountain forest have work to do; what keeps modern people frantic, the ancients could meet in leisure. So the blessing of true leisure is the hardest to obtain. People run all day and fret all year; body and mind never know a moment’s rest. Those who can enjoy the blessing of leisure and quiet are only those who cultivate the Way. Hence the ancients said: Toil a whole life—only among monks is there relative freedom from affairs; once you awaken to the true vehicle, old age is even more leisurely; in a garden of three paths, Chan nature remains; in a hut of wind and moon, the heart of the Dao returns. The Qing Emperor Shizu said: A human life is a hundred years—thirty-six thousand days—yet that does not equal half a day’s leisure in a monastic life. Jade Toad Elder (Bai Yuchan) said: In one thing alone I surpass others—even emperors do not know this kind of leisure.

Those who can enjoy the blessing of leisure do so because they want nothing in the breast, open the heart and empty it to the utmost; thus they can let go and return to the mountains, live plainly in quiet, be content and secure, expand freely and adjust with ease, and find subtle use sufficient unto itself. Chan Master Weizhongfu wrote in verse: Zhang Liang neither sought a fief nor would leave his fame hanging in the imperial tower; he only gained an idle body free of affairs, and often wandered by the water with Chisongzi (Red Pine). What Master Xuanjue of Yongjia meant by “a leisurely person of the Way who has ceased learning and acts without contrivance (wuwei)” is exactly this. The ancients said: A leisurely person of the Way accords with the Dao, is not bound by dust and toil, sees through a thousand years with the eyes while the heart rests in a single realm, nourishes the holy embryo (shengtai) by water and under trees, roams at ease with moonlight, and is self-so with the sound of springs—hence the name: one who has ceased learning, acts without contrivance, and is a leisurely person of the Way.

In the Song dynasty, Du Wenyuan, in his Suìjīn Piān (Fragmentary Gold), was asked what pleasure there is in quiet living. He replied: to harmonize the breath of great harmony (Taihe), to follow one’s innate disposition and wander freely, to listen to the murmur of springs and feel at ease—hence the name “reclusive adept of non-learning and wuwei (non-action).”

The same work records another exchange on the joy of quiet living. The answer: to tune and smooth the qi of great harmony, to savor the flavor of what is genuinely natural, to probe subtle and hidden teachings, and to roam along the highest path of the Way—with Zhuangzi’s lofty spirit, taking creation itself as teacher and friend, while also drawing on the fine points of Buddhism (Zhuqian) to cleanse and refine spirit (Shen). The author holds that one who can still thoughts and achieve “double cessation”—both discursive thinking and grasping at objects stilled—who roams in the “Country of Nowhere,” drifting in vast emptiness, has reached what Zhuangzi called the supreme wandering of forgetting all fittingness.

Leisure is difficult; the difficulty lies in having both body and mind at leisure. If the body is idle but the mind is not, with thoughts surging and companions stirring the mind, one can hardly be called truly at leisure. A step above that is when the mind is at leisure though the body is not—as when Confucius traveled the states, which still falls short of Vimalakīrti in Vaiśālī manifesting illness as a teaching device. Only when body and mind are both at leisure—as when the World-Honored One rests in the great sea of quiescent nirvana—is one at the very top. Lü Dongbin said: “One day of clear leisure, one day a immortal; the six spirits in harmony, naturally at peace.” Master Yinshan said: “Three thatched rooms have always been my home; one ray of divine light, ten thousand realms at rest.” Chan master Yongming Yanshou said: “Best of all, in stillness not a single affair—only then, at ease, does the sprout of the Way grow long”—such a one is called a “non-affairs adept,” a rarity indeed.

Leisure of both body and mind suits the pursuit of the Way best. With heart and breath tuned as one, one roams the Country of Nowhere and enters xiyi—the realm of rarefied stillness without images.

