《女子丹经汇编》Vol. 2

Further Martial Fire for Cooking and Refining

One must also add a phase of martial fire—intense refining—like an extra step in the process. In an age of strict ritual propriety, such matters were often left unsaid. When a man’s qi stirs, the same applies: if the mind cannot hold steady, qi sinks downward, the penis erects, and one falls back onto the post-heaven path (ordinary life, emission and loss of qi). To mistake this “spontaneous arousal without lust” for the living zi hour (when true essence naturally stirs and one should gather the medicine for refinement) is to make a fool of oneself.

The Magpie Bridge Crossed Again; Return to the Furnace

The Magpie Bridge is crossed once more, and elixir qi returns to the furnace.

Ruyao Jing says: “Upper Magpie Bridge, lower Magpie Bridge; heaven responds with stars, earth responds with tides.” Later elixir texts that speak of the Magpie Bridge mostly follow this. During alchemical circulation, qi usually rises first from the lower Magpie Bridge (the coccyx and perineum region) along the spine, strikes open the Jade Pillow, and reaches the Mud Ball (within the crown); then it descends via the upper Magpie Bridge, passes the Twelve Story Tower before the chest, and returns to the Primordial Sea (dantian, qi sea).

The upper Magpie Bridge lies within the Hall of Seal and Root of the Mountain; the lower Magpie Bridge lies between the tailbone and perineum. When elixir qi reaches the upper bridge, one often feels a round light flicker between the brows—“heaven responds with stars.” When it rises from the lower bridge, one often feels heat steaming in the Sea of Blood (lower abdomen, qi sea region)—“earth responds with tides.” Here “the Magpie Bridge crossed again” includes both segments. “Return to the furnace” means qi settles in the Yellow Court; the Yellow Court is also called the Kun Furnace. (Other interpretations of the upper and lower bridges exist; they are not developed here.)

Nourishing the Elixir, Fifth

Bind the tiger at the true cavity; lead the dragon and gradually enrich the elixir—restrain the tiger (yang force, desire) and fix it at the true cavity; guide the dragon (true qi) and little by little fill the elixir.

In this female alchemy scripture, “tiger” is a metaphor for qi and “dragon” for shen (spirit); the “true acupoint” lies roughly between the two breasts. What “binding the tiger to return to the true acupoint” means is what Shangyangzi Chen Zhizhe said: for a woman to cultivate immortality, she must first gather qi in the breasts. Qi divides into post-heaven qi and pre-heaven qi: to refine post-heaven qi, use methods of regulating breath and concentrating the spirit; to gather pre-heaven qi, one must wait until vital stirrings arise naturally within the body before acting.

“Leading the dragon” is simply joining concentrated spirit with qi; when spirit and qi become one and hun and po are mutually held, the elixir (dan) can form. Celestial Master Zhang Xujing said: “When the original spirit (yuanshen) leaves the body, bring it back; when spirit returns to the body, qi naturally follows; doing this morning and evening, one naturally forms a spirit embryo like an infant.” That is the meaning of “leading the dragon gradually enriches the elixir.” The “dragon” here differs in meaning from the “dragon” in “slaying the dragon.”

Nature must be as clear as pure water; the heart must be as still as a high mountain.

True person Zhang Sanfeng said: “Concentrate the spirit, regulate the breath; regulate the breath, concentrate the spirit—these eight characters must be carried through in one breath, unbroken, and also layered yet without a break in the thread.” Concentrating the spirit means drawing the already clarified and settled mind inward; when the mind is not yet clear, do not blindly close the eyes and fix the spirit. First urge and counsel yourself until the mind is cool, light, and tranquil, then draw the heart into the qi acupoint—that is concentrating the spirit. Then be as one who sits on a high mountain watching all mountains and waters, or as one who lights a lamp in heaven to illumine the nine depths and nine obscurities—what is called concentrating the spirit in emptiness means just this.

Regulating the breath is not hard: once mind and spirit are quiet, breathing follows its natural course, and I need only guard that naturalness.

“Regulate the breath to gather the golden cauldron; settle the spirit to guard the jade pass”—different phrasing for the same practice.

Regulating Breath to Gather the Golden Cauldron, Settling the Spirit to Guard the Jade Pass

Zhang Sanfeng said: When sitting in meditation, unite Shen (consciousness) with Qi (vital energy), and let Yi (intention) follow Xi (breath), both settling in the Dantian (the lower abdomen, where inner Qi is refined). Qi in the Dantian should be dense, smooth, gathered and not scattered. Then inner Qi and outer Qi meet in the Dantian, gradually filling, reaching the limbs and spreading through the hundred vessels, opening the two passes at Jiaji on the spine, then rising to Niwan Gong (Mud Pill Palace) at the crown, turning back down to Jiang Gong (the heart region), and again descending to the Dantian. When Shen and Qi guard each other and breath follows breath, the He Che (the route of the microcosmic orbit) is open. At this stage, Zhuji (laying the foundation of practice) is half complete.

He also said: Use postnatal breath to find where the “true person’s” innate breath resides. When adjusting postnatal breath, let it turn on its own so it can draw innate breath; the practitioner need only zhixu shoujing (empty the mind, reduce thoughts, and stay still). Once true breath stirs, Xuan Guan (the critical pass) is not far. Practicing thus, Zhuji can be achieved quickly.

Guangchengzi said: Embrace Shen in stillness, and the body will right itself. Do not weary the body or disturb Jing (essence), and you may attain long life. Eyes not seeing, ears not hearing, mind not scheming—Shen keeps to the form, and the form lives long. Be careful within, closed without; much knowing leads to failure. I guard the “One,” dwell in harmony, and thus live twelve hundred years without my form decaying.

Commentary: On regulating breath, Sanfeng explains most fully; on settling Shen, Guangcheng speaks most finely—hence both are quoted as annotation. The upper line of this poem speaks of Wu Huo (stronger, gathering effort), hence “Golden Cauldron”; the lower line speaks of Wen Huo (gentler holding), hence “Jade Pass.”

Day by day it adds millet; hoary hair turns rosy again. (Daily practice accumulates merit like adding grains of millet; white hair returning to a ruddy hue is a metaphor for the fruits of completion.)

The Four Hundred Words on the Golden Elixir says: “Chaos wraps emptiness, and emptiness in turn holds the three realms; if you wish to trace its root, at first it is no larger than a grain of millet.” It also speaks of “one grain”—the next line treats gentle fire (the slow, steady warming fire of sustained nurturing), so Yuguan (the “jade pass,” a metaphor for the pass where essence and qi enter and leave) is used to complete the explanation.

“Day by day it can increase like millet grains; white hair returns to a youthful face.”

The same work also says: “One grain after another, from the subtle to the manifest.” That is the meaning of “day by day it can increase like millet grains.” In plain terms, you gather bit by bit and refine bit by bit, gradually condensing and gradually solidifying—there is no literal “millet grain” you can point to as a visible object.

The Cantong qi (Seal of the Unity of the Three) says: “Golden sand enters the five viscera; mist scatters like wind and rain; steaming permeates the four limbs, and the complexion is bright and smooth. White hair all turns black, and fallen teeth grow back in their old places. The aged life becomes vigorous again; the old woman becomes a radiant maiden. Changing form to escape worldly calamity—such a one is called a true person.” That is exactly the state this poem’s closing line, “white hair returns to a youthful face,” is pointing at.

Some take “white hair on the head and a face like an infant’s” to be “white hair and youthful countenance”—that is a misunderstanding. If a cultivator practices xiantian gongfu (inner refinement rooted in formless spirit and qi), white hair should gradually turn dark again; if the hair stays white while only the complexion is ruddy, that mostly belongs to houtian gongfu, or to the path of caibu (supplementing essence and qi by borrowing from external conditions). True immortals are not on that track. The worldly phrase “white hair and childlike face” (hefa tongyan) is often, from an insider’s view, lay language.

Fetal Breathing, Section Six

If you want the elixir to form quickly, you must first clear away huanjing (illusory realms in the mind—false scenes and distracting images).

On “Illusory Realms” (Huanjing)

The earlier explanation has a point, but it is not the original sense of “Huanjing”; that was a simplified teaching for beginners. Huanjing in the full sense means the various appearances that arise when, in practice, yin demons within the body—disturbances in the inner landscape formed from yin qi or from the mind’s own demons—take their chance to show themselves: stirring desire, fear, anger, or grief; making one think they are spiritual powers; leading one astray; clouding consciousness and harming the body; or seeing something once and rashly claiming one has met a sage. All of this is Huanjing, and it must be cleared away. Without a master’s “fazhao” (the trained eye that tells orthodox from deviant in cultivation) to expose it, it is hard to tell what is what—which is why learning the Way requires a teacher. Some people study the Dao for decades without ever meeting demonic obstruction; often that is because they have not truly put effort into real practice.

“Heart upon heart guards the spirit medicine; breath upon breath returns to the origin of Qian”

“Spirit medicine” (lingyao) is subtle being (miaoyou); subtle being is true breath (zhenxi)—the fine breathing and inner qi that tie to life. “Heart upon heart guards the spirit medicine” means the heart must stay with the breath—the heart turns with the breath. “Origin of Qian” (qianchu) is empty stillness (zhenkong); empty stillness is the heart of the Dao (daoxin)—the clear heart that accords with the Dao. “Breath upon breath returns to the origin of Qian” means the breath must stay with the heart—the breath turns with the heart.

At first one may unite heart and breath, but not for long before they split again. Only at the stage of embryonic breathing (taixi), when breathing is extremely fine and slow and qi moves inward, do heart and breath stay joined for long without separating.

“Qian chu” (Qian at the beginning) means the prenatal state before the single horizontal line of the Qian hexagram was drawn—not the hexagram’s first yao (line). The Mingdao pian asks us to contemplate what form Qian has before that line is drawn: once the one stroke appears, the myriad phenomena arise. So “Qian chu” stands for the realm where the Supreme Ultimate (Taiji) has not yet split into yin and yang and the ten thousand things are not yet born.

“Qi returns and passes through the three isles; spirit forgotten, merging with Grand Vacuity”: Here “the three isles” is a metaphor for the upper, middle, and lower dantian (energy centers)—the three main “seas of qi” in the body. Laozi’s “returning to the root is called stillness; stillness is called returning to destiny” is exactly this “qi fu” (qi returning): qi sinks back to the root, breath settles into stillness. Human form and substance originally come from Tai Xu (Grand Vacuity—the formless, imageless prenatal ground). Once one falls into appearances and clings to the physical body, obstacles arise and it is hard to merge with Tai Xu. Only the person who cultivates the Dao can forget all appearances; when appearances are empty, spirit can unite with Tai Xu.

Tianyinzi belongs to the Daoist line. He said that in cultivating truth one cannot count on sudden enlightenment; one must advance step by step. First, zhaijie (fasting and purification)—cleansing the body and emptying the heart. Second, anchu (settled dwelling)—living deep in a quiet room. Third, cunxiang (holding the image in mind)—gathering the heart and restoring nature. Fourth, zuowang (sitting and forgetting)—releasing the form and forgetting the self. Fifth, shenjie (spiritual release)—the myriad methods open to spirit. The whole work is about a thousand words; only the outline is recorded here. Sima Ziyuan’s Discourse on Sitting and Forgetting (Zuowang lun) is also worth reading. Such practice is very difficult and cannot be completed overnight; yet for those with resolve, the work can be finished—it all depends on how steadfast one’s perseverance is.

Whether coming or going, nowhere is not Zhenru (True Suchness—the nature that is real, never false, and complete in itself from the start).

The Meaning of “Zhenru” (True Suchness)

Zhenru is a Buddhist term. Scriptures say the Tathāgatagarbha (Buddha-nature storehouse) has two aspects: the gate of birth-and-death (the side that enters samsara and rises and falls), and the gate of zhenru (the unchanging true substance). When mind does not abide in birth-and-death, that is zhenru; when it turns away from zhenru, one falls into birth-and-death. It is also said: “Zhen” means real, not empty or false; “Ru” means constant, not shifting back and forth.

Fu Huo, Section Seven

Where embryonic breathing (taixi) runs on without break, one must distinguish the pivot between movement and stillness (the turning point and opportunity when qi shifts between moving and still).

