《太乙金华宗旨》

The Dao (the Way) is called “the Natural” (ziran). Originally it has no fixed name or form; in the end it is simply “nature” (xing), which is also the “original spirit” (yuanshen)—the spirit inherently possessed from the pre-natal state. Nature and life (ming) cannot be seen, so one borrows “celestial light” (tianguang) to explain them. Celestial light likewise cannot be seen, and so one further borrows the two eyes to explain it.

From ancient times, immortals and perfected ones have transmitted the teaching from mouth to ear. The essential point imparted is only one, and those who comprehend it each obtain this same essential point. Ever since the Most High Lord Lao (Taishang Laojun) manifested in the world, the lineage has been handed down in succession from the Imperial Lord of Eastern Florescence (Donghua Dijun). Later the Southern School and the Northern School developed, and the Way of Quanzhen (Complete Perfection) at one time flourished greatly. Its flourishing lay in the great number of disciples; its decline came because the transmission of the mind-method (xinfa) grew steadily weaker. By the present day the transmission has proliferated in a muddled mixture, and the decline has reached its extreme. When things develop to an extreme they turn, and thus, by the grace of Patriarch Xu of the Jingming school (Xu Xun), who in compassion delivers living beings, a special teaching was set forth: that beyond the religious school there is a further aim in the transmission of the mind-method, used to receive those whose spiritual roots are deep. To hear of this method is an encounter scarcely met in a thousand kalpas; to receive the method is likewise a rare opportunity. Those who receive it should appreciate Patriarch Xu’s painstaking care and first take a firm stand in human relationships and in everyday life; only then can they cultivate to become perfected and awaken to their original nature.

I have the good fortune to serve as initiating master (dushi). I first clarify the Taiyi Jinhua Zongzhi (The Essential Teaching of the Golden Flower of the Supreme One), and then explain it step by step. Taiyi means the highest and unsurpassed. Methods of the elixir often first rely on cultivation that involves deliberate effort, and only in the end arrive at Wuwei (non-action); they are not accomplished at a single stroke. The essential teaching transmitted here speaks directly of cultivating nature and cultivating the work of practice, without setting up any side path, and is therefore called a wondrous method.

“Golden Flower” (jinhua) is light. What color is this light? The scripture borrows a golden blossom as a metaphor, and within it a character for “light” is also concealed. It refers to the pre-natal true Qi (vital energy) of Taiyi. What is called the “lead of the watery region” has only one locus, and that too refers to this. The work of turning the light around (huiguang) must employ the method of returning from outside to inside, settling the mind’s attention upon the “celestial heart” (tianxin). The celestial heart lies between the sun and the moon. The Huangting Jing (Yellow Court Scripture) says: “The inch-field and the foot-dwelling can order one’s life.” The “foot-dwelling” refers to the face, and the “inch-field” is on the face; what is meant, then, is the celestial heart. Within that square inch there seem to be immortal scenes such as the Xiao Terrace of Yuluo and the Cinnabar Palaces of the Jade Capital—the dwelling place of a spirit (Shen) that is utterly empty and utterly numinous.

Confucians call it the “empty center”; Buddhists call it the “numinous terrace”; Daoists call it the “ancestral earth,” and also the “Yellow Court,” the “mysterious pass,” or the “pre-natal aperture.” The celestial heart is like a dwelling, and the light is the master within it. Therefore, once one turns the light around to shine inward, the Qi of the whole body gathers and comes—just as when a sage-king establishes the capital at the center and the feudal lords come to court bearing gifts; and just as when the master’s spirit is clear and lucid, the servants naturally obey and each fulfills his own duty.

One need only concentrate on turning the light around, and this is the unsurpassed wondrous method. The light is easy to set in motion, yet hard to bring to rest. When turning the light around is practiced for a long time, the light condenses. This is the dharma-body (fashen) formed of itself, with the spirit gathered above the nine empyreans. What the Xinyin Jing (Heart-Seal Scripture) calls “silent audience and ascent in flight” refers precisely to this state.

In cultivating the Taiyi Jinhua Zongzhi (The Secret of the Golden Flower), there is no other method for seeking progress; the key lies in single-mindedly holding to this essential point of practice. The Śūraṅgama Sūtra says, “When mind and thought are pure and one, one can ascend and will surely be born in heaven.” The “heaven” here does not mean the vast and boundless sky, but that transformation arises within a person in the Qian palace—in Daoist Neidan (internal alchemy), the region associated with the head and the activity of spirit. Cultivated over a long time, the state of “a body beyond the body” naturally appears.

“Jinhua” is the Golden Elixir (the coalescence of Jing [essence], Qi [vital energy], and Shen [spirit] sought in Neidan practice). The transformations of spirit must be realized by each person from within their own mind and thoughts. When it is said here that devoted practice enables one to be born in heaven, the so-called “heaven” is not the sky but the transformation within the Qian palace; as time lengthens, the state of “a body beyond the body” naturally arises.

“Golden Flower” is the “Golden Elixir” (Jindan), the state sought in Neidan (internal alchemy) cultivation. The transformations of spiritual illumination each take the heart-mind as their teacher. A subtle formula of this kind, though it admits not the slightest error, is nonetheless highly flexible; the practitioner must be intelligent and must also be still. Without the highest insight, it cannot be carried out; without the deepest stillness, it cannot be maintained.

Heaven and Earth regard human beings as human beings regard the mayfly (a short-lived insect); the Great Dao (the Way) regards Heaven and Earth as it regards the illusory image of bubbles on water. Only the original spirit (Yuan Shen, one’s innate spiritual nature) and true nature can exist by transcending all else; a person’s Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy), however, decay together with Heaven and Earth. So long as the original spirit remains, one abides in Wuji (the yet undifferentiated, boundless source); the arising of Heaven and Earth likewise comes from this. If those who cultivate the Dao can guard the original spirit, they can transcend birth and death, dwelling beyond Yin-Yang and within the Three Realms (the realm of desire, the realm of form, and the formless realm). To reach this, only seeing nature (realizing one’s inherent nature) will do; this is what is called the “original face.”

When ordinary people enter the womb to be reborn, the original spirit resides within the square inch (in the heart); the conscious spirit (consciousness shaped by desire, emotion, and thought) resides in the lower heart. The fleshly heart below is shaped like a large peach: the lungs cover it from above, the liver assists at its side, and the large and small intestines support it from beneath. Even if one goes a single day without food, the heart feels acutely ill at ease; a startling sound sets it pounding; anger brings tightness in the chest; the sight of death brings sorrow; the sight of beauty throws the heart-mind into confusion. When has the celestial heart at the crown (the inner state of clear luminosity) ever stirred in the slightest? It is asked: Can the celestial heart not move within the true intent of the square inch? The reply: How could it be unable to? It is only that once it moves, the movement is not good; yet there is also a movement of the utmost wonder. Ordinary people move only as death approaches, and this is the kind that is not good; the most wondrous kind is when the light has already coalesced into the dharma-body (the pure body attained through cultivation), gradually becoming spiritually responsive, as if on the point of stirring. This is a secret never transmitted through the ages.

The conscious heart below is like powerful regional commanders and generals who, taking advantage of the celestial ruler (the sovereign within) in its weakness and incapacity, seize control of order on their own authority, until in time host and guest are reversed. Now, to concentrate the spirit and guard it in the original palace (the dwelling place of the original spirit) is like an enlightened monarch occupying the superior position; for both eyes to turn the light around (gathering the gaze and looking inward) is like ministers at one’s side assisting with wholehearted devotion. Once the inner order has been set aright, every scheming usurper will of itself reverse arms and sue for mercy.

The Dao (the Way) of the Elixir takes three things as its highest essentials: Jing-water, Shen-fire, and Yi-earth—the water of Jing (essence), the fire of Shen (spirit), and the earth of intention. Jing-water refers to the primordial true and unitary Qi (vital energy); Shen-fire is light; and Yi-earth is the Celestial Heart of the Central Palace (the mind-spirit that dwells inwardly at the center). Among the three, Shen-fire is what takes effect, Yi-earth serves as the root, and Jing-water serves as the foundation.

Ordinary people come to have this body through thought and intention. What is called the “body” is not confined to a physical frame of seven feet. Within the human body there is also the po (corporeal soul): the po attaches itself to consciousness in order to function, and consciousness in turn arises by relying on the po. The po belongs to Yin and is the ground of consciousness. If consciousness is never cut off, life continues from one existence to the next, and the po continually changes its bodily form and its inborn endowment. Only the hun (ethereal soul) is the place where Shen is lodged. By day the hun resides in the eyes; by night it rests in the liver. Lodged in the eyes, it makes sight possible; returned to the liver, it gives rise to dreams. A dream is the spirit-hun roaming forth; in the blink of an eye it seems to range through the nine heavens and the nine earths. On waking, the spirit-hun is again trapped, benighted and deeply sunk, within the bodily form—that is, it is constrained by the po.

