《悟真直指》Vol. 3

If someone asks what “the appearance of the Realized One” means, I would say: it is the Supreme Unity (Taiyi, the Daoist term for the highest and complete source) containing True Qi.

The Xijiang Yue consists of twelve poems, symbolizing the twelve months. The Immortal Elder said: “West” is the direction associated with Metal among the Five Phases; “river” embodies the nature of Water; and “moon” is a metaphor for the workings of the Elixir Method.

The first poem says: The inner medicine, obtained through cultivation within the body, resembles the outer medicine, refined with the help of external conditions; both must be brought into harmony. The fundamental materials for refining the Elixir are blended until their natures accord. They must then be warmed and nurtured separately so that both kinds of efficacy can unfold.

Within the body there is a natural True Fire. Its red light blazes in the Elixir furnace, burning long and without cease. The fire in the outer furnace requires diligent adjustment. Nothing compares with the true seed as the wondrous key to refining the Elixir.

The inner medicine is the spiritual nature of numinous awareness; the outer medicine is the genuine feeling of true knowledge. Numinous awareness is concealed within the human heart. Once it enters the heart and becomes active, it can easily give rise to delusive thoughts through its spiritual nature, and is therefore called the “inner medicine.” True knowledge is inherently present in the Dao-heart. When the Dao-heart recedes, true knowledge can no longer appear, and is therefore called the “outer medicine.” True knowledge and numinous awareness originally arise from the same source and differ only in name. Hence the saying, “The inner medicine is ultimately the same as the outer medicine.”

The inner medicine is used to cultivate nature, so it must be understood. The outer medicine is used to cultivate life, and it too must be understood. An ancient scripture says: “To cultivate life alone without cultivating nature is the first failing in practice; to cultivate nature alone without cultivating life means that, even after countless kalpas, the yin spirit will still find it difficult to enter sagehood.” Thus, one must understand both inner cultivation and outer cultivation.

Nature belongs to Yin, and life belongs to Yang. The Golden Elixir of liquid gold is made by taking two kinds of Qi of the same kind—true Yin and true Yang—and bringing them together. If one cultivates life without nature, or nature without life, it is like Yin and Yang standing apart: they cannot form the Great Elixir. This is why nature and life must be cultivated together.

Nature and life, however, each have a different function. Nature pertains to the Dharma Body—the practitioner’s nature beyond physical form—while life pertains to the illusory body, the temporary physical form. The methods for nurturing them also differ greatly, so practice is divided into two stages.

The Way of cultivating nature belongs to the Way of Wuwei (non-action). It takes stillness as its basis, relies on no deliberate exertion, and consists in holding to the center and embracing the One. The inner furnace—a metaphor for refining and nurturing body and mind—has its own true fire, which is kept steadily warm. This is called using the gentle fire. The Way of cultivating life belongs to the Way of purposeful action. It centers on active practice and requires adjustment in the outer furnace, a metaphor for the external process of cultivation, through diligent refinement. This is called using the martial fire.

“Adding” means replenishing true knowledge, which is achieved by choosing the good Way and firmly maintaining it. “Subtracting” means drawing in excessive numinous awareness, which is achieved by eliminating clever contrivances and keen discernment, and reducing delusive thoughts. When nothing more can be added and nothing more can be removed, nature becomes settled and life gathers into coherence. The true seed is then obtained; this is the subtlety of cultivation.

Nature and life have two distinct functions in cultivation. Once the external elixir has been refined, it is gathered back into the crucible and becomes the internal elixir. Here, “external” means that it has not yet returned to oneself; “internal” means that it has already been gathered within. The saying “gold returns to the beginning of nature” means that what has been attained must return to the source of one’s original nature. Only then can it be called the “returning elixir.”

This lyric describes a method of Waidan (external alchemy) cultivation. The path of the Golden Elixir is presented as supremely wondrous and sacred. Its effects can appear quickly after cultivation, and it may even lead one to the realm of the sages. The only concern is that a person’s blessings may be too slight to bear it.

The difficulty in obtaining the Golden Elixir lies in recognizing the “True Lead” of clear knowing and the “True Mercury” of numinous awareness. Lead and mercury here are alchemical terms that represent inner cognition and spiritual clarity. Once these two are recognized and harmonized, so that firmness and softness complement each other and nature and emotion come into accord, there is no need to wait a whole day: the first signs of innate knowing and innate ability—our inborn powers of discernment and action—will appear, like a mysterious pearl, symbolizing inner spiritual clarity, beginning to shine in the darkness.

The spiritual root of innate knowing and innate ability has long been buried and was originally difficult to reveal. Now that clear knowing and numinous awareness have become one, the spiritual root may not be restored to wholeness at once, but the spark of life has emerged within what is hazy and subtle. Once this spark appears, it can gradually grow from faint to manifest, restoring completeness step by step. “Signs in form” refers to the omens that appear before completeness is attained.

Those who aspire to cultivate need only apply themselves diligently; they need not withdraw from the world or abandon ordinary life. They can cultivate in the marketplace or at court. The ingredients needed for the Golden Elixir are already present, and the practice is simple: nothing needs to be sought outside, for it lies within the practitioner. To explain its principles too plainly may only make people laugh. Ordinary people and sages are fundamentally connected, and Heaven and humanity follow the same principle. The difference lies only in whether one follows it or goes against it.

The White Tiger’s First Menstrual Essence, the Divine Water of the Flower Pond, and True Gold are all exceedingly precious inner medicines. From this we can understand that supreme goodness is like a stream whose source lies far upstream: it nourishes all things and cannot be compared with ordinary medicines.

To complete the nine turns—the stages in Neidan practice through which repeated refinement strengthens the Elixir—one must first refine oneself and hold fast to the mind: temper one’s nature and keep one’s thoughts steady. One must also gather the medicine at the proper time and regulate what floats and what sinks. When advancing the fire—applying the practice according to its timing and intensity—one must be careful to avoid serious deviations.

Earlier, it was said that harmonizing lead and mercury—the Neidan terms for the union of two inner forces, Yin and Yang—allows the Elixir to form. But before lead and mercury can be harmonized, one must recognize “True Lead,” the true knowing known as the Great Medicine. True knowing is the genuine feeling within. Symbolically, it is called the White Tiger’s First Menstrual Essence, and also the Divine Water of the Flower Pond. Genuine feeling is concealed within deluded feelings. Feeling belongs to Metal, so it is called the White Tiger. Though hidden and unseen, genuine feeling sometimes comes to light. At such moments, Heaven and Earth’s life-giving heart appears again, and the first shoots of life begin to grow; hence it is called the “First Menstrual Essence.” “First” means beginning, and “menstrual essence” means the constant way. At the beginning of the Great Dao, being emerges from nonbeing and Yang is contained within Yin. This is the mother of all things: the impulse of life.

This single impulse of life is the foundation of becoming a sage or worthy, and of becoming a Buddha or immortal; hence it is called a supreme treasure. It is also known as the Divine Water of the Flower Pond. The Flower Pond refers to the One Aperture of the Primordial Pass, a Neidan term for the crucial place within body and mind where the impulse of life is said to reside. Because this impulse is hidden there, it is called the Flower Pond. It runs through the whole body, nourishing the five organs like divine water that moistens and cleanses. When refined through the stages of fire, the impulse gathers, no longer disperses, and endures securely; then it is also called True Gold. The White Tiger’s First Menstrual Essence, Divine Water, and True Gold all refer to the same impulse of life: the “nature of supreme goodness.” Supreme goodness is perfect goodness, free of evil. It encompasses every principle and can respond to every circumstance, like water with a source far upstream: it flows on without end, nourishing all things without running dry. It is the truest medicine for preserving one’s nature, life, and bodily form, unlike ordinary medicines made from plants, herbs, and minerals.