Yin tally (yinfu), yang fire (yanghuo), and the movement and stillness of qi were already explained in the preceding sections; one need not wait until taixi is stable to discuss them. But before forming the elixir (jiedan), when qi stirs it often surges upward to the nipples (in men, downward to the genitals). Once the elixir is formed, both breasts draw tight like a young girl’s; though stirring still occurs within, it can no longer disperse outward—it moves only inside. Stirring also has its schedule: sometimes once every few days, sometimes several times in one day, depending on diligence or slackness in practice. The time before stirring and after stirring both count as stillness.

Yang light (yangguang) (yang qi) should be assisted so it grows ever stronger; yin soul (yinpo) (yin essence, yin spirit, and the like) must be guarded lest it scatter outward or fly upward.

Movement belongs to yang; stillness belongs to yin. When yang qi stirs, yuanshen (primordial spirit) stirs with it; wherever qi reaches in the body, spirit reaches there too. Stirring of yang qi is called “advancing”; secretly spirit assists, and the more one advances the stronger it becomes—hence “yijin” (ever-increasing advance).

When yang reaches its extreme, the yin aspect begins to generate; when movement reaches its extreme, it must return to stillness. Hun (the ethereal soul) belongs to yang and governs ascent; po (the corporeal soul) belongs to yin and governs descent. When it is time to rise, do not let it fall; when it is time to fall, do not let it rise. “Guard the yin po against flying upward” means: when qi already tends toward stillness and settling, shen (spirit) must assist and protect that stillness, so the mind does not grow restless and agitated and spirit-intent does not fly off in disorder.

“Pool” (tan) below stands for the blood sea and the region of the uterus; “mountain” (shan) above stands for the chest center (danzhong) and the area between the breasts. The light of the “pearl” is gathered inward and hidden deep; the light of the “moon” is displayed outward and bright. Saying the pool holds the scene is the image of stillness with depth concealed; saying the mountain peak sends forth radiance is the mechanism of movement with outward display.

“Six periods” (liu shi) are not the six double-hours of daytime, nor the six of nighttime; they are the virtual six periods of silent transformation within the body. The ancients also called them the “six indications” (liu hou). Do not fix on clock time, or the living method becomes a dead formula. If you ask what the body’s six periods resemble, they still come down to the messages of shen and qi in movement and stillness, and yin and yang in ascent and descent.

“Rest a little, do not indulge freely” (xiu shao zong) means: thoughts do not arise, intention does not scatter—one thread runs through to the end, without break in the middle; only when this segment of work is finished may you move about freely.

Receiving the Medicine, Eighth

Half the arcane mechanism is understood; the cinnabar seed condenses like dew.

The immortal’s whole achievement—at this point half is already gained, because the inner elixir (neidan) has formed.

"Dew" is water on the ground that turns to vapor when heated and rises into the air; at night, when it meets cold, it clings to whatever radiates heat most easily and condenses into dew. The principle of neidan (internal alchemy) is the same—you can grasp it with shen (spirit/mind), but it is hard to put into words.

Though one may secure life (stabilize nature and life, extend years), how can one refine into a formed body (a true form that can manifest)? Once the elixir has formed (inner refinement has produced the pill), jing (essence), qi (vital energy), and shen are already firm and complete, and one may be sure of long life—but one still cannot feather and transform (shed the shell and ascend). At this stage one may be called a human immortal (renxian).

Immortals are graded in five ranks: ghost immortal, human immortal, earth immortal, spirit immortal, and celestial immortal (tianxian).

Ghost immortal: still of the category "ghost," able to communicate with spirits and endure long—unlike ordinary ghosts. Human immortal: still human in form; food, drink, and dress are like everyone else's, yet one is spared the calamities of old age, illness, and death. Earth immortal: still tied to earth; cold and heat cannot harm, hunger and thirst cannot injure; though one may not yet roam at will in spirit, one is already free from the burden of food, clothing, and shelter. Spirit immortal: able to manifest spiritual powers and change form, coming and going at will, able to cast off the body and stand alone, light and free—dispersed becoming qi, gathered becoming form. Celestial immortal: on the foundation of the spirit immortal, one cultivates further upward, beyond the world we inhabit, into another realm—probably not something ordinary perception can measure.

The two lines "the nose observes pure yang connecting, spirit-lead penetrates the body with numinosity" speak of the real work of transcending the mundane and entering the sacred; without this path, one cannot manifest yang shen (the appearance and function of purely yang spirit).

"The nose observes pure yang connecting": nasal breath and pure yang qi link and flow together without break. "Spirit-lead penetrates the body with numinosity": shen and lead (in neidan, the "lead" of true essence and spirit-energy) pervade the whole body, and clarity is spontaneous. Together they are the key from bodily cultivation to the manifestation of yang shen—spirit awareness leaving form without scattering.

These two lines speak of the real cultivation that leads beyond the ordinary and into sagehood: without this path, one cannot produce the Yang Spirit—the refined pure-yang primordial spirit that can exist apart from the physical body. In the world today, apart from one or two who specialize in this practice, hardly anyone can actually cultivate this accomplishment, and even those who grasp its meaning are rare. If I were to start from scratch and force my own commentary, readers might not understand and would laugh at me for talking nonsense. So I cite the transmitted “Vacuum Refining the Form” elixir method from antiquity to explain its deep meaning.

The Vacuum Refining the Form Method says: Before birth, each breath connects one’s Qi with the mother’s body; after birth, each breath connects Qi with Heaven. Heaven and the human share this one Qi—it circulates and flows between them, mutual giving and receiving, like a saw going back and forth. Heaven gives me Qi and I can take it—gain Qi and live; Heaven takes it back—lose Qi and die. Therefore the sage observes Heaven’s way and emulates Heaven’s movement. In the early morning, before the sun has risen from Yang Valley (the eastern place of sunrise), one sits in stillness with concentrated spirit, meeting emptiness and quiet within: release thoughts inwardly, release all entanglements outwardly, suddenly forget Heaven and Earth, and “shatter the bodily form” (Daoists often speak of shattering empty space and shattering the bodily form—meaning only to drop fixation on externals and the physical body; one need not fixate on the word “shatter”). Then naturally in the great void a bit of Yang Qi, like dew or lightning, surges vigorously through the Mysterious Gate, passes through the long valley up to the Mud Pill Palace (niwan, within the crown), turns into sweet dew descending into the five viscera. One then stirs the Xun wind (internal Qi like wind) to respond, driving out stale Qi from the three passes and nine orifices, sweeping filth from the six viscera and five organs, burning the body to refine essence, forging away dregs and dispelling gloom, drawing out the impure body and replacing it with a pure Yang body. Accumulated over long time, the form transforms and one becomes an immortal.

Pomizhengdao Ge (Song for Breaking Delusion and Upholding the True Way)

It is indeed so: if you guard the practice for a full hundred days and stay alert to danger at every turn, the red blood in the body can turn into essence-Qi as thick and rich as paste, and the physical form gradually takes on a lustrous, silver-like sheen. It is also indeed so: when for those hundred days essence-Qi is neither depleted nor leaked, it flows inward as clearly and smoothly as jade paste, and an inner radiance arises of its own.

Cuixu Pian (Emerald Void Treatise)

First: one refines in the body a state in which golden light shines through the entire form; as days pass and the work deepens, form and spirit both change, until one can transform the body and ascend to perfection.

Second: golden light fills the body, the marrow gives off fragrance, sinews become like gold and bones like jade—all turning into pure Yang; when cultivation reaches the point where red blood becomes white Qi, yin substance is worn away, and the body is naturally healthy and at ease.

Qiu Changchun (Qiu Chuji)

So long as breathing and mind-intent constantly watch over each other and never part, in time the old frame is wholly replaced, and jade fluid (the essence refined within) circulates naturally throughout.

Zhang Ziyang

Heaven and the human being originally share this one Qi; only the obstructing shell of the physical body keeps them from communicating. When cultivation brings form and spirit to a silent union in one place, one finally understands: every form and color is precisely the empty fullness of the Dao—not annihilation, but non-duality with the body of the Way.

The methods of refining the form (transforming the physical body through practices involving qi, spirit, and related arts) fall roughly into six approaches: first, Jade Fluid Refining Form; second, Golden Fluid Refining Form; third, Great Yin Refining Form; fourth, Great Yang Refining Form; fifth, Inner Contemplation Refining Form. These paths all belong to methods that have visible form and concrete signs; in the end they are not the Great Way of emptiness and nonbeing (the ultimate path that takes vacuity and stillness as its root), and cannot share the same body as the Great Void (the vast emptiness that is one with Heaven and Earth).

Only this single method is called True Void Refining Form: although it has concrete practice, its essence is wuwei (non-action); although it is named refining the form, in reality it is refining spirit—the outer body and inner spirit are cultivated together. If one practices it fully for one hundred days, the Seven Po (aspects of the yin spirit tied to bodily form) lose their material shape, the Three Corpses (malevolent entities dwelling in the body that incline one toward moral failure) vanish without trace, the Six Thieves (the faculties of eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind that disturb the nature of mind) lie hidden and do not emerge, and the Ten Demons (various inner and outer demonic obstructions) flee far away. After one thousand days of full practice, the Four Great Elements (earth, water, fire, wind) return to a single body; the whole person becomes like a crystal pagoda, exquisite inside and out, transparent within and without; the Heart Flower (the blossom of light in the heart) blazes brilliantly, and spiritual light appears.

Thus the Scripture of Generating Spirit says: “When body and spirit unite as one, that is the true body. When body and spirit join, the form follows the Dao and flows freely. In concealment the form is fixed within the spirit; in manifestation the spirit merges with qi. Therefore one can tread through fire and water without harm, and stand before sun and moon without casting a shadow. Life and death are in one’s own hands, coming and going without obstruction; one may remain in the world with the body intact, or shed the husk and ascend as an immortal.”

Comment: The scope of this stage of True Void Refining Form is very broad; it is not merely a footnote to the poem below. Even the later methods—refining spirit, ingesting elixirs, grain abstinence, wall-facing meditation, and spirit departure—do not fall outside this single application; they differ only as stages according to the depth of one’s attainment.

Nurturing and containing must be undertaken with care; when completion is reached, soaring ascent follows.

“Nurturing and containing” means warming, nourishing, and holding the elixir within. “Completion” means qi is full and the medicine is potent. “Soaring ascent” seems to refer to the great medicine breaking through the passes; if it is read as flying up into the sky, the time is not yet ripe.

Ninth on Refining Shen (Spirit)

“The śarīra from before life, in an instant enters my embrace”

“Śarīra” (relic pearl) is originally a Buddhist term; here it is borrowed to stand for yuanshen—the innate, authentic spirit a person is born with. “Before life” means before this physical body existed. A person’s yuanshen passes through kalpas unchanged; what changes is shishen—the mind of later habit, discrimination, and calculation. Through the practice of refining the form in true emptiness (zhenkong lianxing), shishen is refined away bit by bit, and yuanshen reveals itself bit by bit. It is like polishing a mirror: when the dust is worn away, brightness appears of itself. From this we know that the various spiritual capacities were always present in one’s original nature—they are not obtained from outside.

The line says “in an instant enters my embrace,” which on the surface seems to speak of the qi side. But at this stage qi and shen cannot be separated—speak of shen-qi and they are within; speak of qi-shen and they are within too. Patriarch Lü’s Qiao Yao Ge has: “From the lead pool bursts forth the golden light; mercury fire flows as pearls into the Imperial Capital.” Lead pool and golden light refer to qi; mercury fire and flowing pearls refer to shen. “Imperial Capital” means the middle Dantian (also called the Crimson Palace or Spirit Chamber), corresponding to the region of the heart. The heart is sovereign of the whole person, hence Imperial Capital. Here “enters my embrace” means the same as “pearls flow into the Imperial Capital”—both describe shen (united with qi) returning to the heart palace.

“Careful as holding a fragile vessel; gentle as cradling a small child”

Laozi says, “Hold it and fill it—better stop in time,” “Those who keep this Dao do not wish to fill it to the brim,” and “The greatest fullness seems empty; its use is inexhaustible.” From such sayings we can grasp the first line, “careful as holding a fragile vessel”: in practice one must be as cautious as when holding a vessel that easily overflows—do not greedily fill it, do not rush ahead.