When body and mind are both at ease and untroubled, that is the most fitting condition for cultivating the Dao. When heart-mind and breath are harmonized as one, one can roam freely and at ease, entering the “Village of Not-Anything” and the realm of xiyi—empty silence and undifferentiated formlessness. Zhuangzi calls this state tianyou (the spirit roaming freely in the Dao). Master Zhi said: “In formless radiance one can always be at ease.” Yuanywu said: “Enter the realm of equality and leisure.” He also said: “Together enter the sea of Wuwei, non-activity, and dharma-nature.” These all express the essence of tianyou. Hence Zhuangzi says: “If the heart-mind does not have tianyou, the six obstructions will contend with one another and disturb the heart-mind.”

When outer circumstances do not stir one, the body is settled; when the inner mind is still, the heart-mind is settled. Leisure in body and mind is the foundation of entering the Dao; emptiness and stillness in body and mind are the opening of entering the Dao. Only when one can be still can meditative concentration (ding) arise; in sum, take xian (leisure, untroubled ease) as the condition for entering the Dao.

Chan Master Dongshan said: “Release your grip and sit upright in stillness; white clouds sink deep into ease”—this is the kind of leisurely delight spoken of in Chan. Patriarch Lü said: “Do not say the recluse has nothing to do—in ease there is ample room for quiet cultivation. Shut the door, read through the bright hours of day, sweep the floor, burn incense, until the hour of sunset.” Zhuangzi said: “Such a person’s heart is at ease and unburdened by affairs.” Elder Jade Toad said: “One who dwells in pure ease has nothing weighing on the mind.” Su Dongpo said: “The perfected person awakens to a single word; the Way gathers from inner emptiness. When the heart is at ease it turns and illumines itself, bright as the hibiscus.” Elder Sanfeng said: “A stir in stillness is still not true stillness; only one who can rest at ease within ease is truly at ease”—this is the leisurely delight spoken of on the Daoist path. Shao Yao-fu said: “The flavor of ease is genuine; what is genuine is the mind of heaven’s people.” He also said: “In ease, observe how years wax and wane; in quiet, shine the cosmos upon being and non-being.” And again: “Settle the body in stillness to watch human affairs; in relaxed ease refine the disposition of things. When waves are gone, only still water remains—what affair under heaven cannot be settled?” Zhou Mao-shu said: “Ease alone makes the true gentleman; busyness is only the toil of the living.” Wang Yangming said: “In ease the heart-ground is like empty water; after quiet the subtle workings of heaven appear in what is hidden”—this is the leisurely delight spoken of in the Confucian tradition. Our Buddha, the World-Honored One, fully realized bodhi, abiding in constant joy—look to this as ultimate peace and ease.

The Great Change’s Sequence of the Hexagrams says: “Dun means retreat.”

The Sequence of Hexagrams in the Book of Changes says: “Dùn means withdrawal into seclusion.” The Dùn hexagram also says: “When retreat is well timed, the noble person (junzi) is auspicious; the petty person is not.” It further says: “Beautiful retreat at the right time—holding to correctness brings good fortune”; and “Retreat with ease and abundance—nothing is unfavorable.” The Image commentary on the Great Excess hexagram says: “Thus the noble person stands alone without fear, and withdraws among the world without vexation.” The Doctrine of the Mean says: “The noble person follows the Mean, withdraws among the world though ununderstood yet without regret—only the sage can do this.” Confucian praise of the virtue of retreat can be said to reach an extreme.