Therefore, “turning the light around” (huiguang—the method of cultivation that gathers in the mind-spirit and turns its radiance back inward) can refine the hun, preserve Shen, subdue the po, and bring conscious thought to rest. The methods of cultivation by which the ancients sought to transcend the mundane world consist in refining away every trace of turbid Yin, so that a person returns to pure Yang; in the final analysis, this means diminishing the po while keeping the hun intact. Turning the light around is the secret for dispelling turbid Yin and subduing the po. Even if one has not yet gained the efficacy of a complete return to pure Yang, one need only practice turning the light around. Light is the Qi of Qian-Yang (the pure Yang of the Qian trigram); to draw the light back is to return it to its source.

So long as one holds to this method, Jing-water will of itself become abundant, Shen-fire will arise, and Yi-earth will coagulate and settle, until at last the sacred embryo is formed—the symbol, within cultivation, of the accomplishment of Neidan (internal alchemy). The dung beetle rolls a ball of dung, and even inside that ball a white larva can come to life: this is the pure efficacy born of the concentrated focus of Shen and intention. If life can be nurtured and break out of its shell even within a ball of dung, then when Shen and intention are concentrated where the Celestial Heart rests in quiet, how could a new life fail to be conceived?

Once a person’s luminous true nature falls into the “Qian Palace” (the position corresponding to Heaven and to Yang), it divides into hun and po. The hun dwells in the heart of Heaven, belongs to Yang, and is a light, clear, and brilliant spiritual illumination; it comes from the Great Void and shares the same origin as the Celestial Worthy of Primordial Beginning. The po belongs to Yin and is heavy, turbid Qi (vital energy), clinging to the tangible, ordinary mind. The hun loves life, while the po tends toward death. Craving beautiful form, flaring into anger, and the like are all regarded as the work of the po—that is, the “cognitive spirit” (shishen: the post-natal mind of discrimination and attachment) at work. After death, the po attaches itself to sacrificial blood-offerings and enjoys them; in life, it causes a person to suffer every affliction. This is the result of Yin Qi returning to Yin Qi, of like gathering with like. If those who cultivate the Dao (the Way) can refine the Yin po away completely, they may become a body of pure Yang.

Chapter Three: Returning the Light and Guarding the Center

Where does the name “returning the light” come from? It is said to originate with the Perfected Wenshi (an immortal transcendent of Daoist legend). When the light is turned back to shine within, the Yin-Yang Qi of heaven and earth can gather and condense; what are called “concentrated thought,” “pure Qi,” and “pure contemplation” all refer to this practice. When one first works with this oral formula, there seems inwardly to be some presence, and yet it is like emptiness; after long practice, when the work is accomplished, the state of “a body outside the body” appears, and then it is as if something arises from nothing.

Only after one hundred days of single-minded cultivation does the light truly manifest, and go on to become “spirit fire” (in Neidan [internal alchemy] practice, a name for the condensed state of Jing [essence], Qi, and Shen [spirit]). After one hundred days, a point of true Yang naturally arises within the light and suddenly congeals into a “millet pearl” (a metaphor for the minute yet gathered Neidan). This is like a husband and wife uniting and conceiving; at this time one should wait in quiet. The process of turning the inner light back is the mastery of the firing times; within the formless, there again seem to be real transformations.

In the generative movement of heaven and earth, sunlight holds the governing place: outwardly it appears as the sun, and within the human body it corresponds to the eyes. Spirit and consciousness most readily race outward and scatter as one looks at things, so practice of the Dao (the Way) of the Golden Flower—a method centered on inner refinement and turning the light back—must proceed by a reverse course.

“Turning the light around” does not mean gathering back the Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy) of the whole body. It means turning the mind and Shen (spirit) back to the original true Qi born of creative transformation. Nor is it only a temporary clearing of stray thoughts; it is a fundamental departure from the cycle of birth and death. One breath out and one breath in is, in human time, only a moment; seen from the Nine Paths—the dark realms through which beings pass in transmigration—it is as if a hundred long years had gone by. Ordinary people, once born, move with outer circumstances and rarely in a whole life turn gaze and mind inward. When age comes and Yang Qi fails, it is as though they had fallen into the Nine Darknesses, the shadowy realm of the underworld.

Thus the Lengyan Jing (scripture) says: “Pure thought flies; pure passion falls.” When the mind is clear and little entangled by desire, one can rise; when clinging desire prevails, one sinks. If practitioners lessen delusive thoughts and attachments, and take up recitation, watching the breath, and quiet sitting, they may move toward awakening. This is precisely the method of reversing outward flight and turning the light back upon the mind.

The Yinfu Jing (scripture) says: “The pivot lies in the eyes.” The Huangdi Suwen says that the refined essence of the body all gathers upward into the empty apertures of the head—the eyes, ears, mouth, nose, and other orifices. To grasp this point is to touch the Dao of longevity and ascent beyond. It is a practice of cultivation that runs through the three teachings of Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism.

The “light” lies neither inside the body nor outside it. Mountains, rivers, and the great earth, together with the shining of the sun and moon, all manifest this light, so it is not only within the body. A person’s intelligence and wisdom, and every kind of activity and change, likewise cannot do without this light, so it is not only outside the body. The radiance of heaven and earth spreads through the vast cosmos, and the radiance of a person’s body and mind seems likewise to fill heaven and earth. Thus, once this light is turned back, everything of heaven and earth, mountains and rivers, turns back along with it.

A person’s Jing (essence), Qi (vital energy), and Shen (spirit) appear most concentratedly in the eyes; this is the key to cultivating body and mind. Consider: if one goes a whole day without sitting in stillness, this light keeps circulating without pause—where, then, would it ever come to rest? If one can sit quietly even for a short while, one may thereby come to understand thoroughly principles that long ages of transmigration have failed to make clear. All the myriad methods ultimately return to stillness. This is truly beyond ordinary conception, and precisely here lies its subtle marvel.

Cultivation, however, must proceed from the shallow to the deep and from the coarse to the fine; what matters is that it continue without interruption. The fundamental principle of the whole course of cultivation remains the same throughout, while advance and retreat, depth and shallowness along the way, must be known through one’s own direct experience. Only when one finally reaches an open, expansive state of mind, in which all things are naturally just as they ordinarily are, can one be said to have truly attained the method.

The principles handed down by the sages of every age all rest on “reverse illumination”—that is, turning the light back so that it shines inward, and turning one’s gaze back upon oneself. What Confucius called the extension of knowledge, what the Buddhists call contemplation of the mind, and what Laozi called inward observation all refer to this same method. Yet everyone can say the words “reverse illumination” without necessarily having truly grasped them, because their meaning has not been understood.

What is meant by “reverse” is to return one’s perceiving mind to the primordial condition before form and spirit have yet appeared—that is, within this six-foot body, to seek in reverse the original substance of the time before heaven and earth had come into being. Nowadays some people merely sit quietly for one or two double-hours, look back and examine their selfish thoughts, and call this reverse illumination. How could one thereby cultivate all the way to completion?

The founding masters of both Buddhism and Daoism teach people to “look at the tip of the nose.” This does not mean locking one’s attention rigidly on the tip of the nose, nor does it mean that the eyes look at the tip of the nose while the mind is placed instead in the zhonghuang—the region within the body regarded as an important site. Wherever the eyes look, the mind follows. How could it be now above and now below, or suddenly up and suddenly down? All such explanations mistake the finger pointing at the moon for the moon itself.

What, then, does “looking at the tip of the nose” actually mean? The words “tip of the nose” are skillfully chosen; they merely borrow the nose as a point of reference for the eyes. The point is not to stare at the nose. If the eyes are opened too wide, the gaze easily runs outward and the mind and Shen (spirit) easily scatter; if the eyes are closed too tightly, one easily grows drowsy. Only when the eyelids are lowered ever so slightly, just far enough that the tip of the nose can be seen, does this serve as a proper gauge for the line of sight. Set the eyelids in a suitable position and let light enter the eyes naturally; there is no need to cast the gaze deliberately toward any particular place.

Looking at the tip of the nose requires only that, at the very beginning of entering stillness, one lift the eyes for a single glance to establish the gauge of the gaze, and then let it go; one need not keep staring. It is like a mason who hangs a line and thereafter works along that line, without watching the line the whole time.