Laozi also asks, “Concentrate the qi to achieve softness—can you be like an infant?” The second line, “gentle as cradling a small child,” takes that state of achieving softness and being like an infant: when refining shen, mind and breath must be focused and soft, like lightly holding a small child—do not use force, do not grasp and cling.

Laozi said: “Can you concentrate your qi in unity, making your body and mind supple, like an infant?” He also said: “I alone am calm and still, with no sign yet showing, like an infant that has not yet grown into a child.” And again: “When alive, the body is soft and weak; after death, it becomes stiff and hard.” From these lines we can see that what is meant here by the “lower phrase” is mostly about preserving softness, guarding qi, and not letting essential qi leak outward—continuous with the “infant” and “soft and weak” themes above.

The earth gate must be firmly closed; the heavenly gate must be opened first.

Wherever scriptures speak of “earth,” they usually mean the orifices and channels in the lower part of the body; wherever they speak of “heaven,” they usually mean those in the upper part. Practitioners most dread losing qi downward, so all the lower orifices must be gathered in and sealed tight. Then the body’s qi gradually fills; unable to escape below, it surges upward toward the brain. At that time the ears may seem to carry a rushing wind, the eyes flashes of light, the back of the head may throb, and below the navel there may feel like a tidal surge—many such signs may appear.

Hong Jiaosui of the Longmen lineage, seventeenth generation, from Guangxi, transmitted a Song of the Golden Elixir that was not yet widely circulated; it included lines such as: “Ten thousand horses charge at both ears; meteor and lightning scorch both brows—if you reach this point, do not panic; hold mind and spirit steady and do not shift.” That describes what tends to happen when the earth gate is closed and the heavenly gate opened: there is no need for alarm—simply keep the heart settled and the spirit stable.

Wash the Yellow Sprout clean; on the mountain peak, earth thunder shakes.

When Patriarch Lü guided Immortal Zhang the Maiden, the Buchan Gong lyric said: “Earth thunder shakes the mountain peak in rain; the Yellow Sprout must be washed clean as it breaks from the soil.” “Yellow Sprout” is another name for the Great Return Elixir (da huan dan). The “mountain peak” here roughly refers to the Niwan Palace region at the crown. An earlier poem in the third sequence also has “mountain peak and sea bottom—after the rain, one clap of thunder.” On the surface the two passages look much alike; in actual practice, however, the effects felt can differ greatly.

In cultivation practice, the role of purification ultimately comes down to bringing a person into a state of stillness and stability (jingding)—when body and mind settle and discursive thoughts cease. In neidan (internal alchemy) training, after lesser stillness (a relatively shallow entry into absorption), the body often shows minor movement (light shifts in qi or subtle inner visions); after greater stillness (deep absorption), major movement appears (stronger inner shaking of qi). The deeper the stillness, the fiercer the shaking; if it reaches an extreme, it can even break open the crown gate (a key point at the top of the head, often standing for spirit and qi rising and exiting through the crown)—but ordinarily, without reaching great stillness first, it is hard to get that far.

The power of stillness and stability is something the practitioner can actively cultivate: from brief sessions to long ones, from shallow to deep. The effect of shaking, by contrast, mostly arises naturally and cannot be forced by brute effort; it does not seem fully under the will—yet the pattern holds: lesser stillness always brings minor movement, greater stillness always brings major movement; on that point one can hardly go wrong.

Ordinary people fail to experience this largely because they never achieve stillness and stability at all. Some cultivators understand stillness yet see little result, often because the force of their stillness is still too weak. Students of Chan in Buddhism sometimes can sit in absorption for days yet never feel this kind of shaking, often because they only sit in meditation without refining qi (without breath regulation, mental anchoring, circulation of essence and qi, and the like)—a path different from the dan way of “generating movement within stillness.”

Note: The “sarira” (sheli) mentioned here is a label for the fruits of neidan (internal alchemy) practice, not the usual Buddhist sense of relics left after a great monk’s cremation. Whether “sarira” and the golden elixir (jindan) are the same thing or not, and how the ultimate attainments of Buddhist cultivation and immortality cultivation differ, are questions many people want settled, yet most scriptures from various schools do not explain them thoroughly. Although the Shurangama Sutra (Lengyan jing) speaks of the “ten kinds of xian (immortals),” that is mainly the Buddhist school’s own framework. Apart from Buddhist sutras, Chinese books ancient and modern hardly ever use a category called the “ten kinds of xian”; it seems one cannot treat that sutra alone as the final word.

The Chinese have long upheld a spirit of harmony: Confucianism and Daoism share a common source and do not truly conflict with each other, and even imported Buddhism has not been met with contempt—each tradition has mingled with the others. Compared with religions that insist on exclusive truth in their doctrines, the difference in breadth of mind is truly vast. When Elder Qinghua discussed śarīra (Buddhist relics), his judgment was especially fair. He held that Buddhism takes seeing one’s nature as its aim and does not treat Jing and Qi as precious. All things are born and perish, but nature is neither born nor destroyed. After nirvana, the original nature is perfectly bright, transcends the three realms, and is forever free from the cycle of rebirth. When the remains are cremated, the Jing and Qi left in the body coalesce into śarīra—like a pearl formed inside a mussel shell, not the same thing as spiritual nature itself; they can shine and illuminate because Jing and Qi have gathered in one place. In the human body Jing, Qi, and Shen originally cannot be separated, yet Buddhism insists on illuminating the mind and seeing nature, raising the light of Shen alone, leaving Jing and Qi to knot into form and then disregarding them. Still, because all outflows are exhausted and the power of meditative concentration is deep, the Jing and Qi in the body are no ordinary matter—hence śarīra can appear and vanish in transformation, each with its own color of light.

From this one infers: what Buddhism calls “neither born nor destroyed” refers to Shen—that is, to nature (xing); śarīra is Jing and Qi—that is, life (ming). After their parinirvāṇa, Shen has already risen beyond images, while Jing and Qi still linger in the world. As for Daoism, it practices dual cultivation of nature and life, merging Jing, Qi, and Shen into one, and through the celestial-orbit firing process refines an “body outside the body”—Shen present, Jing present, Qi present, nothing to divide. Therefore after ascension (yuhua), whether the flesh transforms into Qi or the spirit exits through corpse liberation (shijie), no śarīra remain. If someone occasionally leaves śarīra upon seated transformation, their daily work must have leaned heavily toward Buddhism, thorough on nature and light on life.

After dual cultivation of nature and life and ascension as an immortal—whether the physical body transforms into qi or one achieves corpse liberation and spirit departure—one does not leave behind śarīra (the hard relics left when a Buddhist practitioner dies seated in meditation). If someone occasionally still leaves relics after seated death, their daily practice was mostly biased toward Buddhism: they refined xing (inner nature) in detail but gave less attention to refining ming (life-destiny).

Those who dual-cultivate nature and life refine the jing, qi, and shen within the body until they are luminous and lively; flesh and bone both dissolve, every pore merges, blood becomes like silvery paste, the body resembles flowing fire, permeating freely through the four limbs and every joint, shining into the realm of pure stillness and emptiness—hence they can rise and sink unpredictably and hide or appear without fixed form.

The difference between Buddhism and Daoism lies here: Buddhism stresses refining xing—one spirit alone shining, utterly free of root and dust, called “long life of xing”; immortals stress refining qi—the whole body purely yang, golden light showing outward, called “long life of qi.” Ultimately, at the supreme root source, xing is qi and qi is xing—same reality, different names.

Chapter Ten: Taking Food and Medicine (Fusu)

Great smelting forms mountains and marshes; within them is contained the sentiment of creation and transformation.

“Great smelting” originally means casting the five metals; here it metaphorically denotes the great work of creation and transformation: heaven and earth are the furnace and cauldron, yin and yang are water and fire, and the myriad forms are cast from this—it is the single Taiji (Supreme Ultimate) shared by all things (the unified root before heaven and earth were divided).

“Mountain” and “marsh” are only one thing among the myriad forms, yet within mountain and marsh there is again creation and transformation—each thing obtains its own Taiji. When mountain and marsh communicate their qi, Zhen (Thunder) and Dui (Lake/Marsh) interact, and the sentiment of creation and transformation appears.

Those who cultivate immortality must above all gather the clear, refined qi of empty space into the body, then harmonize and nourish it with one’s own shen; over time shen and qi become one seamless whole, and the great elixir is then complete.

In the latter stages of cultivation, residing in the mountains is preferable, for the pure spiritual energy (qingling zhi qi) in the mountains surpasses that found in cities. Yet even upon entering the mountains, one must carefully select the terrain: whether building a thatched hut or dwelling in a cave, the key is to choose a location that faces the sun while sheltered from shade, where wind is blocked and qi gathers—a place with mountain ridges behind, protective barriers to left and right, an energy node at the center, and an open court (mingtang) before it. This is where the generative force of heaven and earth converges. As the sun and moon rise and fall and creation (zaohua) unfolds, the Daoist cultivates seated meditation within this environment, receiving this inexhaustible pure spiritual energy to nourish the primordial spirit (yuan shen). How could one fail to transform bones and change flesh (tuotai huangu)?

At dawn, welcome and absorb the solar essence (ri jing)—the qi of the solar crow; at night, gather the lunar splendor (yue hua)—the essence of the lunar toad.

Oysters form pearl embryos through receiving lunar splendor; earth produces gold and jade through obtaining solar essence. If humans lawfully gather the essences of sun and moon, they may form the immortal elixir (xian dan) and transform their mortal frame. As for the specific methods of gathering, once reaching this stage one naturally comprehends them. One need not cling to external forms, lest this obstruct complete enlightenment (yuantong). If one follows methods such as the "Gathering Solar Essence and Lunar Splendor Method" described in the Yijin Jing (Muscle/Tendon Change Classic), these constitute superior methods for martial arts cultivation, not the mysterious gathering and refining of immortal families (xianjia).

To gather the spiritual energy of heaven and earth (tiandi lingqi) and form the elixir (jie dan), one must discern the seasons of Yin-Yang waxing and waning; to seize the mysterious mechanism of creation (duo zaohua xuanji) and transform the body, one must endure years of accumulated effort.

Where the primordial spirit (yuan shen) travels, the myriad apertures throughout the body emit radiance.

This passage explains that when cultivation reaches a certain stage, every pore of the body radiates light. The elixir scriptures say: “Once the work is complete in a single morning, no one knows—on every side it becomes a palace of night-luminous light.” The meaning is the same. The reason light appears may be that the inner “electric” fullness of essence and Qi (Jing-Qi) is already sufficient. When thunder rolls in the world, lightning releases its own brilliance, yet the thunder itself, through long ages, is not the least diminished; if even lifeless things can be so numinous, how could an immortal body lack radiance—why doubt it?

Bigu (Grain Avoidance), Section Eleven

One has already learned to ingest pure Qi; clear Qi fills the body, and the lungs and viscera feel refreshingly cool and clear.

This describes truly cutting off cooked food over fire. The ability to do so comes from Qi filling the whole person so that one naturally has no wish to eat—not from forcing oneself while hungry.

“Forgetting spirit” at this stage means that though wisdom is present, one need not deploy it everywhere; showing off cleverness easily invites demonic obstruction. “Without fixed appearance to cling to” means there is no form or color to grasp. “Merging with the utmost” is merging with Taiji (the Supreme Ultimate)—spirit and Qi united, Yin and Yang knotted together. Thus one does not fall into stubborn emptiness; hence “when there is emptiness, one departs from it”—meeting emptiness, one does not stick in emptiness. The third line is not clinging to form (se); the fourth is not clinging to emptiness; forgetting both form and emptiness, one enters great samadhi (ding).

In the morning one may seek taro in the hills to stave off hunger; in the evening one may gather marsh-side lingzhi (Ganoderma)—cap above, stem below, firm and smooth; materia medica lists green, red, and other kinds—to answer hunger. Here “taro” is ordinary food; “lingzhi” in the tradition of ritual specialists often serves as ritual medicine, matching everyday bigu and gathering herbs for self-nourishment.

On Taro and Lingzhi

“Taro” is everyday food; everyone knows it. “Lingzhi” (spirit fungus) looks like a mushroom, with a cap above and a stem below, firm and smooth in texture. Materia medica records six kinds—green, red, yellow, white, black, and purple—each said to lighten the body and extend life when taken. Immortal scriptures list dozens or even hundreds of names for lingzhi; they cannot all be listed, and they are not things ordinary people can obtain.