In the Laozi, “wearing coarse cloth while embracing jade in the breast” is also dùn; “when the work is done, withdraw the person” is also dùn; “blending with the light, mingling with the dust” is also dùn. For the most part, however, these are ways of leaving the world or of getting along in the world—not yet the ultimate of dùn. Only when one truly gathers spirit and mind into the “energy acu-points” (qìxué)— vital centers such as the Dantian—and nurtures them with steady warmth, retreating and storing them in the innermost hidden place, until at last one dissolves together with the breath, enters true emptiness, and returns to the great void, with body and mind still and silent, root and object, inner and outer, all extinguished without remainder—only then is it called dùn of both body and mind: wholly without trace, nowhere to be found, like an antelope hanging by its horns—that is the supreme realm of dùn. What the Changes calls “beautiful retreat” (jiā dùn) and “ample retreat” (féi dùn) also carries this meaning. Hence Zhuangzi says: “The Celestial Gate is originally without being; yet in that non-being there is being, and there the sage keeps guard.” The Cantong qi says: “Originally hidden, then made clear—turn inward and illumine the bodily form.” It also says: “Between dark and new moon, the tally meets in the middle course; chaos and primordial mist, female and male follow each other; moistening essence and fluid, circulation in practice; heaven, earth, and spirit cannot be measured; use it to settle the body, hide form and store away.” Yang Xiong’s Classic of the Great Mystery says: “Hide the heart in the deep abyss, to beautify its numinous root.” This is the true work of retreat and concealment in the Xuánzōng (the inner-alchemy line of the Mysterious Teaching)—not the idea that dùn means merely hiding in mountains and places where no human tracks go.

Chapter Seventy-Eight: Taking Compassion as Most Beautiful, Guarding the Spiritual Root

This chapter explains what the profound teaching of Lao-zi really means by “withdrawal” and “concealment.” It is not that one must flee to deep mountains and empty wilds with no one around—that alone is not what “hidden withdrawal” (dun) is about.

Chapter Seventy-Eight: Compassion Is Most Auspicious

Among the Three Treasures that Lao-zi speaks of, he puts compassion (ci) first. The classic says: “Because of compassion, one can be brave”; it also says: “Use compassion in battle and you will prevail; use it in defense and you will hold firm. When Heaven would save someone, it protects them with compassion”; and again: “Therefore the sage is always good at saving people, and so abandons no one; always good at saving things, and so abandons nothing. When the sage is in the world, he makes the hearts of all under Heaven simple and one; the people all turn their ears and eyes to him, and the sage treats the multitude like children.” It also says: “Repay enmity with De (virtue/power); the good I treat well, the not-good I also treat well—this is goodness in De.” All of this describes the practice of the samadhi of great compassion. Bodhisattvas cultivate the Four Immeasurables (ci, bei, xi, she—compassion, loving-kindness, empathetic joy, and equanimity), and likewise take compassion as the lead—enough to show that Buddha and Lao-zi meet on this point. Those who study immortality extend benevolence even to insects and ants, and do not harm sentient beings; with a compassionate heart they gather in all living beings, teaching each according to their capacity so that they gradually leave the sea of birth and death and at last reach the far shore of the Dao—only thus do they enter Lao-zi’s gate of “great compassion” and raise the banner of the orthodox teaching of the one beneath the pillar (Laozi).

The “Ten Kinds of Compassion” in the Avatamsaka Sutra, Chapter on Leaving the World, deeply accord with beings and teach each according to their roots so that they gradually leave the sea of birth and death and reach the far shore—this too can embody Lao-zi’s path of great compassion and serve as the banner of the orthodox teaching of the one beneath the pillar.

From the Avatamsaka Sutra, “Chapter on Leaving the World” (Lí Shìjiān Pǐn): the bodhisattva’s ten kinds of “pure compassion” (qīngjìng cí) are often taken as the Mahayana model of great compassion and saving beings, and in degenerate times they can serve as a path for guiding practitioners.

The sutra says: the bodhisattva has ten kinds of pure compassion. What are the ten?

1. Pure compassion of equal mind: With an equal mind toward all, embracing every being without picking and choosing, without rejecting anyone.

2. Pure compassion that benefits others: In whatever one does, one always brings beings real benefit and heartfelt joy.

3. Pure compassion that treats beings as oneself: One sees others and oneself as the same, ultimately intending that all be freed from birth and death.