Zhiguan (calm and insight) is a Buddhist method of cultivation, and it is not mysterious to begin with. With both eyes slightly lowered, sit upright and settle the mind in the middle. There is no need to think specifically of the inside of the head; it is enough to place the mind between the two eyes, level with the eyes. The “light” spoken of here is lively and quick; it is not to be fixed in one place. When the mind rests between the two eyes, light naturally penetrates, and one need not deliberately attend to the zhonggong—the region within the body regarded as a crucial site of practice. These few sentences already sum up the essentials. As for the steps before and after entering and leaving stillness, one may consult the book Zhiguan and check them against it.

The two words “yuan” and “zhong” are wonderfully subtle. “Zhong” (the center) is present everywhere, and the pivot of change in heaven, earth, and all things is contained within it. Here we provisionally take “zhong” to indicate the key to the workings of creation and transformation, using it as a guiding thread for entering the practice. “Yuan” means taking this thread as the starting point of inquiry; it does not mean that there is some fixed and unchanging place where it comes to rest. The meanings of these two words are flexible and subtle.

The two words “zhiguan” (cessation and contemplation) cannot be separated; they are precisely “dinghui” (concentration and wisdom). From now on, whenever a thought arises, do not merely sit in stillness as before. Instead, investigate where this thought is, where it arises from, and where it disappears. Press the inquiry again and again, and in the end you will find that it cannot be grasped. Once you have seen the place where the thought arises, do not ask any further whence it arises; if you go on searching for this mind, you will not find it either. This is like the saying in the Buddhist scriptures, “I have already set your mind at rest for you.” Only contemplation of this kind is right contemplation; what is contrary to it is wrong contemplation.

After you have observed in this way that the mind’s thoughts cannot be obtained, you must still, in an unbroken continuity, bring stray thoughts to rest, and then continue contemplating; after contemplating, return again to cessation. Practicing cessation and contemplation together is the dual cultivation of concentration and wisdom, and this is called “huiguang” (turning the light around—gathering in the thoughts of the mind and reflecting them back inward). “Hui” (returning) is cessation; “guang” (light) is contemplation. Cessation without contemplation is called having the return but not the light; contemplation without cessation is called having the light but not the return. Keep this in mind.

The aim of cultivation lies solely in applying oneself with single-minded attention, without seeking immediate results; the results will appear of themselves. The faults beginners commonly meet are, broadly, of only two kinds: drowsiness and a scattered mind. To remedy these two faults, one may rest the mind upon the breath, for the breath is linked with one's own mind. The moment a thought stirs, Qi (vital energy) arises; Qi is originally a transformation of the mind. A person's thoughts turn very quickly: in an instant one delusive thought arises, and a breath arises in correspondence with it. Thus the inner breath and the outer breath follow one another like a sound and its echo. In a single day there are tens of thousands of breaths, and likewise tens of thousands of delusive thoughts. When mind and spirit are continually dissipated in this way, one ends at last like withered wood and dead ashes.

Since it is impossible to be entirely without thoughts, and equally impossible to be entirely without breath, it is better to work along with this very fault, letting the mind and the breath depend upon each other. Therefore, returning the light (gathering mind and spirit inward) should be practiced together with regulating the breath (adjusting the respiration). This method chiefly employs "light": one kind is the light of the eyes, the other the light of the ears. The light of the eyes is the light in which the outer sun and moon shine upon each other; the light of the ears is the Jing (essence) and Qi that condense when the inner sun and moon meet. Jing is where light gathers and comes to rest; the two share a single source and differ only in name. A person's intelligence and luminous clarity are, in the end, nothing other than this one thread of numinous light.

In quiet sitting, let the gaze droop slightly, as if the eyelids were lowered; once a guiding measure has been set in the mind, relax. Yet if one tries to empty everything completely, this may be hard to achieve, so the mind may be placed on listening to the breath. As the breath enters and leaves, do not let the ears hear any sound; simply attend to that soundless state. The moment a sound is heard, the breath is still coarse and floating and has not yet grown fine. Patiently and gently relax, making the breath ever finer; the finer it becomes, the quieter the mind. After a long time, the most subtle breath suddenly seems to stop; at that moment the true breath (a naturally deep and still state of breathing) appears, and the original substance of the mind can be experienced.

The finer the mind, the finer the breath; when the mind is unified, it carries the breath along with it. The finer the breath, the finer the mind; when the breath is unified, it likewise settles the mind. To settle mind and spirit, one must first nourish Qi, for the mind itself is not easy to grasp directly, and so one may begin from Qi. This is what is called "the guarding of pure Qi" (keeping single-mindedly to the breath).

You do not understand the meaning of the word “movement.” “Movement” means using a thread to draw the mind’s thoughts along and set them going; it is simply another way of saying “control.” If one can send the mind and Shen (spirit) running into motion, can one not also return them to pure stillness and settle them? The great sages of antiquity observed how the mind and Qi (vital energy) act upon each other, and they were skilled at establishing methods. This is what is called “guarding the pure and unitary Qi.”

Ancient Neidan (internal alchemy) texts say, “The hen broods on the egg, her mind always attentive and listening.” This is a key instruction for practice. An egg can hatch because of warm Qi. Heat can only warm the shell; it cannot enter the egg by itself, so one must use intention to guide the breath inside. The hen keeps to the egg with wholehearted care, her mind and Shen gathered and fixed within it. As intention enters, Qi enters along with it, and when the egg receives this warmth it can hatch. Thus even when the hen occasionally leaves, she often holds the posture of turning an ear to listen and remain alert; her mind and Shen never break off for a moment. While mind and Shen stay continuously concentrated, the warm Qi likewise never ceases, day or night, and life becomes active.

Mind and Shen can become active because the mind full of stray thoughts is first quieted. If a person can settle the thoughts, the primordial spirit (Yuanshen, a person’s fundamental Shen) can become active. What is called “deadening the mind” does not mean making the mind dry and withered; it means being single and undivided. The Buddhists say, “Set the mind to rest in one place, and there is nothing that cannot be done.” When thoughts tend to scatter, one regulates them with pure and unitary Qi; when the breath tends to grow coarse and hurried, one regulates it with fine and careful intention. Single and undivided in this way, mind and Shen naturally settle.

The two faults of torpor and scattering will, broadly speaking, if one simply persists in the practice of stillness day after day without a break, of themselves lead to a state of deep rest. When one is not sitting in stillness, scattered thoughts often go unnoticed; yet the moment scattering is noticed, there is already an opening by which to stop it. There is a very great difference between sinking into torpor without knowing it and being able to notice torpor when it occurs: torpor of which one is unaware is true torpor; torpor that can be noticed is not complete torpor, for the clear and lucid mind has already appeared.

Scattering is the mind and Shen (spirit) rushing outward; dull sinking is the mind and Shen not yet clear and bright. Scattering is easy to regulate and treat, but dull sinking is hard to correct. It is like illness: where there is pain or itching, one can still perceive the condition and treat it with medicine; dull sinking is like numbness and insensibility, a loss of all sensation.

Scattering can be gathered back in, and disorder can be set in order; in dull sinking, however, a person is merely drowsy and muddled. When there is scattering, the mind and Shen still have a direction of activity; once dull sinking sets in, one seems wholly governed by the po, the yin spirit that presides over bodily form and instinctive activity. In scattering, the hun, the yang spirit that presides over conscious activity, is still at work; in dull sinking, the yin aspect has taken the lead. Wanting only to sleep during quiet sitting is dull sinking.

The key to overcoming dull sinking lies in regulating the breath. The “breath” spoken of here is the respiration that enters and leaves through the mouth and nose. Although it is not the true breath—the deeper, finer, and natural state of breathing spoken of in cultivation—it is the basis on which the true breath comes and goes. In quiet sitting the mind should be calm and the breath peaceful. How is the mind made calm? Place the attention on the breath, so that its coming and going is known only within one’s own mind and is not heard by the ears. When the breath is not deliberately listened to, it becomes fine and subtle; what is fine and subtle is clear and harmonious. If the sound of breathing is heard, the breath appears coarse and heavy; coarseness and heaviness make it turbid, and once turbid one easily grows dull and wants to sleep. This is the natural principle of the matter.

Even so, in placing the attention on the breath one must also know how to apply the mind with proper measure. This is a practice of “using without using”: one need only illuminate and observe, and be aware and listen, ever so slightly. The “illumination” meant here is drawing the gaze inward and not looking outward. Not looking outward, yet remaining lucid—this is called inner vision, and it is not actually seeing scenes within the body. “Listening” is drawing the spirit of the ears inward and not listening outward. Not listening outward, yet remaining aware—this is called inner listening, and it is not actually hearing sounds within the body. What is called listening is listening to the soundless; what is called seeing is seeing the formless.

When the eyes do not look outward and the ears do not listen outward, the mind and Shen can be kept from rushing and scattering outward. Yet if one merely shuts the eyes and blocks the ears, the mind and Shen may instead fall into dull sinking. Inner vision and inner listening neither scatter outward nor sink inward into dullness. This is what is called “the sun and moon exchanging Jing (essence) and exchanging light,” taking the sun and moon as a metaphor for the meeting of Yin-Yang Qi (vital energy), in which Jing and Qi reflect one another.