Mundane Food and the Jade Pool

If mixed with the food of “fire and smoke” (ordinary cooked fare), the body cannot tread the Jade Pool.

The immortal body values clarity and refinement; if one never cuts off mundane cooked food, coarse turbid qi enters the body—how can there be hope of transcendence? “Yaochi” (Jade Pool) is where female immortals dwell. The Collection of Immortals (Jixian Zhuan) says: “The palace of the Queen Mother of the West has the Jade Pool on the left and emerald waters on the right.”

Chapter Twelve: Facing the Wall

When all affairs are finished, sit in still composure in a small alcove.

The teaching of “mianbi” (facing the wall) begins with Bodhidharma. In the time of Emperor Wu of Liang, Bodhidharma stayed at Shaolin Temple on Mount Song, sitting facing the wall all day, nine years without change. Later Daoists who practiced quiet meditation often called it “facing the wall”; today Buddhists mention it less often and chiefly know reciting Amitabha’s name.

Once the gate of bigu (grain avoidance) is passed, not only can cooked food be dropped—things like lingzhi and taro need not be eaten either. Ancient immortals at this stage often chose deep mountain stone caves, having people seal the mouth with huge rocks to avoid beasts and worldly disturbance, and needing no attendant. This method may not suit the present day well.

Ordinary methods mean setting up a few thatched huts in a quiet mountain forest for fellow practitioners to live in. Then make a small wooden niche just big enough for one person to sit inside, with a soft, thick cushion; put a door on the front, and let the other three sides breathe without admitting wind—best covered with bamboo-silk curtains like those on sedan chairs.

The person sits inside without counting days or months until the yang spirit leaves the shell (in cultivation, the “spirit” formed from yang qi separates from the physical body—a sign that great achievement is complete)—only then is the work done. Someone must watch day and night to guard against mishaps.

If one does not wish to sit long in the middle, stepping out briefly is allowed. At that stage qi is full so one does not think of food, spirit is whole so one does not think of sleep; outwardly there is no breathing through the nose, no pulse, the whole body is warm, the eyes bright. Inner functioning already differs from ordinary people and cannot be forced into lay physiology. Such cases still occur today; the author saw them with his own eyes in youth, though he did not know what powers they had—perhaps what the alchemical classics call “wise yet not deploying it” (having wisdom but not using it casually)?

Editor’s note: From the third line of this poem through the last line of the fourteenth, the material largely belongs to realms hard to conceive. The author saw such things in youth but did not know their powers—perhaps those the classics call “wise yet not deploying it.”

Editor’s note

From the third line of the first poem through the final line of the fourteenth, the text describes states that ordinary people can hardly imagine, so earlier sections were not annotated line by line. Years ago a woman even suspected I was deliberately withholding secrets and wrote to ask. Since I began seeking the Way, thirty years have passed, and I have never with my own eyes seen what shape the yang spirit (yangshen) takes or how it leaves the body. Even my teacher back then only said, “When the time comes you will understand naturally,” without going into detail. So regarding the various effects after the spirit emerges, I have not verified them myself and dare not speak casually. If students can earnestly practice wall-facing (mianbi) cultivation, need they fear not understanding what spirit-emergence is? Please wait calmly; when you yourself attain it, there will be time enough to speak.

Spirit Emergence Thirteen

Outside the body there is yet another body—

this is not something produced by illusion or tricks.

Modern note

If this poem were left entirely without commentary, readers would feel something is missing; if every line were annotated, it would be hard to write anything solid. So a few passages from earlier masters are quoted, to give a slight sense of what it is like when the yang spirit (yangshen) is born and what practice remains after emergence. For full detail, read widely in Neidan (internal alchemy) classics and verify in real practice—this compilation cannot cover it all.

Record of Master Qinghua says: “The scene when the yang spirit (yangshen) is born from the shell—after spirit emergence, there is still work to do.” To know more, read broadly in Neidan (internal alchemy) classics and verify in real practice; that lies beyond what this compilation can prescribe.

Plain-language explanation:

Elder Qinghua said: Before the yang spirit is about to “shed its shell,” there are signs—light shines outward from the navel wheel (the dantian region), and fragrance spreads from the mouth and nose. After the shedding is complete, golden light radiates in the four directions; every pore seems lit by clear radiance, like the sun just rising from the sea, or like a bright pearl just emerging from deep water; fragrance fills the room. Then comes a clap of thunder; gold and fire meet, and the yang spirit leaves through the niwan palace (inside the crown).

After the spirit has gone out, everything depends on the foundation built in daily practice. If the yang spirit is fully condensed from innate primordial qi, it is not stained when it meets situations, the mind does not drift when it sees things, and gathering and releasing are at will—coming and going freely. Once it is drawn back into the niwan, the body feels as if burning hot; golden light again shines through the pores, and fragrance once more fills the air; in an instant it returns to the huangting (middle dantian), seeming to be there and yet not—without one noticing. That is the true state.

If in daily life the mind has not been clear and empty, the fetus formed is certainly not a sage fetus, and the spirit that goes out still carries some impurity: at the sight of something fearful it gives rise to terror, at the sight of something desirable it gives rise to craving, almost lingering and unwilling to leave, falling onto the demonic path. When this body dies, those who do not understand think one has become an immortal and passed away in seated transformation—who would know that once the yang spirit goes out it never returns; its end is truly not worth asking about.

Question: What if the fetal spirit has already emerged while the mind-ground is still not pure and upright enough?

Answer: When there is truly no other option, the method of “refining emptiness” (lianxu) can still be used. Even though the fetal spirit has come out, it must be held firmly and not released until it has finished this phase of refining emptiness; only then may it be let go. At that point true light fills the dharmadhatu and one may roam freely and “transform the great.” Refining emptiness depends entirely on vast, open-hearted magnanimity—no self, no others, no heaven, no earth—aware of empty clarity as a single breath of qi, in the midst of primordial chaos: it is “I” yet not I, emptiness yet not emptiness; creation turns, with nothing to split apart and nothing to fuse together. This is what is meant by refining emptiness. Thus the emptiness of the yang spirit merges without gap into the emptiness of the Great Void—what is called form and spirit both wondrous and merging with the Dao in truth. This is what must be done after leaving the embryo and before dividing the body (manifesting separate forms).

Question: What is the difference between the yang spirit and the yin spirit?

Answer: When yin is not yet fully exhausted and the spirit emerges too early, that is called the yin spirit. When the spirit comes out, if one sees white light like a river in the eyes, the spirit exits through the eyes; if one hears bells, gongs, flutes, or pipes in the ears, the spirit exits through the ears. Because yang qi is not yet strong enough to break open the celestial gate (the crown aperture), it takes a side path by whatever opening is easiest. After it has emerged, it can still wander freely and happily through streets and lanes, over water and mountains, but it can only take a single form, not divide into many forms; it can only move about in the human world, not soar and transform at will. In midsummer when the sun stands high in the sky, the yin spirit fears it and keeps away—so although it may carry an air of immortality, it has not yet left the realm of ghosts.

Question: Can the yin spirit be refined into a yang spirit?

Answer: Yes. If someone studying immortality is not content to stop at the “lesser vehicle” level, they must keep practicing after the yin spirit has already left the body: break apart the yin spirit’s original form and pour it into the golden cauldron and jade furnace, then kindle the fire again. When the firing is complete and yin is exhausted while yang is pure, the true person naturally appears.

Question: How does the yin spirit count as having broken its original form?

Answer: Forget the body, empty the heart, and in the void let not a single thing arise—only then can the ordinary embryo be exchanged for a spiritual embryo and the ordinary person become a true person; only then is the work finished. (This Q&A is repeated in the text with much the same meaning.)

Question: After one has an “body outside the body,” what practice still needs to be done?

Answer: A good question. Here there are two paths: the lower adept takes “casting off the body and departing,” which is quick; the upper adept takes “the whole body departing,” which is slow.

After the yang spirit passes through the crown, it roams freely in the great void, can fly ten thousand li in an instant, treads clouds and mist, looks down on mountains and seas, and transforms at will—whatever the heart desires. Looking back at this illusory body is like a clod of dirt, not worth keeping—so leaving the bones in the wilds and the form vanishing far away is the method of casting off the body and departing.

If a person of resolve does not seek quick success and willingly takes the slow work: the yang spirit can go out but does not; the illusory frame could be abandoned but is not; they guard the original spirit, burn and refine it countless times, forget the spirit until it is like the great void, cook it with pure fire until it merges with the body—the flesh, bones, and frame all turn to fine dust. That is the method of the whole body departing.

Both are set out here; choose as you will. Should someone with resolve not take the higher method?

Someone asked: “When the yang spirit exits the aperture, must there always be ‘a body outside the body’? You have already explained this clearly. But if there is no visible form at all, how can it be called ‘exiting the spirit’?”

The reply: “The spiritual light of original nature is neither existent nor non-existent; neither non-existent nor existent. How can hidden and manifest, formed and formless, be pinned to a single formula? In former times, Immortal Liu Haichan manifested by appearing as white qi; Patriarch Wang of Xishan manifested by appearing as flowering trees; Immortal Ma Danyang manifested by appearing as thunder; Immortal Sun Buer manifested by appearing as fragrant wind and auspicious qi—these cases all had visible signs, yet none was a human body. Again, Master Lan Yangsu of Nanyue manifested by clapping and roaring with laughter; Immortal Qiu Changchun himself said that when the spirit exited, he thrice broke through the Celestial Gate and looked straight down upon the myriad phenomena, seeing mountains, rivers, and the great earth as if in the palm of his hand. In these two cases nothing visible appeared, and again it was not a body—so why must there be ‘another body outside the body and outside events’ before it counts as spirit-exiting?”

They asked again: “Why are there these differences?”

The reply: “When the time comes that one can exit samadhi (spirit-exiting), if a thought happens to stir and the occasion belongs to ‘exiting,’ nothing fails to take shape according to that thought. So if the thought is not fixed on ‘embodiment,’ there is no need to see a body; if the thought is fixed on ‘embodiment,’ there is no need for a body to be unseen. My words are meant only for those in the lineages of Patriarchs Zhong, Lü, Wang, Qiu, Li, and Cao who attained the Dao and became immortals—like family speaking plain talk at home, not for side-path lay followers or frivolous youths. Even if they heard it, it would not serve them. Later generations who receive the Dao from the lineage of Patriarch Qiu Changchun must keep this in mind, so that at the critical moment they do not startle and doubt.”

Someone went in his youth to study methods of cultivation at Mount Jinquan—a place Daoist tradition often treats as a sacred site for practice. From then on he no longer hankered after worldly honor and splendor, and he also set aside the everyday tenderness his parents had shown him.

One day he sat alone in an empty room. Suddenly cloud-qi swirled through the space and mist filled the air; in his ears there seemed to be the sound of sheng and yu mouth-organs, as if drifting from the depths of heaven. On the eaves and pillars light and shadow flickered, and flashes of five-colored radiance appeared one after another. Those who looked on were both startled and afraid; they hesitated where they stood and did not dare approach.

Before long his whole body rose lightly from the ground and drifted away like smoke in the wind; heaven and earth were vast without bound, and neither trace nor whereabouts of him could be found again.

The village head reported the matter upward; the prefect was shocked and sighing, came in person by carriage with his officials, and the common people crowded along to see. When they entered they could see nothing at all—only his cap and shoes remained on the ground, like a cicada’s shed shell. Everyone said it was a case of immortal transcendence, told it with such vivid detail that it sounded utterly convincing, and so the story spread until it seemed ever more true.

This passage is a commentary on a poem. The full poem runs to three hundred and thirty characters: the first half narrates events, the second half argues a point. The text heaps almost every harsh term imaginable onto its subject—cold, impoverished woman; dull-witted child; demons and goblins; confusion and dimness; darkened days and moaning wind; treacherous spirits; specters and shades; the boundary between light and dark, human and ghost; wood and stone; monstrous transformations; foxes; calamitous omens; lonely souls; deep wrongs; the bizarre and uncanny; grief and sentiment—and the intent to slander could hardly be heavier. From this one can see that Master Han (Han Yu) simply did not believe that immortals existed in the world.