4. Pure compassion that does not abandon the world: One does not cast off the world; the mind always remembers it and accumulates wholesome roots.

5. Pure compassion that leads to liberation: One can guide beings toward liberation and broadly help them extinguish all afflictions.

6. Pure compassion that gives rise to bodhi: One awakens in beings the mind that seeks omniscience—the wisdom of a buddha.

7. Pure compassion unobstructed in the world: Unfettered in the world, one radiates great light and shines equally on all.

8. Pure compassion filling empty space: Compassion fills all of space; one protects beings so that no place is left out.

9. Pure compassion linked to the Dharma: Compassion arises from the true Dharma and realizes the suchness of true principle.

10. Pure compassion without conditions: Compassion arises without clinging to the marks of causes and conditions; one enters bodhi and accords with the nature beyond birth and extinction.

Together these are ten. When the bodhisattva abides in this Dharma, he or she can fully embody the Tathagata’s supreme, vast, and pure mind of compassion.

Author’s note: When Laozi says that “to the good I am good, and to the not-good I am also good,” is this not what the Avatamsaka Sūtra calls “embracing all beings universally, without picking and choosing”? When he says “constantly skilled at saving people, therefore abandoning no one; constantly skilled at saving things, therefore abandoning nothing,” is this not “rescuing beings everywhere, leaving no place unreached”? When he speaks of “making the hearts of all under heaven simple and plain,” returning people to the innocence of an infant and the forgetfulness of a newborn— is this not “not forsaking the world, practicing compassion with a pure mind”? When he says “constant virtue does not leave people, constant virtue makes no mistake, returning to the limitless, returning to nothingness”— is this not “compassion that is liberating and pure”? When he speaks of “without knowledge, without desire, holding to the plain and embracing simplicity, taking purity as the standard for all under heaven; who can in turbidity slowly clarify it? … even to saying ‘reach the utmost emptiness, guard stillness earnestly; the ten thousand things arise together, I thereby observe their return. The ten thousand things flourish in confusion, each returns to its root. Returning to the root is called stillness; stillness is called returning to destiny; returning to destiny is called the constant; knowing the constant is called clarity’”— is this not “pure through connection with the Dharma”? “Dwelling in a good place, mind good as an abyss, associating with good benevolence, speech good as trustworthiness, governance good as order, affairs good as capability, movement good at timing”— these seven points are all “the highest good is like water; water benefits the ten thousand things without contending, achieves success yet does not dwell on it”— is this not “pure compassion without conditions”? From this it is clear that Laozi takes “great compassion” as the path of practice, in deep accord with the Avatamsaka Sūtra.

In the Avatamsaka Sūtra, Gandavyūha chapter, Sudhana’s eighteenth visit, in the great city of Splendid Light he meets King Great Light, who expounds for him the practice gate of the “Banner of Great Compassion.”

This passage comes from the Tianle Ji (Collection of Heavenly Joy), written by Liu Chuxuan, a Quanzhen (Complete Perfection) Daoist priest of the Jin dynasty. It treats the eighteenth stage of Sudhana’s pilgrimage in the “Entering the Dharma Realm” chapter of the Avatamsaka Sutra (Flower Garland Sutra): in the City of Wondrous Light the youth pays homage to the Great King of Radiant Light and hears the king expound the bodhisattva practice known as the “Great Compassion Banner” (Da Ci Zhuang). The author holds that this aligns with Laozi’s teaching to put compassion (ci) first and to lift beings from suffering and give them joy, and marvels that the responsive power of great compassion is beyond words—the very fullness of the Buddhist way of transforming and saving sentient beings. The gist of the scripture is as follows.