Yet this medicine lies hidden in the acquired state. It appears from time to time, then soon vanishes, and cannot remain for long. To complete the nine turns and make it permanently stable, one must first refine oneself and hold fast to the mind, dispelling the restless energy and worldly thoughts that come from outside. Then one must gather the medicine at the proper time and regulate what floats and what sinks. The numinous knowing—the capacity to perceive and respond to external things—resides in the human mind. When the human mind stirs, this knowing readily floats and scatters. True knowing is present in the Dao-mind; when the Dao-mind grows dim, true knowing readily sinks into concealment. Refining oneself and holding fast to the mind means wearing away the excessive restlessness of the human mind’s numinous knowing, bringing it to stillness. Gathering the medicine at the proper time means drawing forth the true knowing in the Dao-mind and allowing what has sunk into concealment to emerge. To regulate what floats and what sinks is to use the Dao-mind to restrain the human mind, while also bringing the human mind into accord with the Dao-mind; it is to let true knowing guide numinous knowing, while also using numinous knowing to nourish true knowing. When the human mind is quiet, the Dao-mind can endure. When true knowing and numinous knowing flow into one another, there is hope of refining the Golden Elixir.

The medicine is relatively easy to identify, but the firing process is hardest to master. In advancing the fire, one must discern whether the medicine is mature and whether the timing and intensity of the fire are auspicious or dangerous. To act rashly brings harm rather than benefit. Therefore, one must exercise particular caution when advancing the fire.

This verse says that if one wishes “True Lead” to retain “True Mercury,” the two must be brought into harmony, and numinous awareness must remain under the guidance of true knowing.

Here, “True Lead” refers to upright, firm true knowing, while “True Mercury” refers to gentle, balanced numinous awareness. “Refining the self” means regulating body and mind so that true knowing and numinous awareness can meet. True knowing is like a ruler, and numinous awareness like a courtier: true knowing can restrain numinous awareness, while numinous awareness can also nourish true knowing. If numinous awareness is unsettled, true knowing is difficult to manifest.

True knowing belongs to Metal, and numinous awareness belongs to Wood. In the acquired state, a person’s emotions and innate nature each tend toward their own partiality, like Metal and Wood kept apart and unable to join. For them to communicate, “True Faith” must also stand between them to harmonize them. True Faith is also called “True Intention” or “True Earth.” Like a matchmaker, it brings true emotion and true nature together.

True nature belongs to Wood and governs benevolence and gentleness; true emotion belongs to Metal and governs firmness and righteousness. Once True Faith harmonizes them, true nature responds to true emotion, and true emotion, in turn, cherishes the benevolence of true nature. Thus firmness and gentleness respond to each other, benevolence and righteousness are both present, and true knowing and numinous awareness become one. The scripture uses “swallowing and devouring one another” to describe their blending, and compares the coalescence of Neidan to a man becoming pregnant: primordial Qi comes from the void and gathers into a single “Millet Pearl,” symbolizing the first formation of the sacred embryo.

The “Maiden of Two and Eight” refers to Yin-natured Jing and Qi, while the “Young Lord of Nine and Three” refers to Yang-natured Jing and Qi. Where do they come from? The scripture says that both originally arise from emptiness. Once gathered together, they form a single “millet pearl,” a metaphor for Neidan that is subtle yet concentrated. When they unite, the image of a “sacred embryo” takes shape. This is called “a man becoming pregnant”: the union of a man and a woman is used as a metaphor for Yin and Yang joining within the body to form the Elixir embryo.

The “Maiden of Two and Eight” and the “Young Lord of Nine and Three” are also called “Wooden Fluid” and “Metal Essence,” symbolizing Jing and Qi with the qualities of Wood and Metal. When they meet “Earth,” which represents the center, the three combine into the “Three Surnames.” They are then refined by “Ding Gong,” the force of timing and tempering in the alchemical process, until Yin and Yang join in harmony like husband and wife. Afterward, the “River Chariot,” a metaphor for guiding the movement of internal Qi, turns without pause and carries the Elixir Qi to the “summit of Kunlun Peak,” a symbol of the head.

The preceding passage says that when the three families meet, they can form the sacred embryo—the Neidan cultivated through practice. But without the tempering of true fire, the sacred embryo cannot take shape.

Two is the number of Yin Fire, and eight is the number of Yin Wood, so together they are called the “Maiden.” Nine is the number of Yang Metal, and three is the number of Yang Wood, so together they are called the “Young Lord.” The essence of Wood transforms into Fire: Wood generates Fire, and these count as one family. The essence of Metal transforms into Water: Metal generates Water, and these too count as one family. Earth occupies the center and forms a family of its own. In this way, the Five Phases are divided into three families. When the three families meet and return to one, this is called the complete fulfillment of the Five Phases.

As a metaphor for Daoist cultivation, original nature and original Shen belong to Wood and Fire and form one family; original feeling and original Jing belong to Metal and Water and form another; original Qi belongs to Earth and forms a third. These are called the “three inner families.” Benevolence and ritual belong to Wood and Fire and form one family; righteousness and wisdom belong to Metal and Water and form another; trustworthiness belongs to Earth and forms a third. These are called the “three outer families.”

The cultivator uses the three inner families to govern the three outer families, and in turn uses the three outer families to complete the three inner families. The ultimate aim is to bring the three families back to one. This requires vigorous practice, wholehearted focus, and sustained effort. The phrase “Lord Ding’s tempering” refers to this vigorous practice.

Vigorous practice can bring those who were not benevolent back to benevolence, the unrighteous back to righteousness, the discourteous back to ritual propriety, the unwise back to wisdom, and the untrustworthy back to trustworthiness. Benevolence, righteousness, ritual propriety, and wisdom ultimately return to trustworthiness; nature, feeling, Jing, and Shen likewise transform into a single Qi. The three families are harmonized, firmness and softness respond to one another, and nature and feeling unite as one, like husband and wife joining in mutual accord. Once they have united, practice must continue without interruption, so that the firing process remains steady and the single Qi is refined to completion. The result is a state of pure Yang, beyond sound and smell.

Hence the saying: “The River Cart must not pause for even an instant; carry it up to the summit of Kunlun.” Here, the “River Cart” refers to the upright Qi of the north. It does not mean, as some cultivation teachings claim, circulating kidney Qi from the coccyx through the spinal passage to the crown of the head. Rather, it is a metaphor for using Water to aid Fire once the single Qi has been refined, so that Water and Fire continue their cooking without interruption. It is like a waterwheel in a river, carrying water up and down as it turns day and night without stopping.

“Kunlun” is the ancestor of all mountains. Carrying the River Cart to the summit of Kunlun means that the three flowers gather at the crown and the five Qi converge toward the origin, entering the state of wondrous being within the true void: making no deliberate distinctions, clinging to no thoughts, and following the natural order.

“Seven Reversions of Cinnabar return it to its source; Nine Restorations of Golden Liquor return it to the Real.” This refers to the alchemical process in which cinnabar is refined through seven reversions to return to its origin, while Golden Liquor undergoes nine restorations to recover its true nature. “Seven Reversions” and “Nine Restorations” are terms from Neidan (internal alchemy). They refer to stages in the timing and transformation of the refining process, and should not be understood simply as literal counts.

Cultivation should not become fixated on calculations involving directions and times such as the summit, the Yin hour, the Zi hour, the Kun position, and the Shen hour. What matters is bringing the movement of the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) into accord with the proper principles. The phrase “in essence, it is a single dose of mercury” means that the fundamental alchemical ingredient is one and the same. It circulates and moves through all the celestial markers—that is, the various hours or stars. When the transformations of Yin-Yang reach completion, communication with the spirits follows naturally. Whether entering or departing, moving or turning, everything depends on the Mysterious Female, the Daoist name for the source of generation and transformation.

The preceding passage says that by gathering the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, and Water) and applying the fire phases in refinement, one can complete the work. But to succeed, one must understand the practical meaning of the “Seven Reversals and Nine Returns.” Seven is the yang number of Fire; nine is the yang number of Metal.