When drowsiness comes on so heavily that you are about to fall asleep, get up and take a walk, and sit down again only after your spirit is clear and awake. If you have time in the early morning, it is best to sit quietly for as long as one stick of incense burns. In the afternoon there are more miscellaneous affairs, and one easily grows drowsy; yet there is no need to insist on sitting for a full stick of incense. So long as you set aside every concern and sit quietly for a while, then, with time, you will naturally and gradually find your way in—clear and awake, neither dull nor given over to sleep.

Chapter Five: Errors in Turning the Light Around

Even after the work of cultivation has gradually become skillful and mature, it is still easy to go wrong at the crucial points, so these must be explained with care. The principle here can be grasped only through personal practice; now I can speak of it. The method of cultivation in our lineage differs from that of the Chan school: it has a process of verification, step by step. I will first set out the difference between the two, and then speak of the verification that arises in practice.

When you are about to cultivate according to the essential teaching, I first offer a skillful reminder: do not apply the mind too forcefully. Keep body and mind supple and at ease, the Qi (vital energy) harmonious and the mood settled and comfortable, and only then enter stillness. In quiet sitting, what matters is to grasp the right moment and the essential point. You must not sit in a state of sheer idleness; this is called “indeterminate emptiness” (wuji kong)—the mind dull and benighted, vacant and adrift, lacking luminous awareness. Even as you let go of every care, you must still remain clear and at ease. Nor should you rely on intention alone to force the pursuit, or the fixing, of some particular state. Excessive willfulness and earnestness, on the contrary, easily lead you astray. This is not to say that one should not be serious; rather, genuine realization is to be gained between seeming to intend and seeming not to intend.

While remaining clear and undimmed, you must also let go naturally, and must not fall into the “realm of the aggregates” (yunjie)—the bodily and mental condition under the influence of the five skandhas. What is meant by the realm of the aggregates is that Yin forces of the kind of the five skandhas (form, feeling, perception, formations, and consciousness) have taken the lead. For example, when some people enter samadhi, there is far too much of the chill stillness of withered wood and dead ashes, and far too little of an air of living vitality: this is falling into the Yin realm. At such a time the Qi grows cold and the breathing heavy and stagnant, and all manner of scenes of decay and chill appear; over time, the person becomes like wood or stone.

Nor may you be led along by a welter of thoughts. For instance, as soon as you enter stillness, all kinds of thoughts well up for no reason; you try to drive them out and cannot, and going along with them instead feels comfortable. This is like the master being ruled by the servants. In time one falls into the realm of sensual desire. Those who cultivate to a higher level may be born into the heavenly realms; those of a lower level may be reborn as wildcats, or become fox immortals. Fox immortals dwell in famous mountains and can also be content in themselves, enjoying the clear wind and bright moon, flowers, fruits, trees, and immortal herbs, living for three to five hundred years, or even several thousand. Yet once this store of blessed fortune is exhausted, they are again reborn among all kinds of living beings. All of these are byways in cultivation. Only when the byways have first been clearly recognized can one go further and seek the correct verification.

When cultivating the turning of the light around (Huiguang), the signs of verification that appear are many, and they are more than persons of shallow capacity and narrow measure can bear. The practitioner should form the vow to deliver all beings universally, and must neither be rash nor arrogant, but must sincerely realize the principles set forth here.

In quiet sitting, when the mind and spirit (Shen) remain continuously settled without interruption, and one’s spirits are joyful and at ease, as if mildly intoxicated or freshly bathed, this is the sign that the Yang Qi (vital energy) throughout the body is gently warming and unfolding, and that the Golden Flower (Jinhua) is first appearing. Next, when the myriad thoughts are all stilled, as if a bright moon hung in the sky, and one feels that heaven and earth alike dwell in light, this is the sign that the substance of the mind has opened into clear brightness and that the Golden Flower is fully manifest. Further on, the whole body is full and substantial, fearing neither wind nor frost; matters that others find utterly dull instead make the practitioner’s spirit all the more vigorous. Within, it is as if houses were built of gold and terraces made of white jade; the decayed things of the world, once breathed upon by true Qi, seem at once restored to life; the red blood seems transformed into milk, and the body of seven feet seems wholly composed of precious jewels. This is the sign that the Golden Flower has condensed and become firmly established.

In the first stage, the text borrows a saying from the Contemplation Sutra of Infinite Life to explain: “the setting sun and the great waters, the emblematic image of the rows of trees.” What is called here “the setting sun” means establishing a foundation out of chaos, and refers to Wuji (the primordial state not yet differentiated). The highest good is like water, clear and without flaw; here it is further compared to the ruling principle of Taiji (Supreme Ultimate), that is, the ruling principle that issues forth from the east symbolized by the Zhen trigram. Zhen belongs to Wood, and so rows of trees are used as its symbol. The “seven rows of trees” symbolize the radiance of the seven apertures (the seven openings of the head and face).

The northwest belongs to Qian; shift one place to the side and it is Kan. “The setting sun and the great waters” takes the images of the two trigrams Qian and Kan. Kan corresponds to the position zi; at the winter solstice, Yang Qi lies hidden beneath the earth like the sound of thunder, stirring only faintly; when it reaches the position of Zhen, Yang Qi at last rises from within the earth to the surface of the ground—this is the symbol of the rows of trees. The rest may be understood by the same reasoning.

The second stage is the point at which, on this foundation, a realm begins to take form: the earth seems to freeze and become a precious ground like lapis lazuli, while the light gradually gathers. Thus a lotus dais (Pengtai, the lotus throne) appears first, and afterward a Buddha appears as well. The golden nature manifests—is this not precisely the Buddha? The Buddha is the Greatly Awakened Golden Immortal (an immortal perfected one of complete awakening). What has been discussed above is a major class of signs of verification in the course of cultivation.

At present, three phenomena can be observed and verified.

In the first, during quiet sitting, one feels spiritual consciousness enter a secluded depth like a mountain valley and can hear people speaking in the distance, as if about one li away, with every word perfectly clear. When the sound arrives, it is like an echo in a valley. One is not unable to hear it, yet one does not listen for it actively as in ordinary life. This is what is called “Shen (spirit) abiding in the valley,” and it can be examined and verified by oneself at any time.

In the second, during quiet sitting, light flickers before the eyes and the whole field of vision turns white, as if one were amid clouds and mist. Opening the eyes to look for one’s own body, one cannot see it clearly and seems unable to find it. This is what is called “the empty chamber gives birth to whiteness,” meaning that the mind within is empty and luminous and that inside and outside are mutually transparent. “Auspiciousness comes to rest and remains at rest” means that a state of harmony and calm appears.

In the third, during quiet sitting, one feels the body become light and fine, like cotton wadding or jade. While seated, one seems unable to settle, and the body floats lightly upward. This is what is called “Shen returns to the crown of heaven”: spiritual consciousness is held to return to the top of the head and rise upward, and if this continues, it seems that before long one will ascend.

All three are phenomena that may be experienced and verified in the present. The experiences of cultivation, however, cannot be set out one by one. Each person’s root capacity differs, and the extraordinary realms that appear also differ. As the Mohe Zhiguan, a treatise on practice of the Tiantai school of Buddhism, says, these are “signs of the arising of wholesome roots,” that is, indications that wholesome roots manifest in the course of cultivation. The matter is like drinking water: whether the water is cold or warm, only the one who drinks knows. It counts as real only when one has experienced it personally and is convinced of it.

The “primordial unitary Qi (vital energy)”—the original Qi spoken of in cultivation—must be sought for oneself within these experiences now before one. When this Qi is obtained, the Neidan (internal alchemy) can form. This is the “single true millet pearl,” a metaphor for the condensed seed of the Neidan. Pearl follows pearl, from the minute gradually becoming manifest. Sometimes what is called “the primordial” refers to a single pearl alone; taken as a whole, the primordial may be extended from one pearl to the infinite. Each pearl has its own power. One must bring sufficient courage and discernment to this; that is the most important principle.

Chapter 7: The Living Method of Returning the Light

Let the work of returning the light proceed in due sequence, while not neglecting the proper affairs of daily life. The ancients said, “When affairs arise, respond to them properly; when external things come, see clearly their essential nature.” If one handles affairs with right mindfulness, the light of the mind is not drawn away by external things, and the returning of the light occurs of itself. If even this returning of the light—available at any time and place, and leaving no trace—can already be practiced, how much more is there a method of cultivation that concentrates explicitly on returning the light.