At that time the Great King of Radiant Light said to Sudhana: “Good man, I have purified my practice and fully perfected the bodhisattva conduct of the Great Compassion Banner. Good man, at the places of immeasurable, incalculable, and even unspeakably unspeakable buddhas I have questioned, contemplated, observed, cultivated, and adorned my mind with this dharma-gate. Good man, I rely on this method to be sovereign, to instruct and command, to gather and hold, to accord with the world, to guide sentient beings, to set them to practice, to lead them to enter, to meet them with skillful means, to imbue them with its fragrance, to rouse them to action, to settle them in contemplation of the self-nature of all dharmas, and to settle them in a mind of kindness—taking compassion and kindness as the mainstay, fully possessing the power of compassion and kindness, so that beings abide in minds of benefit, ease, pity, gathering-in, guarding, and not abandoning, as well as in the mind of unceasingly extracting them from suffering. By this dharma I enable all sentient beings ultimately to attain happiness, always to rejoice in themselves, as when the body is free of every pain; their minds become pure, they cut off attachment to birth and death, they delight in the joy of the true dharma, wash away the defilements of afflictions, break evil karmic obstructions, sever the stream of birth and death, enter the ocean of the true dharma, cut off the nature of all existence, aspire to omniscience, purify the ocean of their minds, and give rise to indestructible faith. Good man, I have already settled in this conduct of the Great Compassion Banner and can transform the world through the true dharma. Good man, among all sentient beings in my realm, none who come before me need feel terror.”

(Sudhana is the youth who seeks the dharma in the Avatamsaka Sutra; “Great Compassion Banner” is a metaphor for bodhisattva conduct that takes great compassion as its standard; a bodhisattva is one who seeks awakening and leads sentient beings to liberation.)

Virtuous men: if there are beings who are poor and in distress and come to me seeking what they need, I open the storehouses and let them take freely, and I admonish them: do not commit the various evils, do not harm living beings, do not give rise to wrong views of every kind, and do not cling or grasp. You are in want; whatever you require, you may come to me and to the four paths to receive it—all provisions and goods of every sort are fully supplied; take as you will, without hesitation.

Virtuous men, the beings of this land live in the age of the five defilements and for the most part delight in doing evil. My heart pities them and I wish to rescue and protect them, so I enter the samādhi gate that “takes the bodhisattva’s great compassion as foremost and accords with the world.” When one enters this samādhi, the fear, torment, demonic foes, and contentious minds in those beings’ hearts all cease of themselves. Why? Because when one enters the samādhi in which the bodhisattva’s great compassion is foremost and one accords with the world, the Dharma is naturally so.

Virtuous men, wait a little—you will soon see for yourselves: King Great Light will at once enter this concentration. Within the city the six kinds of tremors occur; treasure grounds, treasure walls, treasure halls, treasure palaces, terraces, towers, stairways, doors, and windows—every place gives forth wondrous sounds and all bow toward the Great King. Every inhabitant of Wondrous Light City without exception rejoices and leaps for joy at the same time and goes before the King to prostrate body and mind. People from villages, camps, towns, and cities likewise come to see the King, rejoicing and paying homage. Birds and beasts near where the King dwells, as they look upon one another, give rise to minds of compassion and together bow in reverence before the King.

This passage depicts a solemn scene in which the entire cosmos offers homage and offerings to a “king”—usually understood as the Buddha or a sage-king of great spiritual power.

Mountains, rivers, and plants: Every mountain, plain, and every kind of grass and tree turns toward this king and pays respect.

Waters and dragon kings: Ponds, springs, wells, rivers, and the great seas surge and flow toward the king. Ten thousand dragon kings who govern rainfall raise great clouds of incense; lightning flashes and thunder rolls as they send down fine, gentle rain.

Heavenly hosts and wondrous music: Led by the kings of heavens such as Trayastrimsa, Yama, Tusita, Nirmanarati, and Paranirmita-vasavartin, ten thousand heavenly kings send a light drizzle from the sky; likewise, ten thousand such heavenly kings play wondrous music in the air. Countless celestial maidens sing in praise, and they shower innumerable clouds of flowers, incense, jeweled crests (head ornaments), jeweled robes, jeweled canopies, and jeweled banners, arraying the sky in splendor as offerings to the king.