The nature of numinous awareness is gentle, yet it harbors a deviant fire. When this deviant fire subsides, true fire arises. It is like numinous mercury condensing into cinnabar: it no longer flies upward, and the fire returns to its own nature. The feeling of true knowing is firm and strong, yet it harbors dry Metal. When this dry Metal is transformed away, true Metal becomes pure. It is like impure gold melting into liquid and ultimately becoming clean, bright gold: Metal, too, returns to its original reality. This is what the elixir texts call the “Seven Reversals and Nine Returns.” Do those heterodox practitioners in the world really understand the meaning of the Seven Reversals and Nine Returns when they count from Zi to Shen and call it the “Nine Returns,” and count from Yin to Kun and call it the “Seven Reversals”? If they do not understand its principle, how can they understand how the Five Phases attain their proper measure?

The “Five Phases attaining their proper measure” means that when Fire returns to its own nature, Wood arises within Fire, and Shen (spirit) thereby becomes clear and discerning. When Shen is clear and discerning, numinous awareness does not grow dim. When Metal returns to its original reality, Metal arises within Water, and Jing (essence) thereby becomes concentrated. When Jing is concentrated, true knowing can remain constant. Numinous awareness does not grow dim, and true knowing remains constant; true knowing is numinous awareness, and numinous awareness is true knowing. The four images of Metal, Wood, Water, and Fire are harmonized and brought together in the center. The Qi of the Five Phases fuses into one, without bias or imbalance, and accords completely with the natural order. This is what it means for the “Five Phases to attain their proper measure.”

The key to the Five Phases attaining their proper measure is the great medicine known as Metal within Water. The “quicksilver” used in cultivation is silver within water—that is, Metal within Water. Ultimately, it is the true feeling contained in that single point of true knowing. True knowing contains the precelestial True One Qi. It is the root of the Five Phases and the foundation of the four images. In movement it gives rise to yang; in stillness it gives rise to yin. It circulates through the four images, the Five Phases, and the positions of the different temporal cycles.

The method of return and restoration is to advance yang fire and gather this true knowing during yang times, then to apply the yin tally and nurture this true knowing during yin times. When the application of yang fire and the yin tally reaches its full measure, the Five Phases blend and transform, and innate knowledge and innate ability are restored. The mind’s substance is then still and unmoving, yet it responds to things and connects with them; it therefore naturally possesses the capacity to communicate with the spirits. Here, “spirit” refers to a state in which the transformations of yin and yang are beyond prediction.

When the numbers of yin and yang reach completion, the sacred embryo congeals. This is called the “Valley Spirit.” The Valley Spirit does not die; this is also called “without the female.” The “Gate of the Primal Female” is called the source of Heaven and Earth. When the numbers of yin and yang are complete, the Primal Female is established. Once it is established, the Valley Spirit enters and leaves through the Gate of the Primal Female, thereby attaining long life without death and completing the method of return and restoration. This is precisely the meaning of the saying: “To have the Valley Spirit endure forever without dying, one must establish the foundation through the Primal Female.”

Yang contains Yin within its strength, bearing Yin energy on its back while embracing Yang essence. Only when these two forces are brought into harmony are the ingredients for alchemical cultivation complete. Through refinement, even a soul that was once weak can rise to a sacred state.

Believe that only a single Golden Elixir (Jindan), the substance formed by refining essence, Qi, and spirit in Daoist Neidan practice, is needed: a snake that swallows it can become a dragon, while a chicken that eats it can transform into a divine bird—a luan or a great peng—and fly into a realm of pure Yang and clarity. The images of the snake becoming a dragon and the chicken becoming a divine bird show how the Golden Elixir can remake life from its foundations and raise it beyond the ordinary.

“Clasping the Po, the slender Hun prevails” appears in another edition as “Clasping the Po away, the Po immortal and the Hun sage,” and in yet another as “It is also possible.”

Earlier, the text spoke of “seven returns and nine restorations.” The numbers of Yin and Yang required for refining the elixir must be complete, and when applying Yin and Yang, one must also distinguish their true forms. The male contains the female: in the trigrams, this is the empty line at the center of Li; in the human body, it is the numinous awareness hidden within the human heart. Bearing Yin on the back and embracing the essence of Yang corresponds to the solid line at the center of Kan; in the human body, it is the true knowing inherent in the Dao-heart. True knowing and numinous awareness are two kinds of ingredients. Only when they meet and harmonize can they form the Golden Elixir.

The Po is Yin containing Yang, and refers to the spirit of true knowing; the Hun is Yang containing Yin, and refers to the spirit of numinous awareness. “The Po is slender” means that Yang-Qi is deficient; “the Hun prevails” means that Yin-Qi is excessive. When Yin is abundant and Yang scarce, there is an imbalance, and one cannot attain the Mean; the Golden Elixir therefore cannot be refined. Only when true knowing and numinous awareness meet, bringing the Hun and Po back to balance, can they transform into one’s true nature and disposition. Yin and Yang then merge as one, the principle of Heaven becomes manifest, and selfish desires recede. At this point, innate knowledge and innate ability are complete, luminous, pure, and unstained. It is as if a Golden Elixir hangs in the great void, illuminating the vast world. Though the myriad things move freely in every direction, nothing can obscure it.

A person who swallows one of these Golden Elixirs can become an immortal at once; a snake that swallows one will transform into a dragon; and a chicken that eats one will become a luan, phoenix, or great roc, flying straight into the pure, tranquil realm of Yang. Yet the references to a snake swallowing and a chicken eating also conceal the principles of elixir refinement. The snake belongs to Fire and corresponds to the Li trigram in the south; the dragon belongs to Wood and corresponds to the Zhen trigram in the east; the chicken belongs to Metal and corresponds to the Dui trigram in the west; the luan, phoenix, and great roc are associated with Water and correspond to the Kan trigram in the north. The snake’s transformation into a dragon symbolizes Wood arising within Fire; the chicken’s transformation into a luan, phoenix, or great roc symbolizes Metal arising within Water. Wood arising within Fire and Metal arising within Water mean that Metal and Wood unite, and Water and Fire aid one another. In the end, Qi becomes wholly integrated; being and nonbeing cease to stand in opposition, and self and things return to emptiness. Form and spirit alike attain subtle perfection, entering the state of the sage. This state is unfathomable, and is therefore called “spirit.”

To leave the world of the mundane and dwell in a realm of pure Yang; to bring Qi into complete unity, establish neither being nor nonbeing, return self and things to emptiness, and bring form and spirit alike to subtle perfection, entering an unfathomable and wondrous state—is this really an empty claim?

The way of the Golden Elixir follows the principles of Nature’s creation and transformation, whose foundation is the change of Yin and Yang. In the course of the year, when the month of Yin arrives, the qi of Heaven rises and the qi of Earth descends, forming “Tai” (harmony and free communication between Yin and Yang). When the month of Shen arrives, the qi of Earth rises and the qi of Heaven descends, forming “Pi” (the blockage and separation of Yin and Yang). In the course of a day, the hour of Zi marks the beginning of morning. At this time, Yang qi stirs within and Yin qi withdraws outward; this is called “Zhun.” The hour of Wu marks the start of the transition from afternoon toward dusk. At this time, Yang qi withdraws outward and Yin qi begins to stir within; this is called “Meng.” “Pi” and “Tai” describe the rising and falling of Yin and Yang in spring and autumn over the course of a year, while “Zhun” and “Meng” describe their movements between morning and evening over the course of a day. By observing how Yin and Yang in Heaven and Earth join or become blocked, one can recognize the signs of their waxing and waning throughout the day. The changes of Yin and Yang over a day and a year follow the same principle: they are the movement of one and the same qi.