Even so, Master Han’s final position amounts to no more than this: human life has its constant pattern; men and women each keep their proper roles; food and clothing come from weaving and tilling; below one nurtures sons and daughters, above one serves ruler and parents; to turn away from this path is to throw away one’s own life. Alas—how is such a view any different from the frog at the bottom of a well, or the louse in a Chan monastery? How could it ever satisfy what we who study the Way and believe in immortals hope for?

On the Discussion of Xie Ziran’s Ascension

What makes immortals precious is that their attainment far surpasses ordinary people by countless degrees: they can leave behind all the sufferings of the dusty world and release every bond that binds ordinary people. It is not merely the name “immortal” that makes people yearn for such a state. Call them “immortals” or call them “demons and monsters”—what matters is whether the facts are true or false. When Xie Ziran ascended, countless eyes witnessed it at the time; even someone as stubborn as Han Yu could not deny it. Yet he had long styled himself a Confucian, rejected Buddhism and Daoism, and maintained a righteous air; if he were to change his tune overnight, how could he save face? Seeing such a numinous event, he slapped a foul name on it—hardly surprising. Reading the biography of the female perfected Xie Ziran in the Yongcheng Jixian Lu (Collected Records of Immortals of Yongcheng), the account is very detailed, yet we still dare not lightly accept it as real. Now, reading lines in this poem such as “In an instant she rose lightly, drifting like smoke in the wind; entering the door, nothing was to be seen—cap and shoes shed like a cicada’s cast shell,” one understands that talk of chongju (ascension in the flesh, leaving no corpse behind) is indeed not empty words. Later generations of students—how can they not strive with all their might!

Song of the Spiritual Source and Great Dao (Song · Cao Wenyue)

Let me make this clear for you all: the root of life has always been tied to true respiration (Zhenxi)—breathing in harmony with the Dao. To illumine the body and live long: empty, yet not empty; the spirit mirror embraces heaven and holds all things.

The Great Ultimate (Taiji) spreads its wonder; a person obtains the One and guards the One; after obtaining the One, hold it well and do not lose it. When the inner chambers are vacant and quiet, the spirit settles on its own; if the spirit storehouse is tormented, it is like blood run dry.

One grief, one joy; one thought, one worry; one indulgence, one strain—and form and spirit are eaten away. Worn down morning and evening without knowing it, spirit scatters and chaos reigns, with nothing to lean on.

Bit by bit it wears away, little by little it declines; when primordial qi is exhausted, the spirit departs. People only say “walking is Chan, sitting is Chan”—sages may do so, but ordinary people cannot.

The tender sprout is fragile; it must be kept hidden and restrained. Root-consciousness in confusion easily shifts and changes. Years slip by; without clearing the thorns in the heart, they only say “walking is Chan, sitting is Chan”—sages may do so, but ordinary people cannot.

Sprouting and Foundation

Fresh shoots are tender and fragile; they must be held inward and concealed, not displayed outward. If the root and the discerning spirit are dim, the realm easily shifts and changes. Polishing only the surface while refusing to uproot the thorns in the heart is like never hearing that good fields yield good grain—barren land rarely bears fine crops.

Nine Years of Fire-Timing and Wuwei (Non-Action)

When nine years of practice are complete and the fire-timing is sufficient, one responds to things without deliberate intent, and spirit-transformation comes quickly. “No-mind” is not numbness; it is true heart-mind. Forgetting both movement and stillness is the way to leave desire behind.

Nature and Life

Shen (spirit) is nature (xing); Qi (vital energy) is life (ming). When spirit does not run outward, Qi naturally settles. By nature, xing and ming belong together; once they are lost, what remains to serve as the root of cultivation?

Unifying and Forgetting the One

First merge into one body, then forget that “one”—only then can one rise and sink with primordial transformation. Piercing metal and stone is not hard; sitting down to die or standing to vanish also happen in an instant.

Easy to Know, Hard to Practice

This Way is easy to know and hard to practice: practice until you forget what you are practicing—then the Way is complete. Do not treat breath-holding as the main task; counting breaths and following diagrams are not the ultimate point. Outwardly putting aside worldly toil while inwardly the mind still clings—how is that different? Watch an infant in the womb: when did it ever scheme or calculate?

True Breath and Concentrating Qi

Concentrate Qi until it is soft; spirit can long endure. The coming and going of true breath is naturally unhurried. Continuous and unbroken, it returns to original destiny; without drawing from the spirit spring, it still flows on its own.

36,000 and the Passes and Channels

Thirty-six thousand (the number of fire-timing cycles in a year’s celestial circuit) is the great achievement; yin-yang seasons and nodes are all contained in it. Steaming and melting the passes and channels, transforming bones and sinews—everywhere bright, nothing blocked.

Three Peng and the Spirit Platform

The Three Peng (three “worms” of distracting desire, figures for afflictive thoughts) leave the dwelling of the yin corpse; myriad lands pay homage at the Red Emperor’s palace. Ask where the true person comes from: the origin lies only in the Spirit Platform (the heart as seat of nature, the root of xing).

True Nature Is Not Technique

In former years deep clouds hid the view; today the eye of the Way meets and opens. This is not a matter of one morning or one evening—it is true nature, not a side-door petty art.

Cold Seasons and Huaxu

In cold seasons, firm as metal and stone; repelling yin demons and growing wisdom-power—all from emptiness, plainness, returning to refined focus, which is the pure land of Huaxu (the ideal realm of clarity and peace).

Laying the Foundation and Wuwei

When first laying the foundation, what comes first? Reach the place of wuwei, and nothing is not done. Images in thought must be uprooted; dream-spirit must not be grasped and held with effort.

The greatest key in cultivation is neither to rigidly pursue “non-movement” nor to one-sidedly favor “stillness”; the highest Dao does not rest in fixed forms of square corners or perfect circles. Let Yuanhe (primordial one qi, great harmony qi) circulate naturally within the body—that is true practice. If one only seeks outwardly through breath and outer form, one will hardly reach the ultimate in the end.

When yuanqi (primordial qi) cannot stay settled, the spirit-mind cannot be at peace—like a tree whose roots are dry: however lush the branches and leaves, they cannot last long. There is no need to fixate on tituo (saliva) or jingxue (essence-blood) and the like; penetrating the root and exhausting the source, the principle is one throughout.

This substance (the refined qi and fluids generated within) has no fixed location to begin with; it shifts with thought and circumstance. When one feels heat in the body, it becomes sweat; when the eyes feel grief, tears; when the kidneys stir with desire, it relates to jing (essence); when the nose meets wind, nasal discharge. They flow within, moistening the whole body—in the end, none of them depart from shenshui (true fluid of inner refinement, the fluid that corresponds to spirit).

Shenshui is hard to put into words; those who recognize it are few. Everything that sustains life depends on zhenqi (true qi). Once one knows quiet simplicity and few thoughts—fasting, calming the heart, restraining speech—and solely nourishes the inner nectar like tihu gulu (ghee and sweet dew), hunger and thirst naturally cease, and one sees zhensu (true simplicity, one’s innate plain nature). When merit and practice are complete later, one may roam freely; at the first firing of the furnace, one must truly toil.

Within toil there is a layer of “no need to toil further”: leisurely, one only nurtures yuanshen (primordial spirit). Yet the heart is often pulled by outer conditions and cannot stay idle; at this stage, whether one can grasp or release as one wills is entirely up to oneself.

I was once bitter within bitterness—eating tree bark and wearing grass cloth, alone and utterly quiet. I knew the great Dao but could not walk it; fame and the physical body became a great affliction instead.

It is like forcing effort in idle moments—how can that compare to sitting calmly in dading (deep samadhi, unmoving concentration)? Form and spirit are said to be hard to fulfill both, yet if one speaks only of liaoming (completing life—refining the body, extending life) without first liaoxing (completing nature—seeing the mind, seeing nature), the path is not complete.

Do not run after fame or profit; cut off worldly ties and climbing—when there is nothing left to do, the fierce resolve to decide rests in oneself; who else commands it? What use is sky-high reputation or instant eloquence? If one is always without heart for splendor, fine clothes, piled jade and heaped gold—what good are they?

(The passage as a whole: internal alchemy takes inward circulation of Yuanhe, nurturing yuanshen, and quiet simplicity of heart as root—not outward seeking in breath and form. Essence-qi turning into sweat, tears, nasal discharge, and jing all follow the intent of spirit; in the end they return to shenshui and zhenqi. Practice should aim at dading and liaoxing before liaoming; do not be burdened by attachment to fame, the body, or profit and status.)

Skill, clever writing, and ornate prose often obstruct the path of cultivation—like thin mist and light smoke, idly drifting beside fallen blossoms and chasing willow catkins.

One seems to wander freely between heaven and earth, yet in the end cannot become rain or dew. Fame and the body—which is closer? Half a lifetime is often wasted in delay.

Lately cultivation relies on spirit (Shen) and vital essence (Jing); if spirit and Qi are not settled, one only suffers in vain. What a pity—a fine foundation, a golden hall and jade chamber, yet no master presides.

If the master can be persuaded to stay long, and placed in empty, idle, seemingly useless ground; from nothing grasp the subtle something; holding fast is hard—raising the “infant” still needs the “mother’s” help.

Put eloquence away and let cleverness step back; gather spirit inward, play the fool and stay dull; with one firm heart, let fate unfold—the Great Dao will not fail those who trust it.

The spiritual source (the root of practice) too should rest in emptiness and idle, seemingly useless places; from nothing, the subtle something—hard to hold; to nurture the infant, one must borrow the mother’s strength.

Seal away sharp debate, dismiss clever tricks; reel in spirit, be foolish and blunt; steadfast in one aim, let the road ahead unfold—the Great Dao in the end does not betray the person.

Plain-Language Commentary on “Song of the Great Dao at the Spiritual Source”

By Chen Yingning

Notice to Readers

1. Although Song of the Great Dao at the Spiritual Source was written by a female adept (nüzhen), it is not a manual devoted only to female alchemy (nüdan). Anyone on the Daoist path—man or woman, young or old—who applies this method often sees results, with little risk of deviation. It can be counted among the safest and most universally applicable gates in the immortal way. For years many students did not give this text its due, and it lay neglected— a real loss. I long wished to circulate a plain-language commentary but lacked the opportunity. Now, because the Institute for Immortal Studies needed teaching material, the commentary could be finished; and because the Society for Printing Daoist Classics aimed at wide circulation, publication finally matched my wish. How things succeed or fail in the world each has its season and cause—surely not by chance.

II

The strength of this chapter’s main text is that it does not use deliberately obscure secret language. From start to finish it speaks clearly and plainly, stating the teaching straightforwardly. Unlike many other neidan (internal alchemy) scriptures, which are packed with dragon and tiger, lead and mercury, the ten heavenly stems and twelve earthly branches, Hetu and Luoshu, the Five Phases and Bagua, and similar symbols—so that students only grow dizzy and more confused the more they read—this chapter’s commentary makes no claim to unusual brilliance, but uses vernacular as much as possible and avoids classical Chinese, following the main text’s meaning throughout and aiming to be easy to understand. Then someone with a little general literacy can grasp it and also explain the commentary to those who love the Dao but read little or cannot read at all. In that way the wish to save many people and spread the Great Dao widely can be fulfilled step by step.

III

Thus those who understand the teaching see it at once and can explain the commentary to those who love the Dao but cannot read. Then the great vow of universal salvation can slowly take shape and be realized.

Three

Some people wonder: in this chapter, why does the section on female practice not discuss “cutting the red dragon” (zhanchilong), and why does the section on male practice not discuss “refining Jing into Qi” (lianjing huaqi)? At the level of life-cultivation (ming gong), the account can seem incomplete.

You should know that when a woman cultivates until menstruation ceases, and when a man blocks the aperture of essence, both kinds of practice can be pursued by urgent or gradual methods, by forced or natural ones. What other books mostly describe are the forced, urgent approaches; what this book teaches is the natural, gradual approach. With forced, urgent practice, when it succeeds, results come quickly; when it fails, many disorders easily arise and do harm instead. With natural, gradual practice, when it succeeds, results appear just the same; when it fails, at worst there is no benefit—usually no harm. By comparison, this method is the most reliable and leaves no lingering trouble.

That is why the Perfected One Cao (Cao Zhenren) transmitted this song to later generations—not because he did not understand the work of cutting the red dragon and refining Jing into Qi, and certainly not because he hoarded secrets and refused to teach others.