Airāvatā and celestial maidens: Airāvatā—the great elephant king ridden by Indra (Śakra)—by supernatural power spreads countless jeweled lotuses in the sky and hangs down innumerable jeweled nets, jeweled silken bands, crests, ornaments, flowers, and incense, along with countless attendant maidens who offer praise in many songs.

Jambudvīpa and submission of fierce beings: In Jambudvīpa—the southern continent where we live—there are also immeasurable hundreds of thousands of billions of rakṣasa kings, yakṣa kings, kumbhāṇḍa kings, piśāca kings, and the like, dwelling in the ocean or on land, whose nature is to drink blood, eat flesh, and harm living beings; yet even they now awaken a mind of kindness, wish to benefit others, understand retribution in future lives and refrain from evil deeds, join their palms respectfully, and bow to the king.

Throughout the ten directions: Not Jambudvīpa alone—in the other three continents (such as Pūrvavideha in the east) and throughout the three-thousand-great-thousand world-system, indeed throughout immeasurable worlds in the ten directions—all beings who were once fiercely harmful likewise clearly recognize future retribution, cease from evil, respectfully join their palms, and bow to the king.

The whole section unfolds layer by layer to show how far his virtue and authority reach: even mountains and rivers, spirits and ghosts, and violent beings change their hearts and turn in reverence. It is a typical Mahāyāna description of the auspicious signs when a king—or the Buddha—descends into the world and heaven and earth join in praise.

Great King Daguang practiced the dharma gate of the “Banner of Great Compassion” and entered the samadhi of great compassion—a state in which the mind is fixed in boundless mercy. Because of this, even plants, animals, and birds were moved to show him respect; towers and jeweled halls gave forth wondrous sounds of praise and bowed in reverence—truly beyond ordinary reckoning. When one extends great compassion through the entire dharma-realm, everything sentient and insentient within that realm resonates with it; when mental power is measureless, the power of compassion is measureless too; where response and stimulus meet, no ordinary thought can fathom it.

Now, in the final age, hearts hardened by strife turn people against one another; blood flows like rivers, and where bombs pass, cities are emptied. Unless the Buddhist path is rooted in the samadhi practice that puts “great compassion” first and moves with the world as it is, how can poisoned minds be uprooted, how can catastrophe be turned back, and how can living beings live together in mutual courtesy and peace?

Confucius said: “Repay injury with uprightness; repay kindness with kindness.” Laozi, by contrast, taught “repay injury with virtue,” treating resentment and closeness with the same measure. From this we can see that Laozi’s compassion stands above Confucius’s, and can be weighed in the same scale as our Buddha, the World-Honored One.

During the Liang dynasty, the True Person Tao Hongjing had already completed his cultivation of the Dao and was waiting for a decree from heaven to summon him for ascension, yet for a long time no such decree arrived. One day two boys in green robes descended from the sky with a white crane. The True Person thought the heavenly summons had come, but one of the boys read out a decree: the Supreme Old Lord had ordered Huan Kai to ascend—not Tao Hongjing. At that time Huan Kai was serving in attendance on the True Person. Tao said to him: “I have toiled at cultivation to the utmost; why am I still detained in the human world? Please go and ask on my behalf.”

Three days later Huan Kai came again to the True Person and said: “Your hidden virtue is already conspicuous. In the materia medica you compiled, you used gadfly larvae and leeches as medicinals. Though they could save people, they took the lives of other beings; for that reason your ascension was delayed. After one more cycle of twelve years you will be able to change form, leave the corpse behind, and depart.” The True Person then switched to plants and other drugs that could replace those that cost living creatures their lives, and wrote another materia medica; afterward he indeed achieved immortality through corpse liberation.