Those who cultivate the Dao should follow the rhythms of Yin and Yang in Heaven and Earth, practicing in accordance with the moments of “Zhun” and “Meng” at dawn and dusk: when Yang qi is due to advance, they circulate the “Yang Fire”; when Yin qi is due to move, they circulate the “Yin Talisman.” Yang’s firmness and Yin’s yielding each follow their proper time. As one accumulates upright qi, the Five Phases gather and the Four Images come into harmony. This is like thirty spokes joining at the wheel’s hub to form a wheel, or a hundred rivers flowing together into the sea. In the end, they condense into the Golden Elixir, a single, undivided qi. The key to condensing the Golden Elixir lies in “withdrawing and replenishing” through its circulation: withdrawing false Yin and Yang so that true Yin and Yang can appear. False Yin recedes and true Yang emerges; false Yang recedes and true Yin arises. True Yin and true Yang return to balance and unite as one, bringing together true knowing and numinous awareness, and harmonizing nature and feelings, so that innate knowledge and capacity, and one’s original nature, reappear.

Cultivating the Golden Elixir requires distinguishing true Yin from true Yang and recognizing the innate “qi of the True One”—the source qi that existed before Heaven and Earth were divided and before Yin and Yang were distinguished. Hidden within, it is called “True Emptiness”; when it manifests, it is called “wondrous existence.” In imagery, it is like “gold in water”; in terms of one’s nature, it is the innate goodness with which people are born; in its function, it is the single-minded, pure heart of the Dao. The “great medicine” sought in Elixir practice is the heart of the Dao. Though it is one, the heart of the Dao governs the qi of the Five Phases and embodies their five virtues: one is the beginning of number and contains five; five ultimately returns to one. At the root, there is no need to cling even to the name “heart of the Dao”; it can only be called the undivided principle of Heaven. Confucians call it the Taiji (Supreme Ultimate); Daoists call it the Golden Elixir; Buddhists call it Perfect Awakening. The ancient scripture’s saying, “Obtain the One, and all things are complete,” refers to this principle.

Obtaining this “One” is like having the treasure of life already in hand; there is no need to seek it in the southeast or northwest. One need only use the heart of the Dao to discipline the human heart and continually reduce its impurities. Once all the restless habits in the human heart have been cleared away, what remains is a gentle, pure numinous awareness, and the human heart is transformed into the heart of the Dao.

Within the human heart is the “discriminating spirit,” the activity of consciousness that distinguishes and calculates. It carries the afflictive habits accumulated over a long course of time, and is also shaped by the habits of this life and by distortions in one’s physical constitution. Unless each of these roots is removed, even the slightest remnant may seize an opening and flare up, causing the treasure of life to leak away and rendering all prior cultivation fruitless. Therefore, one must carefully guard what has already been attained and never treat the treasure of life lightly. The ancient immortals said, “While even a trace of Yang qi remains, one cannot die; while even a trace of Yin qi remains, one cannot become an immortal.” After obtaining the Golden Elixir, one must still uproot the fundamental seeds that have caused the cycle of birth and death over a long course of time. Only then can the treasure of life truly become one’s own and endure without decay.

Chapter Nine

At the winter solstice, Yang Qi begins to rise, and one Yang line—the solid line that forms part of a hexagram—is added roughly every thirty days. Over the course of a month, the moon gradually brightens from the first to the fifteenth day. This symbolizes the growth of Yang Qi and forms the Fu hexagram. On the fifteenth, the moon is full, symbolizing the Qian hexagram. After the fifteenth, the moon begins to wane, symbolizing the growth of Yin Qi, and the Gou hexagram appears. The balance of cold and warmth shifts over the course of a day as well: at the Zi hour, Yang Qi first arises; at the Wu hour, Yin Qi begins to emerge. When refining the elixir, one must understand these “dusk and dawn” patterns of alternating Yin and Yang.

The first section discusses the skill of drawing out and replenishing Qi in cultivation. It teaches practitioners to follow the shifts between day and night and Yin and Yang in Heaven and Earth. The winter solstice falls in the eleventh lunar month, when the first Yang arises. After that, one Yang line is added about every thirty days. In the Zi month, the eleventh month, one Yang arises, symbolizing the Fu hexagram. In the Chou month, the twelfth month, two Yang lines arise, forming the Lin hexagram. In the Yin month, the first month, three Yang lines arise, forming the Tai hexagram. In the Mao month, the second month, four Yang lines arise, forming the Dazhuang hexagram. In the Chen month, the third month, five Yang lines arise, forming the Guai hexagram. In the Si month, the fourth month, all six Yang lines are present, forming the Qian hexagram. These six months are the period when Yang Qi gradually grows. In the Wu month, the fifth month, the first Yin arises, forming the Gou hexagram. Thereafter, one Yin line is added each month: the Wei month, the sixth month, forms the Dun hexagram; the Shen month, the seventh month, the Pi hexagram; the You month, the eighth month, the Guan hexagram; the Xu month, the ninth month, the Bo hexagram; and the Hai month, the tenth month, when all six Yin lines are present, the Kun hexagram. These six months are the period when Yin Qi gradually grows. The author calls the six months of growing Yang Qi “dawn” and the six months of growing Yin Qi “dusk.” This is the waxing and waning of Yin and Yang over the year.

Over the course of a month, the sun and moon meet at the transition from the last day of one lunar month to the first day of the next, and the moon begins to receive the sun’s light. By about the third day, the moon’s light first becomes visible, and the ocean tides shift along with it. This symbolizes the Fu hexagram. After that, one Yang line is added about every two and a half days. When the moon is full on the fifteenth day, it symbolizes the Qian hexagram. From the first through the fifteenth, Yang Qi passes through six stages of gradual growth. After the fifteenth, the moon wanes. Around the sixteenth to eighteenth day, Yin Qi begins to appear, symbolizing the Gou hexagram; thereafter, one Yin line is added about every two and a half days. By the thirtieth day, the moon’s light has disappeared and its disk is dark, symbolizing the Kun hexagram. From the sixteenth through the thirtieth, Yin Qi passes through six stages of gradual growth. One “period” lasts about two and a half days. Twelve periods correspond to the six Yang hexagrams and six Yin hexagrams: this is the “dusk and dawn” of Yin and Yang over the month.

Yin and Yang also wax and wane over the course of a day. At the Zi hour, Yang Qi first arises, forming the Fu hexagram. One Yang line is then added each hour until all six Yang lines are present at the Si hour, forming the Qian hexagram. At the Wu hour, the first Yin arises, forming the Gou hexagram. One Yin line is then added each hour until all six Yin lines are present at the Hai hour, forming the Kun hexagram. The twelve double hours correspond to the six Yang hexagrams and six Yin hexagrams: this is the “dusk and dawn” of Yin and Yang over the day.

The sages compressed the yearly alternation of Yin and Yang into a month, then compressed the monthly alternation into a day, and then compressed the changes of a day into a single double hour. A double hour is divided into eight ke, each fifteen minutes long, for a total of 120 minutes. The first four ke, sixty minutes, belong to Yang; the last four ke, sixty minutes, belong to Yin. The changes of Yin and Yang within a double hour can be compressed further into a single ke: its first seven and a half minutes belong to Yang, and its last seven and a half minutes to Yin. Practitioners must seize the moment when the substance of the elixir forms, even within an extremely brief interval, gather the “great medicine” into the cauldron for refining the elixir, and refine it into an elixir according to the methods of Yang Fire and Yin Talisman. The saying “Within a moment, distinguish Zi from Wu; within a hexagramless instant, discern Qian from Kun” means that one need not be bound to fixed hours or specific hexagrams, but must still be able to discern the moment when Yin and Yang turn.

Thus, by understanding when Yin and Yang arise and when they recede, one can grasp the transformations of a day, a month, and a year within a single hour or moment. The author observes that some people practice only on designated days—for example, sitting in meditation at the Zi and Wu hours, circulating Qi at the new and full moons, or cultivating at the winter and summer solstices—yet have not understood the principle of Yin and Yang’s “dusk and dawn.”

Without understanding the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, and Water) and the Four Images—the four states manifested through the waxing and waning of Yin and Yang—how can one distinguish the meanings of alchemical terms such as cinnabar mercury and lead-silver? One has never even heard of the timing of the alchemical fire, yet already calls oneself a recluse who cultivates the Dao.