IV.

Someone asked: “In this chapter, roughly two-thirds expound profound principle and one-third urge people to release worldly attachments. Where, really, are the secret formulas for actual practice hidden?”

The answer: “For those who study the Way, what is hardest to penetrate is profound principle, and what is hardest to cut off is worldly attachment. If you can truly manage both, then even if you cannot yet devote yourself wholly to practice, you already have the foundation for cultivation. When the day comes that you really apply yourself, results come easily; otherwise, no matter how fluently you recite the formulas, they will do you no good.”

“If you insist on knowing where the formulas lie, I can point them out. In this chapter there are four lines that matter most. The first: ‘Shen (spirit) does not rush outward, and Qi (vital energy) settles of itself.’ The second: ‘Concentrate Qi to attain softness; let Shen abide long.’ The third: ‘Blend and merge into one, then forget even that one.’ The fourth: ‘When Yuanhe (primordial harmony) circulates within, you become true.’ When your practice reaches this point, the great work is done; there is no need to ask about further formulas.”

V

Every school’s Daoist books have their flaws, and the flaws in this text are not unique to it. From ancient times to the present, most Daoist writings come down to three themes: saying all there is to say about the mysterious, guarding the oral formulas tightly, and urging people to cultivate without delay. They rarely ask what kind of environment a practitioner actually lives in, or what conditions of food, sleep, and daily life are needed to do serious refining and nurturing work—and if those conditions do not match, whether practice will be hindered. On all of this, the various schools say almost nothing. Because society in the past was very different from today, difficulties people face now were not necessarily imaginable to the ancients. If you want to cultivate the Dao in this world, you should first see whether your situation and the state of society are suitable; do not assume that when nothing works, the fault must lie only in the method.

VI

This text speaks of the Great Dao, points to the Lingyuan (spiritual source), speaks plainly of xingming (nature and life), and focuses on shen (spirit) and qi (vital energy)—so it does not use covert names such as lead and mercury. Master Wang Dongting said: throughout this Ge (Song), there is none of the language that “blames ineffective practice”…

VI. Main Theme of This Chapter

This chapter treats the Great Dao, points to the Spiritual Source (Lingyuan), speaks plainly of Xing and Ming (nature and life), and concentrates on Shen and Qi (spirit and vital energy). For that reason it does not employ substitute labels such as lead and mercury.

Master Wang Dongting said: “This entire chapter does not contain a single character for ‘lead’; what it discusses is nothing other than true mercury alone.”

In my view, the Spiritual Water (Shenshui) mentioned here can indeed be read as “true mercury.” Yet the text also says: “Spiritual water is hard to describe; those who recognize it are few; all that sustains life comes from true Qi (Zhenqi).” Here true Qi means lead, not mercury. Moreover, cultivating the Dao and refining elixir (liandan) are not quite the same. If one stubbornly calls the topic “refining elixir and cultivating the Dao,” listeners will laugh at our confusion of categories—and that alone shows the difference. For those who cultivate the Dao, if they can return from post-heaven Shen and Qi to pre-heaven Xing and Ming, their work may be regarded as complete; there is no need to keep debating lead and mercury. Only the Three Yuan elixir methods (Sanyuan danfa) require explicit talk of lead and mercury. Many Daoist books blur cultivation and elixir work and dismiss them in one breath, which misleads people badly.

On Female Adepts’ Writings and Lead/Mercury

Master Wang also said: “Writings by female adepts (nüzhen) through the ages speak of mercury and not lead, water and not fire, because the female adept’s body is a Kun body (yin constitution); it is awkward to name yang fire directly, so they speak only of the Yin Talisman (Yinfu).”

In my view, Sun Buer Yuanjun’s Poems on the Stages of Female Elixir Practice includes the line “spiritual lead penetrates the body with numinosity,” which plainly uses the word “lead”; the title of the seventh poem contains the characters “talisman fire (fuhuo),” clearly pointing to the Yin Talisman and yang fire. So Master Wang’s remark cannot be treated as the last word either.

VII. In antiquity, those who studied the Dao had to receive oral instruction from a master, so the Daoist books of various schools give no concrete beginner’s steps—a fact modern people often regret. In earlier years I saw The Five Great Methods of Health Cultivation by Mr. Hong Tai’an of Fuzhou; its arrangement is clear and it can serve as a reference for beginners.

Mid-Autumn of the twenty-seventh year of the Republic of China (1938), wuyin year, Chen Yingning wrote this at the Shanghai Immortals’ Academy, on the banks of the Wan River (Wanjiang).

Commentary

During the reign of Emperor Huizong of the Song, there was a Lady Cao, renowned at the time as a gifted woman. Huizong favored the Dao and also loved poetry; Lady Cao’s Dao learning could be called first-rate and her verse was fine as well. The emperor valued her highly, summoned her to the capital (Bianjing, present-day Kaifeng in Henan), treated her with favor, and granted her the title True Person Wenzhen (Wenzhen Zhenren).

(Yingning’s note: The words zhenren [True Person] were a respectful title later Daoists used for her; they were not an imperial bestowal.)

(Yingning’s note: Cao Wenyi was a clanswoman of Cao Liyong, chief minister under Emperor Zhenzong of the Song. At twenty-one she left home to become a female Daoist and wandered widely. In her later years she answered the imperial summons and lived at Bianjing; she was granted the title Master Wenzhen (Wenzhen Dashi). After her ascension the court also granted the posthumous style Master of Observing the Subtle of the Rare Origin (Xiyuan Guanmiao Xiansheng). See Song Lian, Records of Strange Affairs at Bianjing (Bianjing Gouyiji), juan 2. When this commentary was written I had not yet seen that record, so her life story was not included—a regrettable omission.)

This Song of the Spiritual Source and the Great Dao (Lingyuan Dadao Ge) was composed by True Person Cao Wenyi.

This Song of the Spirit Source of the Great Dao (Lingyuan Dadao Ge) was composed by Matriarch Cao Wenyi for ordinary people who were learning the Way. It has been handed down for roughly eight hundred and twenty years (counting from the early Xuanhe reign period).

Sun Buer’s Sequential Verses on Female Internal Alchemy Practice appeared several decades after this song. Most other female neidan scriptures came even later than Sun Buer, and the majority are works of the Ming and Qing dynasties. Although the Huangting Jing (Yellow Court Scripture) was transmitted by Lady Wei of the Jin dynasty, it cannot be regarded as her own composition. Xie Ziran, He Xiangu, and others attained the Way in the Tang, yet no writings of theirs survive (poems and prose produced on spirit-writing trays at planchette altars do not count as the authors’ own works).

We may say that among formal classics on the Way written in the hand of female immortals through the ages (note: because the methods of wuwei [non-action] and youwei [deliberate practice] differ in nature, this piece can only be called a Daoist book, not strictly a neidan classic—a point overlooked when the original draft was written and worth correcting now), this text is the earliest. The full work has one hundred twenty-eight lines. The principles it explains and the cultivation it describes are not limited to women; men may apply them as well. The original text is here divided line by line in order, with a vernacular gloss for each phrase as follows:

On the passage concerning “I,” the root of life, and true breath

Here “I” is Cao Wenyi speaking of herself. “Gentlemen” (zhujun) means those who sought immortality and studied the Way in her time and afterward. “Duandi” means truly, genuinely. “Mingdi” (root of life) is like the vital “root” of a human life—on a plant, the place where leaves, fruit, and stem join is the “stem attachment” (di); once the di is severed, what is above withers. In the same way, true breath (zhenxi) and ordinary breath (fanxi) both attach to this root of life. Ordinary breath is coarse, shallow, and quick; true breath is fine, deep, and slow. True breath is the source of ordinary breath, and ordinary breath is the expression of true breath; the two can transform into each other. A thin seep from a crack in a cliff is like true breath; the surging flood of a river in wind and waves is like ordinary breath.

“The illuminating body is long-lived—empty yet not empty; the spirit mirror holds heaven and embraces the ten thousand things”

“Zhaoti” (illuminating body) means turning the light inward and clearly seeing one’s xingti (body of nature—the body of one’s original nature and spiritual essence). “Changsheng” (long life) here means that the xingti abides and does not perish when the physical form ends. “Empty” (kong) means the xingti is originally empty; because it nothing is excluded, emptiness and subtle being appear together, hence “not empty.” “Lingjian” (spirit mirror) is like a numinous mirror and refers to the xingti; “han tian rong wanwu” (holds heaven and embraces the ten thousand things) means heaven, earth, and the myriad things are all contained within this spirit mirror.

According to this scripture’s explanation: the second line’s “empty yet not empty” speaks mainly of ming (life); the third and fourth lines speak mainly of xing (nature).

The Book of Changes says: “In Change there is the Taiji (Supreme Ultimate); from it arise the two modes.” The Daodejing says: “These two arise from the same source yet differ in name; both may be called mysterious; mystery upon mystery—they are the gateway of all wonders.” This is speaking of how the Taiji deploys subtle principle. “One” is the Dao; to obtain “one” is to obtain the Dao. Laozi says “the Dao gives birth to one”; Zhou Dunyi says “Wuji yet Taiji”; Laozi says “one gives birth to two”; Confucius (through the Commentary on the Changes) says “from Taiji arise the two modes.” From this we know: the Dao corresponds to Wuji, “one” corresponds to Taiji, “two” corresponds to the two modes; the two modes are Yin-Yang, Yin-Yang are Xing and Ming (nature and life), Xing and Ming are Shen and Qi (spirit and vital energy).

The Dao cannot be put into words or seen directly. Whatever can be spoken of or pointed to falls either under “two” or under “three.” Examples: above and below, left and right, front and back, large and small, long and short, thick and thin, many and few, heavy and light, cold and hot, hard and soft, auspicious and inauspicious, benefit and harm, good and evil, right and wrong, empty and full, being and non-being, Xing and Ming, Shen and Qi, Yin-Yang—all such paired opposites belong to “two.” What stands between these “twos,” as pivot and unifying power, is “three.” Only with “three” can myriad transformations and generations arise. Hence Laozi says “three gives birth to the ten thousand things.” Since the ten thousand things are born from the Dao, and humans are called the most spiritual among them, humans too are born from the Dao; without the Dao there is neither world nor human being.

What is meant by a person obtaining “one” is that each person receives an extremely small portion of the great Dao as a whole; humans, as the most spiritual of the ten thousand things, likewise cannot be apart from the Dao. Without the Dao there is neither world nor human being.

Plain-Language Explanation

When we speak of a person “obtaining the One,” we mean that each person has received an extremely tiny share of the great Dao as a whole. Unfortunately, that share is exceedingly subtle and fine. If even this slightest bit of the “One” is lost, one may fail to keep a human birth in the next life and gradually sink into lower paths of rebirth as animals and the like. So the author urges everyone: having been born in a human body by good fortune, one should always be careful and vigilant, guarding and holding fast to this Dao, and must not let it slip away and scatter.

“The chambers empty and at ease, and spirit dwells there of itself”—“Chambers empty and at ease” is a metaphor for the human body being free of bad habits and harmful attachments, and the mind free of wild imaginings and stray thoughts. If one can be like this, the original spirit (yuanshen) naturally settles and dwells within the body, instead of wandering lost and failing to return. Yet people are often stirred by the seven emotions and six desires, and the mind rarely knows a moment of cool clarity. When lust and desire arise, yin fire moves; when yin fire moves, the qi, blood, and fluids throughout the body are harmed, until one looks sallow, thin, and worn. The root of the illness lies in not seeing through things and not letting go. Hence “the spirit-storehouse scorches and dries the blood”—the spirit-storehouse (lingfu) is where consciousness and thought arise.

“One grief, one joy, one turn of thought; one indulgence, one strain, and the form is eaten away”—When things go wrong, one grieves; when things go well, one… (the original breaks off here). Beyond that, every trace of grief, every trace of joy, every turn of thought, as well as indulging desire and overworking the body, are like worms gnawing at and ruining the physical form.

Ordinary people grieve when things go wrong and rejoice when they go well; when they hit a knot they cannot untie, they turn it over in their minds again and again. Before they have something, they worry they will not get it; once they have it, they fear losing it—so they can hardly avoid wearing their hearts out at every turn. What a life actually brings is disappointment nine times out of ten; moments when things go well are few. The few decades of a human span are often spent away in just this kind of anxiety.