In daily life, if at every moment, as affairs arise, one can turn back and observe one’s own inner mind, without being stained by the slightest thought of self-centeredness or of setting oneself apart from others, this is gathering the light of the mind wherever one may be—the first kind of wondrous function. In the early morning, if one can clear away all distracting thoughts and sit quietly for one or two double-hours, that is best. In ordinary dealings with people and in the handling of affairs, one likewise uses only this method of turning back to observe the inner mind, so that the mind’s thoughts are gathered and settled without ceasing for even a moment. Cultivated in this way for two or three months, the various perfected ones of heaven (the host of immortal perfected beings spoken of in Daoism) will certainly come to confirm it.

Chapter Eight: The Secret Instruction of Carefree Wandering

Jade Clarity (Yuqing, the celestial realm in which the honored deities of Daoism dwell) transmitted the Secret Instruction of Carefree Wandering. The crucial four characters are “condensing Shen and entering the Qi cavity”: that is, gathering Shen (spirit) so that it returns into the Qi (vital energy) cavity—the place, in the cultivation of Neidan (internal alchemy), where intention condenses and breath circulates. In the sixth month, one suddenly sees white snow flying and swirling; when the third watch arrives, confirmation is sure to come.

Chapter Eight: The Secret Instruction of Carefree Wandering

Jade Clarity transmitted the Secret Instruction of Carefree Wandering; the crucial four characters are “condensing Shen and entering the Qi cavity.” In the sixth month, one suddenly sees white snow flying and swirling; at the third watch, one further sees a wheel of light like the sun, shining bright.

Within the water the wind of Xun blows up (Xun belongs to wind; here it means the wind that, in cultivation, drives the mechanism of Qi). After roaming the heavens one returns, and receives the De (Virtue/Power) of Kun (Kun symbolizes earth and the virtue of yielding yin that bears and sustains). There is yet one most mysterious saying: the Village of Nothing Whatever (the realm spoken of by Daoists that transcends the distinction between being and non-being) is the true place of return.

This regulated verse has already set forth the mysterious principle in full. The essential point of the great Dao (the Way) is nothing other than the four characters “Wuwei, and yet acting”: because of Wuwei (non-action), one is not bound by fixed position or form; because one acts through non-action, one does not fall into stubborn empty stillness or a dead void of nothingness. The working of cultivation cannot leave the Center, and the crucial pivot lies entirely in the two eyes. The two eyes are like the handle of the Northern Dipper, able to turn the process of creation and to regulate the movement of Yin-Yang. The great medicine of which cultivation speaks is, from first to last, “Metal within Water”—that is, the lead of the watery region.

What was said earlier of “returning the light” shows beginners how to enter: one begins with the gathering of what is outward in order to regulate what is inward, and by an auxiliary method seeks the root. This suits people of medium and lesser capacity, who cultivate the two lower passes and from there penetrate the upper pass. Now the threads of cultivation are gradually becoming clear, and the key points are gradually becoming familiar; Heaven does not begrudge the great Dao, but directly discloses the highest teaching. All of you should treasure it with solemn care and cultivate it with diligent effort.

“Returning the Light” (huiguang) is the general name. With each level that cultivation deepens, the light grows stronger by one degree, and the method of returning the light becomes still more subtle. The previous stage was a matter of restraining the inner mind from the outside; at this stage, one abides within and uses the inner to govern external things. In the previous stage, Shen (spirit) and intention were like ministers assisting the ruler; now they uphold the ruler’s command and convey it outward. The relation of principal and subordinate in cultivation has been completely reversed.

To enter stillness, first regulate body and mind so that one is at ease and peaceful, setting down every care and leaving no obstruction in the heart. Let the Heavenly Heart (tianxin, the inner governing consciousness) stand upright and settled; then lower the eyes slightly, as if carrying out an imperial decree and summoning the ministers to audience. In this way, the intention that races outward naturally dares not disobey. Next, use both eyes to gaze inwardly upon the Kan palace (kangong, the region symbolizing kidney-water and the seat of true Yang). Wherever the inner light shines, true Yang comes forth in response.

The Li trigram is Yang outside and Yin inside, yet it originally possesses the pure-Yang nature of the Qian trigram. When a single Yin enters and occupies the ruling position, thoughts arise in step with external things and flow along with outer circumstances. Now, as the light is returned and shines inward, one no longer gives rise to thoughts by following things; Yin Qi (vital energy) comes to a stop, the light gathers and sheds its radiance, and the state turns to pure Yang. Things of the same nature necessarily draw near one another, and so the Yang of Kan rises in response. This is not the Yang of Kan itself, but Qian-Yang resonating with Qian-Yang.

When the two meet, they join and do not scatter. The movements of Qi mingle and turn, now coming and now going, now floating and now sinking. Within one’s own primordial palace (yuangong, the seat of the inner root), it is as if one were set in boundless emptiness. The whole body feels light and wondrous, as though about to rise aloft—this is what is called “clouds filling a thousand mountains.” Then the firm Qi comes and goes without a trace; floating and sinking are hard to tell apart; the pulse ceases and the breath comes to rest. Only this is true coupling (the mutual resonance of Yin and Yang). This is what is called “the moon holding the myriad waters.”

When, amid the hidden and the subtle, the Heavenly Heart suddenly stirs, this is “the return of the single Yang” (yiyang laifu, Yang Qi sprouting anew), also called the “living zi hour” (huo zishi, the moment when inner Yang Qi is set in motion). The change here must be carefully distinguished. The moment ordinary people look or listen, ears and eyes move along with external things; when those things disappear, the activity stops as well. Such movement and stillness are only ordinary thoughts at work, and the Heavenly Ruler (tianjun, the inner sovereign) is instead driven by them, as if keeping company with ghosts. Now it is different: movement and stillness both answer to the true self, and the Heavenly Ruler becomes truly a True Person (zhenren). When external things move, the Heavenly Ruler moves in response, and that movement is the “root of heaven” (tiangen); when there is quiet, the Heavenly Ruler is likewise quiet, and that stillness is the “cave of the moon” (yueku). Movement and stillness pass back and forth with no fixed endpoint, and the rise and fall of the breath answer them as well. This is what is called “the root of heaven and the cave of the moon coming and going at leisure.”

If one rushes to act before the Heavenly Heart has stirred, it is too early; if the Heavenly Heart has already stirred and one is slow to respond, it is too late. The instant the Heavenly Heart stirs, lead it upward with true intention (zhenyi, the intent that is single-minded and firmly settled) to the Qian palace (qiangong, symbolizing the crown of the head and the station of pure Yang), and at the same time gaze upon the crown with the light of Shen as a guide. This is seizing the moment and making the response. When the Heavenly Heart has risen to the summit of Qian, Shen and intention unfold freely of themselves. When a wish suddenly arises to return to stillness, quickly lead it with true intention into the Yellow Court (huangting, the inner central region of cultivation), and gaze with the eyes upon the central yellow spirit chamber (zhonghuang shenshi, the inner dwelling of Shen and intention). After that, even the thought of stillness no longer arises. The one who gazes inward gradually forgets even that one is gazing.

At this point body and mind seem wholly released. Every trace of care is gone, and one does not even know where one’s own spirit chamber and furnace-cauldron are (shenshi luding, metaphors in cultivation for the inner abode of Shen and intention and of Jing, essence, and Qi). If one tries to find one’s own body, there is nowhere to find it. This is the moment when “heaven enters into the earth, and the myriad subtleties return to the root”—that is, when Shen is gathered and enters the Qi cavity (qixue, the place where the inner movements of Qi converge).

When turning the light around begins—drawing the radiance of the mind and Shen (spirit) back to shine inwardly—the originally scattered mind and Shen must gradually be gathered in, and the activities of the six senses, the eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and thinking faculty, also come temporarily to rest. This is the nurturing of the root of life. It is also called “adding oil to sustain life,” that is, replenishing the original Qi (vital energy) of life and prolonging life.

Once the mind and Shen have been gathered in, they naturally settle into ease and freedom, without the slightest effort being spent. This is settling the mind and Shen in the ancestral aperture (the aperture regarded in Daoist cultivation as the place to which the mind and Shen return) and coalescing the pre-heaven Qi. From there onward, inner and outer responses and every kind of thought disappear, and one enters a state of silence and deep stability. This is lying dormant and hidden within the Qi cavity (the site in cultivation where Shen is concentrated and Qi is nourished), so that the myriad wondrous principles return to the root.