Rather than reflect on their own mistakes, such people teach others the wrong path, leaving them lost for a long time. How can they bear to deceive their own conscience in this way?

The previous lyric said that alchemy requires understanding the changes of Yin and Yang and the timing of day and night. This one follows it by criticizing those who do not understand the patterns by which Yin and Yang wax and wane. The path of the immortals is to cultivate oneself first, then help others. After cultivating oneself, one must also cultivate virtue. When people go astray, they fail to understand the principles behind the Five Phases and Four Images, and do not know what alchemical terms such as cinnabar mercury and lead-silver refer to. They neither understand the ingredients nor ask about the timing of the fire. They learn only a few unorthodox techniques, then assume they have attained the Dao and even call themselves hermits.

They refuse to reflect on their errors and instead teach others the wrong path. Like a blind person leading a crowd of blind people, they lead others astray and keep them from finding release for a long time. Those who deceive their own conscience and heartlessly mislead others should fall into the Avici Hell, with no hope of ever escaping. How, then, could they expect to attain the Dao?

Eleven

When the cultivation of virtue exceeds eight hundred and hidden virtue has reached three thousand, one must regard all beings and oneself equally, and treat one’s kin and enemies alike. Only then does one accord with the immortals’ original vow to aid the world.

Tigers, rhinoceroses, and other fierce beasts, as well as weapons, cannot harm such a person. The pull of death and calamities like a burning house cannot bind them either. Having obtained the precious talisman, they go to pay court in the celestial realm, departing in peace aboard a carriage drawn by luan birds and a chariot borne by phoenixes.

What was said earlier concerned heterodox paths outside the Way: because they do not understand the Great Dao, they can only damage their De and cannot truly cultivate it. Here the point is that after cultivating the Dao, one must still cultivate De.

Cultivating the Dao is a practice undertaken for oneself; cultivating De means doing good for others. The cultivation of the Dao eventually reaches completion, but the cultivation of De has no end. Thus, after immortals have succeeded in cultivating the Dao, they must still accumulate three thousand meritorious deeds and complete eight hundred good acts. They must reach a state in which self and things are both forgotten, where loved ones and enemies are treated alike, and the heart is as broad as Heaven and Earth, embracing all things. Only when both Dao and De are complete has the original aspiration been fulfilled. At this level, both inner and outer are empty, and one clings neither to existence nor to nonexistence. Body and spirit alike reach a wondrous state: tigers, leopards, and other fierce beasts cannot harm them; weapons cannot wound them; and the impermanent burning house cannot ensnare them. When Heaven sends down a precious talisman to summon them, they can sit serenely in a carriage drawn by luan birds and phoenixes and ascend to Heaven in broad daylight. When a great man has achieved success and fame, how could he not feel exhilarated?

Twelve

The bond between the Oxherd and the Weaver Girl comes together; the tortoise and snake each receive their innate nature. The toad and the crow meet and unite on the new moon, forming the image of the full moon. The Yin and Yang energies support one another and revolve in a continuous cycle.

This is the hidden marvel of Heaven and Earth’s workings. Who can grasp its true principle? If Yin and Yang are cut off from one another and fail to unite, errors will arise. How, then, could Heaven and Earth continue their workings for long?

True Explanation (another edition reads “Deep Abyss”)

The eleven verses above all speak of cultivating the Great Dao of the Golden Elixir: only by combining the true Yin and true Yang medicines of the same kind can the Golden Elixir be formed. Some may suspect that this is an artificial joining of things; in truth, it is not forced, but follows the course of nature.

The passage argues that the key to cultivating the Great Way of the Golden Elixir is the union of true Yin and true Yang, through which the Golden Elixir is formed. The joining of Yin and Yang described here is not something imposed by deliberate human effort; it is the application of natural principles. Through images such as the Cowherd and Weaver Girl meeting on the seventh night of the seventh lunar month, a tortoise and serpent coming together, and a toad joined with the Golden Crow, the author illustrates how the two Qi energies of Yin and Yang respond to one another and unite naturally. This is the subtle working of Heaven and Earth’s creative power.

The workings of Heaven and Earth follow the pattern of one Yin and one Yang. Yin and Yang depend on each other; Qi circulates, with Yang within Yin and Yin within Yang. As Yin and Yang move back and forth, the seasons change, all things grow, and the vitality of life continues. If Daoist practitioners do not understand this principle and instead reject Yin-Yang transformation, clinging only to emptiness or outward forms and forcing things to happen, they will throw Yin and Yang out of balance. This will not help cultivate nature and life; it may even harm body and mind and lead to transgression. How, then, could they attain the goal of lasting as long as Heaven and Earth and becoming immortal beings?

The Way of cultivation that lasts as long as Heaven and Earth consists in bringing true Yin and true Yang into harmony. When Yin and Yang unite, vitality flourishes and congeals into the “sacred embryo,” a symbol of the inner life formed through cultivation. Cultivation proceeds from nothing to something, then returns from something to nothing. Only by shedding the illusory body and realizing the true body can one hope to endure alongside Heaven and Earth. The author therefore holds that anyone seeking the Way of longevity cannot do so without the union of true Yin and true Yang.

A poem, “Xijiang Yue,” added afterward serves as a symbol of the “moistening moon.” It says that the Golden Elixir is the precious foundation within the physical body, and that once refined, it gives rise to limitless transformations. One must also investigate the true teaching through one’s own nature and mind, and fully comprehend the subtle workings of nonbirth. There is no need to wait for death or another life: in this very life, one can attain powers like those of a Buddha. Since the Dragon Girl accomplished this practice, who has since been able to carry on her achievement?

This verse and the five quatrains that follow, according to the immortal master’s preface—the author whom this book honors—do not belong to the main collection of the Wuzhen pian; they are part of the supplement. A close reading of their wording and meaning shows that they teach cultivating life first and nature afterward. Since the commentaries by Xue Daoguang, Lu Yanfu, and Chen Zhixu discuss cultivating life, they include these verses in the main collection; this edition follows the same arrangement.

Yuan Duzi says, “A single point of Yang essence is secretly stored within the mountain of the body. It is not in the heart or kidneys, but in the aperture of the Primordial Gate.” The “single point of Yang essence” is the Elixir. To say it is “secretly stored in the mountain of the body” means that it is the body’s most precious treasure. The Elixir is nothing other than a single point of primordial, utterly Yang essence. It is also called the innate True One Qi, or the vast, upright Qi. Hidden within, it is true emptiness; when it manifests, it is wondrous existence. In essence, it is innate goodness; in function, it is the Dao-heart. It does not belong to the heart or kidneys themselves, but is stored in the Primordial Gate.

The aperture of the Primordial Gate has no fixed location or visible form. The Elixir likewise has no location or form. It moves and rests freely, unconfined by appearances or stillness, and remains lively and responsive. It is like something made firm through the refining of fire: able to adapt at any moment while abiding in stillness, changing without end and possessing a mystery beyond measure. Though it cannot be grasped by Heaven, Earth, or the spirits, it can dwell within the body and transform it. This is what is called the “Dharma-body”—the ground of life that transcends the body’s physical form. Thus the ancient immortals said, “The root of the transformations of nature and life lies within oneself.”

“Oneself” here refers to the Dharma-body. Once the Dharma-body is realized and the sacred embryo—the state symbolizing the maturation of inner life in cultivation—is complete, the foundation of life is secure, the work of active cultivation is finished, and the realm of Wuwei appears. Only then can one cultivate nature. The true source of nature is the wondrous function of non-arising. Cultivating life is for longevity; cultivating nature is for non-arising. When one reaches non-arising, there is no death. Beyond arising and dying, one shares the same substance as the Great Void; both form and spirit attain a wondrous state. One is forever freed from the cycle of rebirth and rises beyond the bounds of Heaven and Earth. There is no need to wait for a future life: in this present life, one can attain the Buddha’s spiritual powers.