When body and mind loosen, that is “release”; when they tighten, that is “strain.” Now loose, now tight—that is one release and one strain after another. Flesh cannot stand such repeated jolting; it naturally declines and rots, beyond repair.

What is meant by “the form is worm-eaten and ruined” is that the body fails from the inside outward, like wood hollowed by insects.

“Hurt in the morning, worn down by evening, lost and unaware, the spirit in disarray with nothing to hold to”—each morning a little is lost, each evening a little more; people are muddled and do not see how serious it is. Spirit scatters and grows confused; in the heart there is no rule to rely on. Ask them: In the world, how does one live as a human being well? In leaving the world, how does one complete the Dao? They have not the slightest grip on either in their minds.

“Bit by bit it wears away, little by little it fades; yuan qi (vital energy) is drained dry, and then spirit departs.” Because the drain is drop by drop, the body is damaged yet one does not at once feel sharp pain; because decline comes slowly, decades can easily pass in this way. Without noticing, hair turns white and skin wrinkles; without noticing, blood dries up and sinews stiffen. Yuan qi (vital energy) gradually runs out, and then spirit leaves.

Plain-Language Explanation

Section 1 (Primordial Qi)

Primordial Qi (Yuanqi) is the harmonizing breath of primordial time—also called pre-heaven Qi (xiantian qi). In plain terms, it is the living breath that “gives birth to heaven and earth, to people and things.” The living breath in the cosmos is inexhaustible, but the bit each person receives from the mother’s womb is far too small. From childhood to old age, over decades, the living breath stored in the body is gradually used up; then the hun (soul) must part from the flesh—once form and spirit separate, how can one not die?

Section 2 (Walking meditation, sitting meditation)

“One says walking is Chan and sitting is also Chan”—some say: whether walking, sitting, or even sleeping, one is always in samadhi, so there is no need for separate dedicated practice. Whoever trains hard morning and night, they laugh at him for being too attached and not lively enough, or mock it as “grinding a tile to make a mirror” (effort wasted). That talk only fits people of very high capacity; ordinary people absolutely cannot do it. Sages may live that way; common people must not copy it blindly.

Section 3 (Sprout held within)

The tender shoot just breaking from the soil is called a sprout (mengya)—soft and easily harmed; it must be nurtured and protected if it is to grow into useful timber. The image is this: the bit of living breath in the human body has roots not yet firm and is easiest to lose; one must hold and contain it inside, and not keep leaking it outward. Then there is hope of extending life.

The eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and mind stand for the vital Qi (the root life force) within the human body. If the foundation is not firm, this Qi is what slips away most easily. One must therefore gather and hold it within the body and not let it leak outward constantly; only then can life be extended.

The eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and mind are called the six roots; what they give rise to is the six consciousnesses. When roots and consciousnesses are stirred by the outer world, people easily sink into dullness and turn from good to bad, from upright to crooked. Without serious effort, a good outcome is hard to expect.

“If you dawdle and will not clear the thorns, you never hear of fine grain from a waste field.”

In a waste field, thorns abound. If one is lazy and slack and will not clear them away, good grain will not grow. These lines mean: if wandering thoughts and bad habits in the mind are not cleared out, practice hardly advances and good signs are slow to appear.

“When nine years of work are full and the firing is ripe, responding to things without intent, spirit transforms swiftly.”

Nine is the number at the peak of Yang; nine years expresses the idea of pure Yang fulfilled—it does not mean you must practice exactly nine calendar years. Work full means the practice is complete; firing ripe means the effort has reached a point where one stage can be closed.

Responding to things means doing what benefits and helps people in the world; without intent (wuxin) means acting as circumstances call for, not deliberately stockpiling merit; spirit transforms swiftly means teaching and transforming with the whole spirit, so effects come naturally and quickly. Mencius’s “wherever he passed, people were transformed; what he preserved was spirit”—that is close to this meaning.

Without-intent mind is just the true mind; forgetting both movement and stillness is leaving desire behind.

Without intent is not having no mind at all, but not being turned by circumstances; such without-intent is true mind (zhenxin). Forgetting movement and stillness means not being carried away when active and not clinging when still—that is leaving desire behind (liyü), not being dragged by craving.

The Heart-Mind Without a “Heart-Mind”

What is meant by “the heart-mind without a heart-mind” is the heart-mind as it is when no stray thoughts cling to it. Ordinary people can hardly go a moment without thoughts; they take whatever keeps producing thoughts as the substance of the heart—and that is a mistake. You should understand: what does not rise in deluded thought is the true heart; what runs after thoughts is the false heart. Once you recognize the true heart, whether in movement or stillness you will naturally accord with the workings of Heaven, and gradually reach a state where outer things and the physical form no longer entangle you—this is called líyù (freedom from attachment to desire).

Shen Is Nature; Qi Is Life

Ancient adepts of the elixir often said “it is nature and life, not Shen and Qi”—that was addressed to those whose practice was already deep and whose attainment was already high. Here it says “Shen is nature, Qi is life”—that is spoken to beginners still caught in ordinary habits. Each phrasing has its audience; they do not contradict each other. Most people only recognize this physical body and rarely turn attention to Shen and Qi; letting them see first what role Shen and Qi play in cultivation is already a great step beyond clinging to flesh alone. The full meaning of nature and life (xing and ming) must still be tasted for oneself later through practice and realization.

Entering cultivation cannot do without Shen and Qi: first gather the outward-scattering spirit-intention back into the body, and only then can Qi be steady and settled.

Originally Two, Yet One

Nature and life, Shen and Qi—in principle they are one reality with two aspects, yet in practice you must experience and refine them separately and in concert. If you lose what should be guarded and scatter what should be fixed, what will you take as the root and handle of self-cultivation? So beginners must know that they are originally related, and in daily life truly guard Shen and regulate Qi, and not let the heart-monkey and idea-horse run outward again.

The Two Substances (Shen and Qi)

The “two substances” spoken of here are shen (consciousness and numinous awareness) and qi (vital energy and the breath). Originally they are two aspects of one whole and the closest of kin: if shen leaves qi, it loses its footing and cannot be nourished; if qi leaves shen, nothing steers it and it easily scatters. Without qi to nourish shen, shen drifts and cannot settle; without shen to govern qi, qi dissipates and cannot gather. Lose either one and you lose both. Given that, what can serve as the root of the body, or as the true “handle” that can hold sway and be kept?

Blending into one, then forgetting the one—one can rise and sink with primordial transformation

“Blending into one” is the work of mutual anchoring of heart and breath and uniting shen with qi: bringing heart and breath, shen and qi, into one place so they no longer split. “Then forgetting the one” means that after uniting, you must not clench the feeling of “being united”; relax and release even the grip on that unity—that is what fits. Able both to unite and to forget the one, the generative mechanism within the body moves in and out together with yuan hua (the generative power of heaven and earth at the origin of things): appearing when it should appear, hiding when it should hide, without forcing or arranging it by will.

Penetrating metal and piercing stone is not hard; sitting liberation and standing departure can still be swift

Ordinary people’s spirit is bound to the flesh, so it is hard to act directly on matter outside the body. Those who have attained in cultivation can, to a relative degree, free spirit from bodily fetters and thereby influence and move things beyond the body—hence “penetrating metal and piercing stone” is not considered difficult. As for zuotuo lilwang (shedding the form while seated or standing, as Daoism describes the adept’s swift departure of spirit from the body), that too can be as quick as a blink.

“In a flash” means the briefest instant. “Sitting death and standing death” refers to the moment when, whether one is seated or standing, the Shen (spirit)—here the inward governing spirit, not ordinary discursive mind—truly wishes to leave the body: it can depart in a single thought, without being tightly bound by the flesh.

“This Dao is easy to understand but hard to practice; when practice forgets the Dao being practiced, the Dao is complete.” The teaching sounds simple; living it is another matter. Merely forcing oneself through exercises does not count as “graduation.” One must move from strained effort to spontaneity, from spontaneity to seamless unity, and from unity to a mind with nothing left to cling to—only then has one “practiced until forgetting that one is practicing, and the Dao is truly finished.”

Do not treat bixi (breath retention) as the real task; shuxi (counting breaths) and antu (following fixed diagrams in practice) are likewise off the mark. “Breath” here means respiration through the nose. Bixi is holding the breath; shuxi is counting one, two, three, four up to tens or hundreds; antu is practicing by the book—either fixing all attention on one aperture in the body or holding rigid postures. None of this is the great Dao. Bixi errs through force; shuxi still taxes the mind; antu breeds attachment—all far from the Dao of naturalness.

“Bilai” here means something like “lately” or “consider this.” Patriarch Cao’s point: cultivators may lately manage to set aside outer worldly burdens—so why can they not drop inner worries and attachments? What difference is there between being entangled outside and being entangled inside?

Consider the infant in the womb: does it know how to scheme and calculate in secret? The image suggests that authentic practice should be like the fetus—without plotting, without hang-ups—not adding a second layer of “cultivation calculations” on top of the heart-mind.

Readers, consider this: before birth, during those ten months in the womb, did the infant ever secretly plot or calculate anything? Since you wish to study the Dao, why not begin by learning from the infant?

Zhuan qi zhi rou—spirit long abides; coming and going, true breath, naturally leisurely and long.

Chapter 10 of Laozi’s Daodejing asks: “Can you concentrate your qi until it is supremely soft, like an infant?” Zhuan qi means fixing the mind single-mindedly on working with qi; zhi rou means carrying practice to utmost softness, without a trace of hardness or haste. Then shen can long remain in the body and not scatter outward—“when spirit does not race outward, qi naturally settles”; once qi is settled, true breath (zhenxi) stirs on its own. “Leisurely and long” (youyou) describes true breath: deep, enduring, gentle, and quiet.

Fine and unbroken, winding along, returning to primal life; without drawing on the spirit spring, it often flows by itself.

“Fine and unbroken” (mianmian) means subtle and never cut off; “winding along” (yili) means branching and extending sideways. Yuanming (primal life) is the root of human life. This line describes true breath moving within the body: like a fine thread, continuous, meandering, and returning to the root; you need not deliberately “draw from” the spirit spring (lingquan)—the source of life—it often moves on its own.

(The closing phrase “although the four limbs are quiet and at ease” is incomplete in the source; as far as the text goes: even when the four limbs are calm and still, they still respond to this breath.)

“Mianmian” (continuous and fine) describes something subtle, unbroken, and endlessly sustained; “yili” (winding and extending) means moving aside, linking on, and proceeding in bends and turns. “Yuanming” refers to the root of life and the primordial mandate in the human body. The line is portraying how true breath moves within: although its effect can be felt in the limbs, the hundred joints, and everywhere in the body, in the end it always returns to the place of returning to the root and restoring life.

Lingquan (Spirit Spring) is also called shenshui (divine water) later in the text. Springs on earth always flow downward and never surge upward; to use water, one must scoop it with a vessel. The spiritual spring in the body needs no deliberate drawing: it circulates naturally within. Wherever true breath goes, the spiritual spring follows. Because saliva and fluids can transform into qi, and qi can transform into fluids, the two mutually generate and nourish each other and fill the whole body—hence this marvelous efficacy.

“Thirty-six thousand counts toward the great achievement; the nodes of yin and yang and the seasonal markers lie within.”

In the current reckoning, one day and night total ninety-six quarter-hour watches; in the ancient reckoning, one day and night total one hundred watches. Zhang Ziyang says in the preface to Four Hundred Characters on the Golden Elixir: “One year has twelve months; each month thirty days; each day one hundred watches—three thousand watches per month, thirty thousand for ten months. In walking, standing, sitting, and lying down, maintain it as if present yet subtle. When embryonic qi has condensed, the infant form appears, the mysterious pearl takes shape, and the Great One aligns with truth. Within these thirty thousand watches one may seize the span of thirty thousand years in heaven. How so? In the work of a single watch is contained the seasonal markers of a whole year. Thus thirty thousand watches can seize thirty thousand years. So in one year’s twelve months the total number is thirty-six thousand. Even a dull person who practices this can soon ascend the sage realm—yet the common people use it daily without knowing.”

This passage explains the principle very clearly and can serve as a commentary here: cultivation is not empty passing of time, but matching each watch of effort to the creative transformation of heaven-and-earth yin and yang and the four seasons’ markers; accumulated to “thirty-six thousand,” that is the image of the great work fulfilled.