Again, in the Tang dynasty the True Person Sun Simiao wrote the Prescriptions Worth a Thousand Gold. An immortal descended and said to him: “The formulary you have written does considerable harm to the lives of other beings; you can only become an immortal by corpse liberation—you cannot lightly rise and ascend.” Simiao then took herbal drugs to replace remedies that used the lives of creatures such as gadfly larvae and leeches, and composed thirty chapters of the Supplement to the Thousand Gold Prescriptions.

Consider: to save people yet kill tiny living things already goes against the heart of heaven; how much more does slaughtering plump fowl and beasts to fill the belly? The sage Laozi taught people to treat others with compassion, to keep kind thoughts and protect all things; yet if day after day one kills living beings to stock the kitchen, is that not a gross violation of his teaching? To follow what Laozi said about the way of longevity while going against what he said about compassion toward others and cherishing the lives of things—that is self-interest alone, a defect in virtue; success will ultimately be impossible. That can be asserted.

In former years Master Wang once said to me: “Cultivate oneself with emptiness…” (At this point the original text repeats and is corrupt; the gist is still that one who seeks only longevity without compassion will never succeed.)

Master Wang once said to me: “In self-cultivation, take xu ji—a mind empty and still, united with the Dao—as your root; in dealing with the world, take benevolence as essential. So-called benevolence has both an active and a passive side. Active benevolence means relieving suffering and bringing joy, and aiding sentient beings. Passive benevolence means simply not harming any sentient being, and restraining every act that would harm them. Mencius said: only when a person knows what not to do can he truly act. So one who can hold to passive benevolence—never harming any sentient being—and then relieve suffering, bring joy, and practice active benevolence, has far greater strength. When you first practice benevolence, it is enough to cultivate passive benevolence alone.”

79. Sincerity Is Most Potent

The late master said: “Cultivating the Way requires utmost sincerity, single-minded concentration, and close secrecy. This word cheng—sincerity—cannot be passed from father to son; how much less from master to disciple? When sincerity reaches its extreme, even metal and stone will open before it.” The Zhongyong says: “There has never been a case where utmost sincerity failed to move things; there has never been a case where lack of sincerity moved things. Only under heaven can utmost sincerity transform and nurture—thus utmost sincerity is like spirit.”

I said: Sincerity is the true mind. Utmost sincerity means the mind is refined, focused, and undivided, with no stray thoughts—without reckoning fortune or misfortune, gain or loss, benefit or harm—going straight ahead with no turning back, not a gap between one thought and the next, fully endowed with the three strengths of great faith, great courage, and great concentration. When practice reaches this point, the eight winds (the eight worldly conditions of gain and loss, praise and blame, and the rest) cannot shake you; mind and Dao fit together with precision, without obstruction—hence communion with the Dao and success wherever you turn. Without utmost sincerity in cultivation, achievement is impossible. This is the one provision for treading the Way; sages and worthies of past and present have completed their Dao-fruit here. Students of the Way should put their effort here!

Zhiyouzi: Zhengao Pian (Chapter on True Announcements) says: In former times there was someone who loved the Way but did not understand this: if one cultivates the Way without utmost sincerity, success is impossible. Utmost sincerity is the sole provision for pursuing the Way; sages past and present have verified their fruition of the Way on this very point—those who study the Way should concentrate their mind-power here.

The same chapter also says: In former times there was someone who loved the Way but did not know the method; day and night he bowed before a cypress tree, seeking long life. After twenty-eight years, the tree put forth abundant blossoms with a flavor sweet as malt sugar; eating them, he became an immortal. Others bowed to Mount Taihua and were moved when the Elder of the Western Peak transmitted Daoist arts to them; still others bowed to river water, and after ten years the river spirit taught them how to walk on water without drowning. There is no other reason for this—all is due to sincerity reaching its fullness. Likewise Wang Xiang lay on ice and carp leaped out; Geng Gong bowed at a well and obtained spring water—both are cases of sincerity attaining its object. When the heart’s light is concentrated and stable, and movement and stillness do not waver, one can resonate with and move external things. What Buddhism calls “the three realms are mind-only” means the same thing.