The Way of non-arising lies in sudden awakening and complete understanding: knowing that all things are empty and crossing directly beyond birth and death. At the Buddha’s assembly on Vulture Peak, as the World-Honored One taught, a seven-year-old dragon girl rose from the earth, offered a precious jewel, and immediately became a Buddha. The immortal master invokes the story of the dragon girl’s offering to explain the cultivation of the nature of true emptiness: to awaken to true emptiness, beyond arising and ceasing, is to attain the Buddha’s spiritual powers.

Yet until the principles of life have been cultivated, the principles of nature are difficult to understand fully. Even with sudden awakening and complete realization, if one cannot steadily nurture one’s true nature, one may still pass in and out of the conditioned realm. Since one has not yet undergone a refinement as fierce as blazing fire, the slightest imperfection can bring the peril of taking on another birth after leaving the body. One should therefore cultivate life first, then nature. Once refined in the furnace of blazing fire and every impurity has been transformed away, one can cultivate nature through Wuwei. Proceeding from gradual cultivation to sudden awakening, one reaches the highest and most wondrous realization, with no further danger of leaving the body and taking on another birth. This is the meaning of the words, “There is no need to wait for a future life: in this present life, one can attain the Buddha’s spiritual powers.” From this we can see that the sequence of the Great Way of the Golden Elixir is to cultivate life first, then nature.

Even if you have fully awakened to your true nature—the nature that is real and free from delusion—you must still leave this body and continue your cultivation in another. Why, then, cultivate the Great Medicine as well, the Neidan practice known as the Golden Elixir, so that you can suddenly transcend the state of being free from leakage and become a perfected person? This poem uses Metal, one of the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, and Water), to explain that the Great Way of the Golden Elixir cultivates not only nature, or the mind and character, but first life: the life force and the body.

The nature of Suchness—the original, pure and natural nature—is spontaneous and free, without the slightest strain. It is neither material substance nor nothingness. It is the state described as “seeking no knowledge deliberately, making no arbitrary distinctions, and following the natural order.” To cultivate this nature, one must first fully understand it. After understanding it, one must refine it into something indestructible as diamond, and only then can one truly attain liberation. If one understands but does not cultivate, one’s nature and life remain beyond one’s control. When life ends, there will be nothing to rely on; even if one is reborn in another body, how could one escape the cycle of birth and death?

Even after sudden awakening, gradual cultivation must continue. The practitioner uses Yang Fire and Yin Talisman—terms in Neidan cultivation that describe the firing process and its timing—to refine the Great Medicine, the substance formed by refining Jing, Qi, and Shen in Neidan practice. This transforms the turbid Yin Qi acquired after birth, sheds the fleshly body as though it were a temporary lodging, and brings forth the true body. One can then enter water without sinking, enter fire without burning, withstand attacks from tigers and rhinoceroses, and remain untouched by blades and weapons, becoming a perfected person without deficiency who has transcended birth and death.

In the past, after the Sixth Patriarch, Huineng, received the Dharma transmission from the Fifth Patriarch, Hongren, he lived among hunters in the Sihui area, blending into ordinary life and concealing his abilities, until at last he attained realization. After Zixian attained sudden, complete awakening, he too understood that this was not yet the highest level of cultivation: he had to receive instruction from Xinglin, the Daoist Neidan master Shi Tai, to achieve great completion. In both cases, the purpose was to refine the Great Medicine. Truly understanding Suchness is to attain the Dao. If the Sixth Patriarch had awakened to “originally, there is not a single thing,” what, then, did the Fifth Patriarch transmit to him in the middle of the night? And if Zixian had already attained sudden, complete awakening, why did he still seek instruction from Xinglin? From this we can see that sudden awakening and gradual cultivation are both indispensable: some awaken suddenly and then cultivate step by step; others cultivate gradually and awaken only later. Nature and life must be cultivated together, and the work unfolds in two stages. This poem describes moving from cultivating nature to cultivating life, and from sudden awakening to gradual cultivation.

The Second Poem

Reincarnation, being reborn through another person’s body, and moving into a new body: former dwellings and forms are all merely stages in the practitioner’s journey. If one can subdue the Dragon and tame the Tiger—an Neidan expression for bringing the forces of Yin-Yang, Jing, and Qi within oneself under control—and build a dwelling of true gold, a metaphor for pure Yang and indestructible Neidan, how could this golden house ever decay?

Embryonic rebirth refers to a practitioner’s scouting out a pregnant woman from a wealthy family in advance, then entering the womb when she is about to give birth. Body snatching refers to the spirits of the dead often waiting to enter a fetus when a woman is in labor. If one of these spirits enters ahead of the soul originally destined for the womb, this is called body snatching. Relocation refers to secretly transferring oneself into the body of a vigorous young person after one’s own body has declined. Taking up residence in an old body refers to a vigorous person dying suddenly, after which a spirit of the dead enters the still-warm corpse and continues to inhabit it.

Embryonic rebirth and body snatching are broadly similar, with only slight differences; relocation and taking up residence in an old body are also broadly similar. All four are said to involve cultivating the Yin spirit so that it can come and go freely. In Buddhism, this is called the “four-fruit path,” and is also described as an “external path.” The scriptures classify it as a teaching of the Two Vehicles, not the supreme Buddhist teaching that realizes Suchness. Those who practice it differ from ordinary people only in being able to know clearly when they will come and when they will go.

The Great Way of the Golden Elixir, by contrast, brings the “dragon of true nature” down to the eastern household and subdues the “tiger of true feeling” in the western household. It returns feeling to nature and lets nature nourish feeling, so that nature and feeling unite and the dragon and tiger meet. From this, the “sixteen-foot Dharma body” is formed, an idealized body sixteen feet tall. This is like building a house of pure gold: it can endure as long as Heaven and Earth and never decay. If so, why move elsewhere or transfer into another body?

Third

The “method of contemplating the form, closing the breath, and visualizing the spirit” is difficult at first, but gradually becomes smooth with practice. In an instant, it can seem as though one has traveled through countless lands. Yet, sadly, the house has grown old, and in the end one still has to move.

Those who observe their bodily form hang a mirror on the wall and visualize divine beings in their minds. After a long time, the Yin spirit—the consciousness that has not yet been refined into pure Yang and still retains a Yin quality—may leave the body. Those who practice breath retention at first manage only one or two breaths without breathing out. Later they can go ten breaths, then a hundred, without breathing out, gradually reaching prolonged breath retention and allowing Qi to circulate within the body on its own. Those who visualize divine beings may silently worship the Lord of Heaven; imagine themselves climbing a ladder of clouds and manifesting a sacred form; visualize divine beings leaving through the fontanel, the suture at the front of the crown of the head; or visualize them leaving through the Bright Hall, the area between the eyebrows or at the forehead. There are many other methods like these.

All these methods are difficult for beginners, but with continued practice they gradually become familiar. After years of cultivation, one may also be able to send the Yin spirit out of the body to roam. Yet this remains solitary Yin. If one’s Qi and blood have already declined, what benefit to one’s life and destiny can there be in abandoning one’s own body and entering someone else’s? There are many other methods of this kind.

Fourth

Buddhism teaches people to cultivate the Pure Land of Ultimate Bliss because Ultimate Bliss belongs to the Western position of Metal. Broadly speaking, among forms and appearances—that is, visible bodily forms and features—only this kind of cultivation is genuine. The other two are not the true Dao; they are merely groundless conjecture.

Ultimate Bliss lies in the West, and the West belongs to Metal. In the human body, this corresponds to a firm and genuine faculty of awareness and feeling. This faculty is steadfast and pure, not easily shaken by the myriad things, just as Metal is firm and endures without decay. Cultivating Ultimate Bliss means refining the true Metal within this genuine awareness. Once refined, true Metal combines strength with flexibility, is purged of all impurities, and gives the body luminosity, becoming a supreme treasure. After his cultivation, the ancient Buddha Dipankara attained a resplendent jeweled pagoda; after his cultivation, Shakyamuni attained a golden body sixteen feet tall. Broadly speaking, among all forms and appearances, only the refinement of this firm and genuine faculty of feeling produces a true treasure. The other two are not genuine at all, but merely empty conjecture.