Cao Wenyue and Zhang Ziyang (leading figures of the Southern School of internal alchemy) lived not far apart in time: Cao flourished in the Xuanhe reign of Emperor Huizong of the Song, roughly seven hundred ninety years before the Republican era; Zhang flourished in the Xining reign of Emperor Shenzong, roughly eight hundred forty years before the Republican era. They were separated by about fifty years, so their writings share many similar expressions and approaches.

“Steam and melt the joints and channels, transform sinew and bone; light shines everywhere, nothing fails to flow.”

These two lines describe changes in the body and signs of progress after sustained practice.

“Steam” means steaming, warming, and nourishing; “melt” means melting and softening. Guan refers to joints; mai to the pathways through which Qi and blood circulate. “Transform” means gradual change and renewal. There must first be warm steaming and transformation before melting can occur; one must keep softness and ease and avoid stiffness so that form and substance can slowly be renewed. In internal alchemy this stage of work is called replacing the bones through the Golden Elixir (Jindan huangu)—a metaphor for renewing the bodily form through cultivation.

“Light shines everywhere” matches the spirit of a line in Sun Buer’s Female Alchemy Classic: “Where the original spirit comes and goes, ten thousand orifices emit light”—the spirit and Qi circulate inward, and light seems to radiate through the whole body above and below. “Nothing fails to flow” means Qi and blood throughout the body and every gate and orifice are unobstructed, with no place of blockage.

“The Three Peng depart the dwelling of the yin corpse; ten thousand lands pay homage at the Palace of the Red Emperor.”

The Three Peng are the Three Corpses (San shi)—in Daoist scripture, three kinds of “corpse worms” believed to lodge in the human body and stir desire and dullness. Daoist texts often say: the upper corpse is named Peng Ju, dwelling in the head, making one foolish and fond of finery; the middle corpse is named Peng Zhi, dwelling in the chest, making one greedy for food; the lower corpse is named Peng Jiao, dwelling in the belly, making one lustful and fond of horses. That the Three Peng “depart the dwelling of the yin corpse” means that within the old bodily shell where yin turbidity and corpse-qi once held sway, these entanglements have been cleared and no longer rule.

“Ten thousand lands pay homage at the Palace of the Red Emperor”: the Red Emperor in the human body often stands for the heart (the heart belongs to fire and is the palace of the Red Emperor); “ten thousand lands” stands for all channels, orifices, and streams of Qi in the body. The line means every channel and every stream of Qi returns together to the heart palace—spirit and Qi gather, as if all lands came to court and bowed to the central sovereign. Read with the previous line, the sequence is first clear the Three Corpses and leave the yin dwelling, then let all Qi pay homage to the heart and gather the inner light.

The Three Pengs (Sanpeng) are the Three Corpses (Sanshi). Daoist texts often say: the upper corpse is called Peng Ju and dwells in the human head, making people foolish and devoid of wisdom; the middle corpse is called Peng Zhi and dwells in the human chest, making people afflicted and unable to become pure and still; the lower corpse is called Peng Jiao and dwells in the human belly, making people greedy for food and drink and for sexual desire. They are also called the Three Corpses spirits and the Three Corpses worms. The Taiqing Zhonghuang Zhenjing (The Great Clarity Scripture of the Central Yellow) says, “Alas for the twelve towers of the Mysterious Palace—who would have thought they would instead become the dwelling of the three worms?” This means that the human body is originally clean and beautiful, yet is occupied by many Three Corpses worms and made utterly filthy—truly a pity. Daoist methods for beheading the Three Corpses include using talismans and incantations, observing Gengshen (the Daoist custom of staying awake on Gengshen night to restrain the Three Corpses), and taking elixirs; none of these counts as a thorough solution.

What is discussed here is the work of internal cultivation: circulating yuanhe qi (the harmonized qi within the body) so that it fills the viscera and bowels, steams and melts the joints and meridians, transforms the sinews and bones, and forces the Three Corpses to have nowhere to hide, so that they can only abandon their old nest and flee. Once the bad things leave, the good things will arrive. “The ten thousand states come to court” is a metaphor for how the Jing (essence), Qi, and Shen (spirit) of the five viscera and six bowels, the four limbs and hundred bones all gather in one place at the Jianggong (Crimson Palace, the heart region); the Crimson Palace belongs to the region of the heart, the heart corresponds to Fire, its color is red, and the medical tradition calls it the palace of the monarch, hence it is called the Chidi Gong (Palace of the Red Emperor). “If you ask where the Zhenren (Perfected Person) comes from—formerly he was always only at the Lingtai (Spirit Terrace)”: the Zhenren is the true self; the human physical body has birth and death and cannot be counted as the true self, but can only be regarded as a chamber in which the true self temporarily resides. The true self originally resides only at the Lingtai (referring to the human heart/mind or the place where the yuanshen [original spirit] dwells).

The True Person (Zhenren) is the True Self. This flesh-and-blood body is born and dies; it cannot count as the True Self and can only be called the false self. Remove the visible body and what is left is formless mind—is that the True Self? Still no. Thoughts likewise appear and vanish; they are not truly under our control. Set aside these thoughts that arise and pass, and seek a ground that neither arises nor perishes, that remains through countless kalpas—that is the True Self, also named the True Person.

We have never “met” this True Person before; now we recognize him for the first time. Did he come from outside? No. He has always dwelt in our lingtai—the clear, empty, still place in the heart where one aligns with the Dao—and has never been absent for an instant.

The ancients said: “For years deep clouds and mist concealed all; today we meet, and the eye of the Dao opens.” For many years, as if shrouded in cloud and mist, the face of the True Person was hidden. Though he was always in the lingtai, we could not know him. When practice reaches a certain depth, the eye of the Dao (the “eye” that sees the original mind and the Great Dao—not the physical eye) opens; it is like parting the clouds and seeing the blue sky, and the True Person stands revealed. Here “clouds and mist” stand for the seven emotions and six desires, and for wandering, deluded thoughts.

Such work is not done in a day or a night; it often takes years. It does not rely on clever tricks or taking unfair advantage—it is simply recovering the True Self of one’s original face.

“As in the cold of year’s end, firm as metal and stone; defeating yin demons, adding the power of wisdom”—be as steadfast as metal and stone in deepest winter; use settled concentration to overcome yin demons (in internal alchemy, greed, dullness, perverse thoughts, and other obstacles), and increase huili, the power of wisdom that discerns true from false and illuminates delusion.

The Analects says: “Only when the year turns cold do we know that the pine and cypress are the last to wither.” The point is that only in the bitterest part of the year do you see other trees dry up and drop their leaves, while pine and cypress stay green. People who cultivate the Dao need the same kind of endurance—able to bear hardship and weather trials without changing the heart that first turned toward the Way.

“Que” ( steadfast ) and “jian” ( firm ) mean the same thing. Pine and cypress not withering in deep winter is already firm; firmer still than pine and cypress are metal and stone, so metal and stone stand here for the cultivator’s resolve. Resolve like metal and stone can hold down yin demons; when yin demons are exhausted, wisdom-power grows together with that. Wisdom is insight; power is perseverance. Wisdom without perseverance may grasp the principle yet still fall short of truly realizing the Dao; perseverance without wisdom easily misidentifies the great Way and strays into side paths. Both wisdom and perseverance must be full, or regret remains.

“All come from emptiness and plainness, then refinement and single-mindedness—that is the pure land of Huaxu.” When the mind does not raise wild thoughts or cling to desires, that is “empty”; when it does not stick to cravings or stain itself with bad habits, that is “plain”; when teachings are examined in detail and fully understood, that is “refined”; when one believes, accepts, and acts accordingly without wavering, that is “single-minded.” When emptiness, plainness, refinement, and single-mindedness are in place, the place where the heart dwells is like the pure realm of Huaxu.

In the Liezi, it is written that the Yellow Emperor fell asleep by day and dreamed he had arrived in the land of Huaxu. There were no teachers or rulers; the people had no special likes or dislikes and no fixed desires. They could not distinguish self from others, nor self from things, so there was no love or hate; they did not know opposition or compliance, so there was no reckoning of benefit or harm. This is really an allegory—like what people today call a “utopia.” If the heart can be utterly pure and still, in one’s inner experience it will feel as though one has reached Huaxu.

“At the outset, on what matter must one lay the foundation? When one reaches non-action, nothing is left undone.”

Whatever you undertake, you must first establish a firm foundation at the start; only then can you speak of real accomplishment. Cultivating the Dao is a great undertaking, and you must plant the root even more solidly before you can go deeper step by step. When practice matures and the realm rises, outwardly it may seem as though you deliberately do nothing—yet in fact essence (Jing), vital energy (Qi), and spirit (Shen) are already full and round, with no obvious lack. Laozi’s Daodejing chapter 3 says, “Act through non-action, and nothing goes untended”; chapter 37 says, “The Dao is constantly non-active, yet nothing is left undone.” The line here—“when one reaches non-action, nothing is left undone”—follows Laozi’s meaning: it is not that one truly does nothing at all, but that in a state without forced effort and without clinging, what should be accomplished will naturally be accomplished.

“In thought, mental images and scenes must be cleared away; in dreams, the spirit must be firmly held.”

These two lines describe how to lay the foundation. In seated meditation, you should as far as possible sweep away stray thoughts and the various images that float up in the mind and let them go. When practice is mature, stray thoughts can become almost absent—but you must also guard clarity and not let it scatter in sleep: that is “in dreams, the spirit must be firmly held,” not letting the conscious spirit wander and dissolve at random in dreams. Only then is the foundation truly firm.

These two lines describe the method of laying the foundation. When you sit in meditation, you must clear stray thoughts from the mind until it is clean. Once sitting practice is steady and mature, those thoughts can be removed altogether. Even in sleep you do not forget cultivating the Dao; it is like ordinary sitting—the mind keeps its own master.

“Neither moving nor still is the main point; neither square nor round is the supreme Dao.”

If practice leans too much toward movement, it feels too restless; if it leans too much toward stillness, too dry and lifeless. If temperament leans too square, it feels rigid; if too round, too slick. Not falling to either side but holding the middle harmony—that is the Great Dao.

“If Yuanhe is refined within, truth is realized; if you seek only outward breath, you never finish.”

If you can circulate the primordial harmonizing qi (Yuanhe) within the body so that it flows without break, you can realize the Dao. If you cling only to breathing outside the body and refuse to let go, there will never be a day of liberation.

“When primordial qi does not stay, spirit cannot rest; a tree eaten by borers loses root and branch.”

Primordial qi (yuanqi) is the primordial harmonizing qi spoken of above. “Does not stay” means it cannot long remain in the body and leaks outward. When leakage is excessive, inner primordial qi gradually fails; without primordial qi to nourish it, spirit (shen) cannot settle and tends to drift away. It is like a tree hollowed by insects: when the root is damaged, branches and leaves wither. In the human body, primordial qi is worn down by the seven emotions and six desires, by hunger and fullness, cold and heat, and by mental strain and hard labor—so the body too cannot long endure.

This passage explains that several common fluids in the human body go by different names yet share the same root in kind; nor do they stay fixed in one place—they shift with inner and outer stimulation.

Nasal discharge, saliva, blood, and essence (Jing)—what comes from the nose is called nasal discharge; what comes from the mouth is saliva; the fluid here linked to what is felt in the heart (or chest) is called blood; what issues from the external kidneys is Jing. There are four names, but if you trace them to the root, their source and nature can be understood as one continuum—daben (seeing the root) and qiongyuan (tracing the source) mean exactly this.

These fluids are not forever locked in one organ or one spot. They change with the mind and with circumstances—whatever the outer world stirs up, whatever thought arises within, their form and outlet follow.

The examples are plain: when the surface of the body feels heat, the fluid in the skin goes outward and becomes sweat, exiting through the pores; when the eyes feel grief, the fluid within the eyes becomes tears, issuing from the tear glands. By the same logic, nasal discharge, saliva, blood, and Jing all transform and appear outward under certain conditions—they are not four separate, dead blocks that never relate. The whole section prepares the theoretical ground for refining Jing to transform Qi and gathering the body’s fluids as one in female Neidan practice: the cultivator should see that names differ but the source is one, and not cling to one label or one fixed appearance, but observe how they change with mind and setting.