Liezi: Huangdi Pian (Chapter of the Yellow Emperor) records: The Fan clan had a son named Zihua who was skilled at managing reputation; the whole state revered him, and he enjoyed great favor before the ruler of Jin.

In the Huangdi chapter of Liezi, it is told that Fan had a son named Zihua who was skilled at cultivating his reputation. The whole realm admired him, and he was favored by the ruler of Jin. Though he held no office, his standing was above the Three Ministers. Whoever caught his eye, Jin would ennoble; whoever he casually spoke against, Jin would dismiss. People moving about in his courtyard were as numerous as at a royal audience.

Zihua had his warrior retainers use stratagems against one another, with the strong bullying the weak. Some were beaten and injured before his face, yet he paid no mind. They spent whole days treating this as sport, until it nearly became a national fashion.

Hesheng and Zibo were together discussing Zihua’s power, saying that Zihua could make those who ought to live die, and those who ought to die live; make the rich poor and the poor rich. Shangqiu Kai, who had long been pressed by hunger and cold, overheard them from beneath the window. He borrowed grain, shouldered a basket, and went to Zihua’s gate to ask for a livelihood.

Zihua’s followers were all sons of great houses, dressed in white silk and riding in carriage seats, strolling with slow steps and broad glances. When they saw Shangqiu Kai—old, weak, dark-skinned, poorly clothed—not one failed to look at him sidelong. Then they toyed with him, insulted him, deceived him, and mocked him in every way. Shangqiu Kai never showed anger; and the followers’ tricks were limited, so after long sport they too grew weary. Then Zi had Shangqiu Kai ascend a high terrace with him and said casually before the crowd: “Whoever jumps down of his own accord gets a hundred in gold.” All rushed to agree. Shangqiu Kai took it as real, jumped first, and fell like a flying bird to the ground, with flesh and bone unharmed.

The Fan faction thought it was mere chance and were not yet much surprised. Next they pointed to a deep bend in the river and said: “There is a pearl in the water; swim over and you can get it.” Shangqiu Kai swam over again and came up with the pearl indeed. Only then did they all begin to doubt. Zihua then had him sit among those who had meat to eat and silk to wear. Before long the Fan storehouse caught fire. Zihua said: “Whoever enters the fire and brings out the brocade will still be rewarded with pearls.” The crowd looked at one another and dared not answer. Shangqiu Kai at once entered the fire and brought out the brocade, his body still as before.

Zihua then had his followers declare that Zihua could preserve life and destroy it, enrich and impoverish, ennoble and degrade, lengthen and shorten, age and rejuvenate, beautify and uglify, make wise and foolish, worthy and unworthy—whatever he wished, nothing was beyond him. The Fan faction admired him all the more, took Zihua for a sage, and there was no one who did not know his name. The whole realm turned toward Zihua, and he grew prouder still.

Shangqiu Kai understood: the reason Zihua’s followers could humiliate him was that he himself had first harbored the thought “I believe Zihua can govern life and death, wealth and rank.” Once he believed, he was caught by that appearance, and so they played with him. If he did not believe and did not admire, Zihua’s power could not weigh on him. He therefore took leave of Zihua and went to Mount Taihua to seek further the freedom of “no belief, no admiration.” Zihua sent men after him. They pursued him for thousands of li and found him on Mount Taihua, already decayed like grass and wood, beyond recognition—this is the parable Liezi uses to break attachment to “believing in name and power, admiring wealth and rank.”

The Tianle collection cites this passage to show: if cultivators admire the powerful and believe in illusory arts, they are like Shangqiu Kai at first—though the body is unhurt, the heart is already bound. Only by awakening to “not believing, not admiring” does one leave Zihua’s gate and take the road up Mount Taihua. It shares the same aim as inner alchemy’s “do not cling to worldly fame and profit; trust only your own furnace and cauldron.”