Fifth

People commonly say that everyday speech contains principles in accord with the highest Dao, and that these should be sought out carefully. If one can look back at ordinary life and reverse the views of ordinary people, then even the dust and sand of the earth can become treasures.

The Dao has never been far from people; people themselves have made the pursuit of the Dao seem distant from everyday life. The Dao of cultivating nature and life consists in principles that remain constant. What we call the constant Dao is precisely the principle put into practice every day, yet often overlooked. To cultivate nature and life, one must investigate the principles of daily life. If one observes carefully, it is not necessary to read every scripture and classic; even ordinary speech often contains evident truths.

When people praise someone as good, they may call that person “honest,” “upright,” “conscientious,” “guided by Heaven’s principle,” “content,” “knowing when to advance and when to retreat,” “mindful of what comes before and after,” or “steady in their actions.” These everyday expressions point to the qualities that guide a person’s conduct. Of a bad person, people may say that they are “without conscience,” “heedless of Heaven’s principle,” “serving themselves at others’ expense,” “deceiving themselves and others,” “taking suffering for pleasure and falsehood for truth,” “forgetful and careless,” or “unable to tell good from bad.” They may also say, “They see only one side and not the other; they think only of themselves and not of others.” Such words may sound casual, but a closer look reveals their meaning. Why not choose a few and ponder them carefully, using them as a way into understanding the principles?

If one seeks to understand these principles by looking back at everyday conduct, then everything in the world can offer precious insight, and the Dao can be found everywhere. No matter which angle one takes, there is something to understand.

People who seek the Dao in this world often say, “The Dao cannot be explained in words,” and then refuse to apply themselves in earnest to exploring the principles of nature and life. Nor are they willing to humble themselves and seek guidance from teachers and fellow practitioners. Even when they do ask for guidance, they may not be sincere or diligent, always hoping to obtain a treasure empty-handed, without first building up any foundation. What good would it do, even if they spent their whole lives as monastics and traveled to the ends of the earth?

The “Tathagata” refers to the original nature of suchness: it comes from nowhere and goes nowhere. Though it is true emptiness, it is not sheer nothingness; it contains a subtle vitality, and is therefore called the “wondrous essence.” If emptiness were still and silent, without vitality, it would be only a lifeless, inert void—not the true nature of the Tathagata.

Precisely because this wondrous essence pervades everything, as though filling the sands of the Ganges, it can reach everywhere without obstruction. And because it is empty yet lucid, nothing in the world can veil or impede it. The “Dharma eye of perfect penetration” is the ability to see this complete, all-pervading nature. “Perfect” means making no distinctions between inside and outside, above and below, or before and behind. “Penetration” means being present everywhere and manifest at all times, vast enough to fill heaven and earth, yet fine as a hair. Its completeness is what enables it to penetrate everywhere, and its all-pervading reach reveals its completeness.

To experience this Dharma eye of perfect penetration for oneself is to behold the wondrous essence of the Tathagata: it neither clings to visible forms nor falls into nothingness. It manifests within visible forms without being confined by them. In this way, one no longer clings to distinctions such as heaven and hell, but understands that the Three Realms—the Realm of Desire, the Realm of Form, and the Formless Realm—are like one’s own home, and that the worlds in the ten directions are like one’s own whole being.

When you look for it, no form can be seen; when you call to it, it responds. Do not suppose that this sound is merely an echo from an empty valley: if there were no valley, where would the echo come from?

That its form cannot be seen means it is empty; that it responds when called means it exists. It manifests as existence through emptiness, just as a valley echoes a sound. If one can be empty without being confined by emptiness, one comes close to the wondrous body of the Tathagata—the subtle fundamental nature revealed as Buddha-nature. Yet the Tathagata’s wondrous body is always empty and always existent, and always existent and always empty. Why, then, should it wait to be called before responding? Responding only because it is called shows that something called “emptiness” remains in the mind. With this emptiness in the mind, one is still bound by emptiness. Such emptiness is not fully penetrating and cannot be called the Tathagata’s wondrous body. It is better to shatter this “emptiness” completely as well. If there is nothing left that can be empty, where could sound come from? Without sound, there is no emptiness either. Clinging to neither emptiness nor sound brings great liberation, nimble and free.

The saying, “At the top of a hundred-foot pole, one stands unmoving; though one has entered, this is not yet the real,” means that even when cultivation has reached a very high level, remaining still and unmoving is not the ultimate, despite having entered the state. “At the top of a hundred-foot pole, take another step; the ten directions and their worlds are the whole body” means one must continue to transcend, until the worlds in the ten directions—all worlds in every direction—become the entirety of the state one has realized.

Part Three

A single fundamental nature contains the capacities to hear, see, perceive, and know. These functions become manifest through the various objects of perception—the things of the external world encountered by the senses. If the numinous, ever-present fundamental nature cannot itself be said to be a real thing, then what could the four functions of hearing, seeing, perceiving, and knowing rely upon?

These four functions—hearing, seeing, perceiving, and knowing—are all evident, clear, and keen. They all arise from the numinous activity of the cognitive spirit (the mind that distinguishes and recognizes things). Because this fundamental nature is constantly active in its numinous awareness, the four functions respond to one another and work together when encountering the various objects of perception.

The four functions of hearing, seeing, sensing, and knowing all seem clear and keen, yet they arise from the same “discriminating spirit”—the consciousness that distinguishes things and perceives the external world. Because this spirit is ceaselessly active, hearing, seeing, sensing, and knowing pull at one another and take turns arising amid the many external conditions, leaving no moment of peace. If this ever-active spirit can be removed, the four functions lose their support and naturally fade away.

Many deluded people do not understand that the Tathagata nature—the true nature inherent in all beings—is both true emptiness and endowed with wondrous activity. They mistake the clear and keen discriminating spirit for their true nature. Some try to empty it; others insist on holding fast to it. They do not know that this spirit is the root of birth and death, the seed of transmigration through countless lifetimes. If it is not uprooted, how can they recognize the Tathagata nature? The saying, “The root of birth and death from beginningless kalpas, which the foolish call their original face,” speaks precisely of this.

The fourth:

There is no need to take a step: the Western Paradise, the Buddhist ideal realm, is not far away. Sitting upright, one sees the scenes of all four directions before one.

A light appearing behind the head and neck is still an illusion; clouds rising beneath the feet still do not make one an immortal.

The Tathagata nature has neither beginning nor end, and no front or back. Look toward it, and its beginning cannot be seen; follow it, and its end cannot be found. Say that it exists, and it seems to have no form or appearance; say that it does not exist, and yet it has wondrous activity. It is not confined to the appearances of “being” or “nonbeing.” Its radiance reaches through darkness and light, illuminating the vast world. This is wondrous awareness that manifests naturally, not something produced by sitting in meditation.

Some people who practice Chan meditation focus their efforts on the discriminating spirit. When they encounter visions, they think they have attained the Dao: some dream of traveling to the Western Paradise; some see a light behind the head and neck; some perceive various things in shadowy, indistinct states; and some, in a trance, feel that clouds are rising beneath their feet. These are all illusory scenes. To imagine that one has realized the true fruit or become a Buddha is to be far from the truth. Those who aspire to the Dao should first sweep away every attachment to deviant paths, then investigate true wondrous awareness in what has no form or color. Only then can they recognize their nature.

True Nature, the nature shared by all things, is like the earth: unmoving and unshaken. Calling it the same or different does not alter it. Though external circumstances and things vary in countless ways, one should meet them with an impartial mind, like a thousand lamps, each with its own lampstand, all casting the same light.

Nothing can be added to or taken from True Nature; there is nothing to grasp or reject. It is unharmed by external forces such as fire or flood, just as the earth bears mountains and rivers and holds all things. Seeing, hearing, knowing, and awareness cannot be grasped through discriminating thought. If it must be given a name, it can only be called “emptiness.” Here, “emptiness” does not mean extinction or nonexistence. It means responding to things as they are, like a vessel taking the shape of what it holds, and handling affairs with an unattached mind.