A single stage further contains three stages, and these may even be subdivided into nine; all of this will be unfolded later. For now we speak only of the three stages contained within one stage. At the initial nurturing, the mind has only just grown quiet; coalescing and dormant concealment both belong to nurturing as well. In the end, all nurturing returns to dormant concealment. The middle level may be understood in the same way: although the position does not change, different levels can be distinguished within it. This is the formless aperture, the realm of initial stillness. Coalescing and dormant concealment likewise belong to nurturing, and in the end they too all return to dormant concealment. The middle level may again be inferred by analogy: the position does not change, yet the levels within it are distinct. This is the formless aperture: a thousand places and ten thousand places all return to a single place. Time does not change, yet different stages can still be distinguished within it. This is the “time without a fixed moment,” as if the yuan, hui, yun, and shi (ancient units used to divide vast spans of time) were all condensed into a single instant.

The human heart-mind must reach a state of extreme stillness before true activity can arise. If the mind, the moment it stirs, immediately forgets that very movement and stillness, this is not the natural activity of the original substance. Thus the Jing (scripture) says: “To be moved by contact with external things is the desire of one’s inborn nature.” Only when nothing external provokes it, and the mind moves of itself, is there the activity inherent in heavenly nature.

From this it is clear that when the mind moves because of external things, that is the desire of one’s nature; what is not pulled by external things, but arises of itself, is Tianji (the spontaneous working of heavenly nature). If one sets the activity of Tianji in opposition to heavenly nature, and in one’s words comes down upon the single character “desire,” then this “desire” is a thought stirred up by external things—that is, deliberation that oversteps one’s proper measure. The moment the mind moves, a fresh stirring thought is born. Only when thoughts do not arise does correct mindfulness appear; this is true intent (the pure, spontaneous thought of the mind in cultivation). In a state of quiet and settled calm, Tianji suddenly stirs—is this not movement without a deliberate mind? Not acting by design, and yet of itself accomplishing something: this is precisely what is meant.

The first two lines of the poem sum up Jinhua (here, the function in Neidan [internal alchemy] whereby the light of Shen [spirit] gathers and turns back in illumination). The next two lines speak of the mutual working of sun and moon. “The sixth month” refers to Li fire (the Li trigram of the Bagua [Eight Trigrams], symbolizing fire); “white snow flying” refers to the true Yin within the Li trigram about to return to the station of Kun (the position represented by the Kun trigram). “The third watch” refers to Kan water (the Kan trigram of the Bagua, symbolizing water); “the disk of the sun” refers to the single Yang within the Kan trigram about to emerge and return to the station of Qian (the position represented by the Qian trigram). “Taking from Kan to fill Li” (in Neidan terminology, taking the true Yang within Kan and supplying it to the center of Li)—the principle lies precisely here.

The next two lines speak of the function of the Dipper’s handle, that is, the whole mechanism of ascent, descent, and transformation. Is what lies in the water not Kan itself? The eyes are called the wind of Xun (the wind symbolized by the Xun trigram); the meaning is to cast the gaze into the palace of Kan, so as to seize and summon the Jing (essence) of the sun. What is above, in heaven, is the palace of Qian; when Shen roams and then returns, cherishing and nurturing the De (Virtue/Power) of Kun, the meaning is to let Shen enter into illumination and inspection, so that Heaven enters into Earth, and the furnace fire is thereby gently tended.

The last two lines point out the most crucial knack in the oral formula. The whole formula never departs from this: washing clean the thoughts of the mind and scouring away deliberation—this is called “bathing” (the stage in Neidan cultivation of clearing stray thoughts and regulating and nourishing mind and Shen). The learning of the sages begins with “knowing where to stop” and ends in reaching the highest good; it begins from Wuji (the Limitless) and in the end returns again to Wuji. Buddhism sums up the purport of a great body of Buddhist scripture in the phrase “giving rise to the mind while abiding nowhere” (not clinging to any circumstance, while at the same time arousing a clear and lucid mind); the Daoist tradition, with the two words “attaining emptiness,” completes the entire work of cultivating nature and life. In the final analysis, the essential point of the Three Teachings is nothing other than “Wuji”—that is, the divine elixir that helps a person leave death behind and return to living vitality.

What, then, is this “divine elixir”? It is, in every circumstance, neither clinging nor giving rise to a selfish mind. The most hidden secret of the Daoist school is bathing; the whole course of cultivation, when all is said and done, is sufficiently explained by the two words “the mind empty.” Here the crucial point is made plain, sparing one many years of seeking teachers, inquiring after the Dao (the Way), and pursuing investigation and search.

You do not understand: a single passage contains three levels. I borrow the Buddhist “three contemplations” of emptiness, the provisional, and the middle to explain them. One first cultivates the contemplation of emptiness and sees that the inherent nature of all things is empty. Next one cultivates the contemplation of the provisional: although one knows that the myriad things are empty, one does not cast them aside, but still, within emptiness, handles and establishes every kind of affair. Neither casting aside the myriad things nor clinging to them—this is the contemplation of the middle.

When cultivating the contemplation of emptiness, one must also know that the myriad things cannot be cast aside, while at the same time not clinging to them; in this way all three contemplations are included. The point of effort in practice, however, ultimately lies in contemplating that the myriad things are all empty, and so what one cultivates is the contemplation of emptiness. When one cultivates the contemplation of emptiness, emptiness, the provisional, and the middle are all understood from the contemplation of emptiness. When one cultivates the contemplation of the provisional, the point of effort lies mainly in making use of the myriad things, and therefore emptiness, the provisional, and the middle are all understood from the contemplation of the provisional. When one cultivates the Middle Way, one also contemplates emptiness and the provisional, yet these are not called the contemplation of emptiness or the contemplation of the provisional; they are spoken of together as the contemplation of the middle. As for the contemplation of the middle itself, nothing more need be said.

Sometimes I speak of Li alone (the Li trigram, symbolizing yang contained within yin), and sometimes I speak of it together with Kan (the Kan trigram, symbolizing yin contained within yang); in fact I have never changed the meaning of a single sentence. The first words out of my mouth are: “The pivot lies entirely in the two eyes.” The “pivot” spoken of here refers to the key point of their functioning. This functioning can turn and operate the creative process; it does not mean that the creative process is confined to this alone. A person’s six faculties (eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind) and seven orifices (the seven apertures of the head and face) are all places where light is stored. Would one take up only the two eyes and leave the other senses aside? When the yang within Kan is taken as what is put to use, it must still be illumined and gathered by the light within Li. From this one can understand.

Master Zhu Ziyang (a Daoist scholar, personal name Yuanyu) once said: “A blind person does not do well in cultivating the Dao (the Way), but a deaf person is not hindered in cultivating the Dao.” This tacitly agrees with my own account; it simply makes especially plain what is primary and secondary, weighty and light: the eyes are primary, and the ears are comparatively secondary.

The sun and the moon were originally one. The darkness at the center of the sun is the true essence of the moon; the root-cave of the moon does not lie in the moon itself, but within the sun—this is what is called the “Moon Cave” (yueku). Otherwise, it would have been enough simply to say “moon”; why speak of a “Moon Cave”? The brightness at the center of the moon is the true radiance of the sun; the light of the sun instead appears within the moon—this is what is called the “Root of Heaven” (tiangen). Otherwise, it would have been enough simply to say “heaven”; why speak of a “Root of Heaven”?

Viewed separately, the sun and the moon each amount to only half; only when joined together do they form a complete whole. This is like a man and a woman: living each alone, they cannot form a household; only when man and woman unite do they become a complete family. Yet things can never fully serve as an analogy for the Dao (the Way): when husband and wife are parted, they remain two persons; when the sun and moon are parted, they are no longer a complete whole.

Once this principle is understood, one can see that the ears and the eyes are likewise so. I say that a blind person has no ears, and a deaf person has no eyes. Seen in this light, how can one still speak of one thing, two eyes, and six senses? The six sense-roots (the six faculties of perception: eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind) were originally one root; how can one still speak of the seven orifices (the seven openings of the head and face)? The seven orifices were originally one orifice. I say this in order to point out where they communicate with one another, so that one does not see them divided into two; yet you cling exclusively to the places where each is cut off from the others, and so everywhere it is as if you had exchanged your eyes for another pair.

The Mind Seal Scripture (Xin Yin Jing), a classic of Daoist cultivation, says: “Turn back and harmonize the inner mechanism of Qi (vital energy), and within a hundred days the effects will appear.” The general meaning is that only after a period of cultivation, once the foundation has been laid, does true light arise. What you see at present is still only the light of the eyes; it is not the fire of Shen (spirit), nor the light of innate nature, nor the torch of wisdom.

If the practice of turning the light back is continued for a hundred days, Jing (essence) and Qi become abundant, and true Yang—the inner vital force of the positive—arises of itself, just as true fire naturally emerges from within water. Cultivated in this way, Yin-Yang unite of themselves and congeal into the Neidan (internal alchemy), as if a fetus were being nurtured within the body. What I mean is that, in a state of unawareness and without deliberate contrivance, the inner “infant” (the Neidan) forms naturally. If even a slight admixture of subjective thoughts and intentional arrangement enters in, one departs from the correct path.

What is called “laying the foundation in a hundred days” is not necessarily a literal hundred days; to speak of “laying the foundation in one day” is not necessarily a literal day; and to speak of “laying the foundation in one breath” does not mean a single respiration. Here “breath” refers to the thought of the mind: one’s own mind is the breath, and it is also original Shen, original Qi, and original Jing. The rising and falling, the parting and joining, of the Qi mechanism all arise from the mind; being and non-being, emptiness and fullness, are likewise bound up with thought. If the practice can be sustained in every breath, why should it be limited to a hundred days? Yet the work of a hundred days may also be said to lie within this single breath.

The key to a hundred days of cultivation lies only in truly gaining efficacy: if the practice is effective by day, its benefit can be received at night; if it is effective at night, the benefit can likewise be received by day. “Laying the foundation in a hundred days” is a jade instruction (a precious oral formula of cultivation). The words of the exalted perfected (immortals and realized beings of high rank) all correspond to a person’s body and mind, and the words of a true teacher likewise correspond to the student’s circumstances. This is the mystery within mystery; it cannot be understood by verbal explanation alone, but must be grasped by personally seeing one’s nature (realizing one’s original nature). The student should therefore seek a true teacher’s instruction and confirmation, allowing original nature to manifest of itself, whereupon the principles that have been set forth will be verified one by one.

The method of turning the light around can originally be practiced in every state—walking, standing, sitting, and lying down—the key being that one grasps the essentials for oneself. As I said earlier, “an empty chamber gives birth to brightness”: this means that when the mind within is empty and still, light appears. Is this light not precisely the white light?

One point, however, must be made clear. At the outset, before any light has been seen, the appearance of light may be taken as a sign that cultivation has produced a response. But if, the moment the light is seen, one deliberately pursues it and clings to it, one falls into the activity of consciousness, and that is no longer the “light of nature” (the brightness that original nature manifests of itself). Whether or not the light has been seen, one should neither allow thoughts to arise nor deliberately suppress them.

What is meant by “no-thought”? It means setting everything down and clinging no longer. What is meant by “giving rise to a thought”? It means maintaining a single thought at every moment. This thought is “right mindfulness,” different from the scattered thoughts of ordinary days. “Thought” refers to the mind of the present moment; this mind of the present moment is itself the light, and it is also what cultivation calls the “medicine” (the subtle root in the practice of Neidan [internal alchemy]).

When ordinary people look at things, the eyes simply illuminate them by nature, before there is time to discriminate. This is the “light of nature,” like a mirror reflecting without mind, or the surface of water displaying scenery without mind. Linger even slightly and begin to discriminate and judge, and it becomes the “light of consciousness” (the light born of conscious discrimination). Once a mirror holds an image, it is no longer the mirror in its original state; once water holds a fixed form, it has lost the natural condition of water. Once light is mixed with conscious discrimination, how can it still be called pure light?

What a beginner first encounters is the “light of nature” (the radiance in which original nature appears). The moment a thought turns, it becomes “consciousness” (the mind-consciousness that discriminates and judges). As soon as a discriminating thought arises, the light seems nowhere to be found. In fact the light has not disappeared; it has already turned into consciousness. The Yellow Emperor said, “When a sound stirs, it does not give rise to another sound, but produces an echo.” This is precisely the meaning.

The Lengyan Tuikan Rumen (A Primer for Investigating the Shurangama) says, “It lies neither in dust nor in consciousness; one selects only the faculty.” What does this mean? “Dust” means external things, that is, the material world in which we live. It has no direct relation to the true self. To chase external objects exclusively is to mistake those objects for oneself. External things all have a place to which they can be returned: sound is returned to spaces such as doorways, and light is returned to the sun and moon. To borrow an external thing and take it as oneself is, in the end, not something one possesses. As for what cannot be returned to external things, what could it be if not yourself? Light, however, can also be returned to the sun and moon, because the light of the sun and moon that we see is not the luminous nature of the sun and moon themselves. At times the sky has neither sun nor moon, yet a person always possesses the nature capable of seeing the sun and moon. That being so, can the capacity to discriminate between sun and moon be counted as belonging to “me”? One should know that discrimination arising in dependence on brightness and darkness has nowhere to abide once both brightness and darkness disappear, and so it too can be returned. This is “inner dust.”

Only the “nature of seeing” (the nature that is able to see) seems incapable of being returned. Yet when one observes the nature of seeing more closely, one finds that the “seeing” which can be observed is not the true nature of seeing, and so the nature of seeing can also be returned. The “returning” spoken of here means returning that nature of seeing which flows along with discriminating thoughts. When the scripture says, “What causes you to transmigrate is the fault of mind and eye,” it means that what plunges a person into cyclic transmigration is the fault created by mental thoughts and the eye-faculty.

When Ananda (a disciple of the Buddha) first distinguished which things could be returned, the seven kinds of objective appearances he listed each showed that they had a place to which they belonged. The nature of seeing was therefore provisionally retained as a “staff” on which Ananda could rely in his practice. Ultimately, however, the nature of seeing still carries the eight consciousnesses—eye-consciousness, ear-consciousness, nose-consciousness, tongue-consciousness, body-consciousness, mental consciousness, the transmitting consciousness, and alaya-consciousness—and is not truly incapable of being returned. Only when this layer too is finally broken through is there the true nature of seeing, the nature that truly cannot be returned.

The “turning of the light around” that you cultivate—drawing the mind and Shen (spirit) back from their outward rush and reflecting them upon yourself—is precisely a return to that original light which cannot be returned. Not the slightest discriminating thought may therefore be mixed in. What causes a person to transmigrate is precisely the six faculties (eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind); what enables a person to realize bodhi (awakening) is likewise the six faculties. Practice relies neither on external dust nor on discriminating consciousness; what it employs is the nature originally inherent in the faculties. If, in turning the light around, one does not fall into discriminating thought, what is employed is the primordial nature within the faculties. If one falls into discriminating thought and only then turns the light around, what is employed is still the conscious nature within the faculties. The difference between the two is extremely subtle, yet they must not be confused: to ponder and calculate with the mind is to produce the light of consciousness; only when thoughts and cares are set aside is there the light of nature.

If discriminating thoughts do not cease, the luminous Shen cannot manifest; if the mind cannot be emptied, the Neidan (internal alchemy) cannot coalesce. A pure mind is the elixir; an empty and still mind is the medicine. “Not clinging to a single thing” is called purity of mind; “not retaining a single thing” is called emptiness of mind. To take “emptiness” as emptiness is still not true emptiness. Only when even attachment to “emptiness” is forgotten can it be called true emptiness.

Chapter Eleven: The Intercourse of Kan and Li

Whatever dissipates the spirit outward and moves in response to external things belongs to Li; whatever gathers the mind-spirit, turns it back, and quietly nurtures it within belongs to Kan. Kan and Li are two of the Eight Trigrams (Bagua). When the mind-spirit runs outside the seven apertures, such as the eyes and ears, that is Li; when it is drawn back inward from the seven apertures, that is Kan. The Yin aspect governs chasing external forms and colors and following after sounds; the Yang aspect governs withdrawing the hearing and gathering in the sight.

Kan and Li are Yin-Yang; Yin-Yang are nature (xing) and life (ming); nature and life are body and mind; and body and mind in turn communicate with the illuminating discernment of Shen (spirit). So long as one gathers in the spirit and is no longer pulled along by external circumstances, this is the true intercourse of Kan and Li. As for sitting upright in silence, or sitting cross-legged in stillness, that is another matter.

Chapter Twelve: The Celestial Circuit

What is called the “celestial circuit” (Zhoutian)—a way of speaking, in the practice of Neidan (internal alchemy), about the movement of the dynamic of Qi (vital energy)—does not depend on taking Qi as primary, but on the mind-spirit arriving and illuminating all around. If one insists on asking precisely how the dynamic of Qi moves, this instead becomes a deliberate forcing of its growth. One should guard it with no fixed mind and let it move without intention.

Looking up to observe the heavens, the three hundred and sixty-five degrees change from moment to moment, yet the handle of the Northern Dipper (Beidou) has from ancient times always pointed in a set direction; my mind should be settled in just this way. The mind is like the xuanji (an ancient instrument for observing the heavens), and Qi is like the host of stars. The Qi in the body already courses through the four limbs and every part of the body; it is so of itself, and one need not apply excessive force.

In cultivation one should train the cognitive spirit (shishen—the mind-spirit that discriminates and deliberates) and cut off false views. Only after this will the “medicine” arise. The medicine spoken of here is not something with form; it is the light of nature (xingguang—the radiance in which original nature appears), that is, primordial true Qi. It can appear only after great stability (dading—a deeply settled state of meditative concentration). There is no method of gathering the medicine, and those who speak of gathering it are badly mistaken. If this radiance is illumined and beheld for a long time, the ground of the mind grows bright, delusive thoughts come to an end of themselves, the mind is empty and nothing leaks away, and one is released from the afflictions of the dusty world. If today one talks of dragon and tiger and tomorrow of water and fire, it is in the end nothing but delusive thought. The oral formula I formerly received from the Perfected Huolong (Fire Dragon) was precisely this; I do not know what the elixir texts, for their part, are describing.

A single celestial cycle (zhoutian) may be completed in the course of one day, and it may also be completed within a single moment. Wherever Kan and Li—symbolizing Yin-Yang and water and fire—meet and join, that is one cycle. The joining and circulation within oneself is the embodiment of the cycling of the Heavenly Dao (the Way). Because one cannot yet come to rest at once, there are times when they meet and times when they do not; yet the cycling of the Heavenly Dao has never ceased for even an instant.

If Yin and Yang truly blend, the Yang Qi (vital energy) between Heaven and Earth flows in harmony, and one’s own Central Palace—in Neidan (internal alchemy), the center of the body, the place where intention is gathered—settles and returns to its proper place, then the myriad things can all open and circulate freely together. This is the method that the elixir scriptures call “bathing.” Is not a celestial cycle that turns in this way the Greater Celestial Cycle?

The firing times within it—in Neidan, the mastery of applying intention, regulating the breath, and timing advance and withdrawal—do indeed admit a distinction between greater and lesser; yet traced to the root, there is no fixed difference of greater and lesser. When practice reaches the state of naturalness, one no longer reckons what Kan and Li are or what Heaven and Earth are, nor asks who is joining, or whether it counts as one cycle or two, and there is no longer any place to seek a difference of size.

In sum, the circulation of one’s own Qi, however great it may appear, is still small. If each turning circulates together with Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things, then even within the space of a square inch—the mind, or the interior of the body—it may be called supremely great. The firing times of Golden Elixir cultivation must in the end return to naturalness. If one cannot be natural, Heaven and Earth remain only Heaven and Earth, and the myriad things each return to themselves; to force them together is, in the end, never truly to unite them.

Take, for example, a long drought in which Yin and Yang fall out of balance. Qian and Kun—Heaven and Earth—have never ceased their operation, yet many points of discord still appear. If I can turn Yin and Yang so that they harmonize of themselves, vapors rise as clouds, rain descends, grasses and trees are moistened and at ease, and the waters of mountains and rivers flow freely; even what was formerly contrary and unharmonious seems at once to dissolve. This is the Greater Celestial Cycle.

What is subtle about the “living zi hour”? If one insists on taking it as a fixed “true zi hour” (zheng zishi—a particular moment within the hour of zi), one seems to cling to outward form. Yet if one does not cling, and also fails to indicate the true zi hour clearly, one will not know how to recognize the living zi hour. How, then, can the living zi hour be known? Once it is known, one finds that there is indeed still a true zi hour. Whether the two are ultimately two or one cannot be settled by simply calling it true, nor by simply calling it living. What matters is to see it with real clarity. When it is seen clearly, both the true hour and the living hour can be grasped of themselves. If it is not seen clearly, how can one tell which is true and which is living?

The living zi hour is a state a person may discern at any time. The true zi hour, by contrast, is the moment that appears when mind and intention are clear and lucid; at that time the living zi hour also becomes all the more evident. If one cannot yet recognize the living zi hour clearly, one may first observe it in the true zi hour. Once the true hour appears, the subtle working of the living hour will reveal itself along with it.

Chapter Thirteen: A Song of Exhortation to the World

Because I am wholly intent on saving and delivering the people of the world, and my heart is urgent, I do not hesitate to exhort them again and again, speaking earnestly and at length. The World-Honored One (the Buddha), likewise, because of the great conditions for delivering beings, pointed directly to the matter of birth and death—truly something to be lamented.

The Lord Lao (Laozi) also grieved that human life is limited, and transmitted the principle of the “Valley Spirit” (gushen—the inexhaustible vitality of emptiness and stillness spoken of in Daoism). Unfortunately, people do not understand it. I will now briefly set out the path for seeking the true Dao (the Way). The Classic of Changes says, “The yellow center penetrates principle,” meaning to dwell in the center and thoroughly comprehend the pattern of things. “Occupying the proper position and embodying it” means to rest securely in the correct position and hold to the fundamental substance. These are used here to explain the mysterious pass (xuanguan—the crucial gateway spoken of in cultivation).

Between the hours of zi and wu, one may settle the breathing. By turning the light back to shine upon the “ancestral aperture” (zuqiao—the fundamental opening spoken of in inner cultivation), one can bring Shen (spirit) and Qi (vital energy) to rest. The medicinal substance is generated amid the rivers and plains, and from this the one primordial Qi emerges. Passing through the deep and hidden passes, it transforms and displays a golden radiance. A brightness like a round red sun often appears in full splendor, yet people of the world mistakenly take it for the Jing (essence) of Kan and Li. (Kan and Li are hexagram names in the Classic of Changes; in the art of Neidan (internal alchemy) they are often used to indicate such paired things as water and fire, or the heart and the kidneys.)

If one deliberately moves and transports the Qi of the heart and kidneys, one instead causes them to stand apart from each other. How, then, can a person’s cultivation accord with the Dao of Heaven? So long as Heaven and humanity correspond, the Dao naturally comes into accord. Set down every lingering concern, so that no delusive thoughts arise in the mind. This is the true primordial Wuji (the Limitless): the Great Void is still and soundless, and even the first signs of beginning have vanished.

At the critical juncture of cultivating nature and life, one must forget discriminative pondering. Only after the activity of consciousness has subsided can original reality become manifest. When the water grows clear, the pearl appears; the mystery within is hard to fathom. The afflictions and obstructions from time without beginning are thereby dissolved as well.

So long as Heaven and humanity correspond, the Dao naturally comes into accord. Set down every lingering concern, so that no delusive thoughts arise in the mind. This is the true primordial Wuji.

The Great Void (the realm of empty stillness without form) lies in complete tranquility, and every sign has vanished. At the critical point in the cultivation of nature and life, even the activity of consciousness must be forgotten; only after consciousness has subsided can one’s original true nature appear. The mind is like clear water: when the water is clear, the pearl appears, and the subtlety within is hard to fathom.

Afflictions and obstructions accumulated since time without beginning can be emptied away in a single moment. The Jade Capital (the celestial palaces of which Daoism speaks) sends down the Register of the Nine Dragons; it is as if one treads the road of clouds, ascends the Heavenly Pass, commands the thunder, and directs the lightning.

Concentrating the spirit (Shen) and settling the breath is the practice by which one enters cultivation; withdrawing and storing oneself in a hidden, secluded place is the state in which mind and spirit remain constantly at rest.

In the past I composed two lyric poems for Zhang Zhennu, and both speak of the Great Dao (the Way). The phrase “after zi and before wu” does not refer to particular hours, but to Kan and Li (symbols of Yin-Yang, and of water and fire). What is called settling the breath means letting every breath return to the root—that is, the Central Yellow (the central pivot in the middle of the body). What is called “sitting” means that the mind does not move. What is called Jiaji is not some wheel-point on the back, but the great road leading straight to the Jade Capital. As for the Double Pass, there is within it a meaning difficult to put into words. “Earth and thunder stir, and rain falls on the mountain’s crown” speaks of the arising of true Qi (vital energy); “the Yellow Sprout breaks the soil” speaks of the forming of the medicine. In just these two short passages, the principle of cultivating an unmoving mind has already been fully set forth.

Long ago Confucius and Yan Hui climbed to the summit of Mount Tai and gazed afar at a white horse by the Wu Gate. Yan Hui saw it as a length of white silk. Confucius quickly covered his eyes, fearing that excessive use of the eyes would cause the light of the spirit to dissipate. How, then, can one fail to strive at turning the light around to shine inward (gathering back the spirit that races outward, so that mind and spirit contemplate within)?

Turning the light around must begin with purifying the thoughts of the mind and removing stray notions, allowing only the true breath to gather and illuminate the Central Palace. In time, one will naturally come to commune with the numinous and respond to change. In sum, stillness of mind and steady contemplation are the foundation; the forgetting of thought and the gathering of breath are the effect; when the breath is peaceful and the mind empty and bright, the work of the elixir is complete; when mind and Qi become one, one enters the stage of gentle nurturing; to illuminate the mind and see one’s nature is to attain the Dao.

All of you should cultivate diligently, and not let the time pass in vain. A day without cultivation is a day lived as a ghost; if one can cultivate within a single breath, that single breath is a true immortal. Strive—strive!