Birth and death are, from the outset, without arising—why fear extinction? Seeing with the eyes is no match for hearing with the ears; and how could speaking with the mouth compare with smelling through the nose?

The Tathāgata’s original nature (the fundamental Buddha-nature of the Tathāgata) never arose and will never perish. Those who strain to seek survival and fear perishing—what truly exists that is born and never dies? Whatever arises will perish; only what is not born cannot perish. Precisely because original nature is unborn and imperishable, it cannot be seen with the eyes. One can only say “see with the ears”; it cannot be spoken with the mouth, so one can only say “speak with the nose.” What is seen with the eyes and spoken with the mouth belongs to the realm of arising and perishing. Seeing with the ears and speaking with the nose points instead to the nature that is unborn and imperishable.

Here, “seeing with the ears” and “speaking with the nose” use the senses as metaphors for expressing a nature that cannot be seen or spoken of. They do not mean literally seeing with the ears or speaking with the nose. What is seen with the eyes and spoken with the mouth is not original nature. “Seeing without seeing” is true seeing; “speaking without speaking” surpasses direct speech. This unborn and imperishable nature has neither a crown nor a back; it is neither existence nor nonexistence, neither emptiness nor visible form. So what could one see or say? If it could truly be seen or spoken, it would no longer be the nature of empty stillness.

Song on the Mind Alone in the Three Realms

The mystery of the Three Realms lies in the mind; among the myriad things, none is truly other or self. There is nothing that is not within my mind, and nothing that is my very self.

The “Three Realms” are the Realm of Desire, the Realm of Form, and the Formless Realm. The Realms of Desire and Form are described as states where thoughts are active; the Formless Realm, by contrast, is described as a state without thoughts. Yet whether thoughts are present or absent, neither is Buddha-nature. The title “The Mind Alone in the Three Realms” does not assert that the myriad things truly exist or are entirely nonexistent. It means that neither existence nor nonexistence should be clung to, and that the myriad things and the self ultimately return to emptiness.

The mind without mind is what can be called the true mind; within the true mind, all things are one, without distinctions between them. “There is nothing that is not within my mind” means not clinging to emptiness; “nothing that is my very self” means not clinging to visible forms. Cling neither to existence nor to emptiness, but abide in the One Mind alone. The One Mind is original nature; mind is Buddha, and Buddha is mind.

Hymn on Seeing the Mind in Things

When we encounter external things, we can recognize our own mind through them; without external things, this mind has no way to appear. Whether the worlds in the ten directions are open or obstructed, the true mind is everywhere. Trying to understand the true mind through discrimination and thought leads instead to mistaken views. To see all kinds of circumstances without letting the mind be stirred by them is to reveal the original nature of Bodhi (awakening).

The commentary explains that “Seeing things reveals the mind; without things, the mind does not appear” refers to the mind that perceives and engages in conscious activity. “Amid openness and obstruction in the ten directions, the true mind pervades all” refers to the true mind free from discriminating awareness. Ordinary people’s minds rise and fall with the appearance and disappearance of external things. The true mind, however, is lucid and radiant, shining constantly: when things are present, it is there; when they are absent, it is there as well, present everywhere in the ten directions. It neither arises nor perishes, and differs from the ordinary mind, which is conscious and discriminating. To explain the true mind through thought and discrimination is to hold a mistaken view.

The true mind is complete and radiant, pure and manifest. It neither leaves behind the many circumstances nor clings to them. Seeing circumstances without letting the mind make distinctions or be drawn along by them is the true mind: it is also the original nature of Bodhi, which need not be sought elsewhere. The key is to let go of ordinary discriminating thought so that the true mind can be recognized. When the true mind appears, Bodhi is realized; one suddenly rises beyond the sea of suffering and reaches the farther shore.

Hymn on Seeing All Things as Equal

I am no different from others; it is only that each person’s mind gives rise to distinctions. People divide others into those who are close and those who are distant, but I make no distinction between you and me. All the many creatures that fly through the water or over land should be seen as one whole. When seeing differences of wealth, status, and rank, one should also recognize the true mind. The hands and feet are one with oneself; if even “I” cannot be grasped as something real, where could “you” be? When the distinction between you and me disappears, it is like many water bubbles that at last merge back into water.

The verse says: When looking upon all things, one should do away with distinctions and stop measuring self against other, intimacy against distance. One should hold no bias toward beings born in water, living on land, or able to fly, nor toward those of high or low rank and status. All things appear as equal and of one substance. The verse’s central point is that “even I am not a fixed, unchanging self.” People cannot regard all things equally because they cling to the self. If they stop clinging to “I,” they will also stop clinging to “you.” When both you and I are forgotten, things are no longer grasped through distinctions, and equality appears naturally.

Verse on “Mind Itself Is Buddha”

Buddha is mind, and mind is Buddha; yet, fundamentally, the terms “mind” and “Buddha” are both illusory labels. To understand that there is neither a real Buddha nor a real mind is to truly realize suchness, the true and unchanging nature. This is the Dharma-body Buddha, the Buddha’s fundamental true body.

The Dharma-body Buddha has no fixed form. It is like a perfectly full, radiant light that contains the myriad things. The “substance” without form is the true substance; the “appearance” without features is the true appearance.

It is neither form nor emptiness, nor does it fall into some other state that is “neither form nor emptiness.” It is neither moving nor still, and has no coming or going. It is neither different nor the same, neither existent nor nonexistent. It cannot be grasped or cast aside, nor apprehended through hearing or sight.

Within and without, it is perfectly clear and complete, pervading everywhere. A Buddha can appear within a grain of sand, and a grain of sand can contain a vast world. Within one body and mind, countless identical beings can appear.

To understand this, one must grasp the “Dharma of No-Mind,” a practice of not clinging to discriminating thoughts: to remain unstained by external things and free of attachment is pure practice. To encounter all manner of good and evil without clinging to or fabricating them is the state indicated by “Namo,” meaning homage and refuge, and by Kāśyapa, the Buddha’s disciple Mahākāśyapa, revered as a patriarch in the Chan lineage.

This verse emphasizes that one must understand the teaching of “no-mind.”

“No-mind” here does not mean becoming dull and insensible, with no thoughts at all. If one were as unaware as a wooden carving or clay figure, how could one say that “mind itself is Buddha”? Broadly speaking, “no-mind” means clinging neither to outward forms and appearances nor to the idea of “emptiness.”

True mind has no fixed shape or appearance; there is nothing there to grasp, so how could it have form or appearance? Yet true mind can encompass all things, is perfectly integrated and unobstructed, so how could it be nothingness? It rests neither in appearances nor in emptiness, but is whole, luminous, pure, and free. At this point one may say, “Mind itself is Buddha” and “Buddha is mind itself.” But to cling to mind or to Buddha would turn either into a deluded thought. One must therefore also understand “neither mind nor Buddha,” and not regard mind and Buddha as fixed, real entities. Only by grasping both “mind itself is Buddha” and “neither mind nor Buddha” has one truly attained the teaching of no-mind, without falling into a path of practice marked by dead stillness and annihilation.

How laughably dull and clumsy this heart of mine is, like an unyielding stone. I simply remain at ease, letting things come and go, each following its own nature. I do not know how to cultivate, nor do I deliberately commit wrongdoing. I have never set out to help others, nor do I look out only for myself. I observe no precepts and cling to no taboos. I know nothing of ritual and music, and do not deliberately put benevolence and righteousness into practice. Almost none of the skills valued in the world are within my grasp.

When hungry, I eat; when thirsty, I drink. When tired, I sleep; when awake, I move about. When it is hot, I wear light clothes; when it is cold, I cover myself with a quilt.

My heart holds no thoughts, no sorrow or joy. I do not regret the past, plan for the future, entertain stray thoughts, or cling to intentions. The world’s glory and disgrace are no more than passing experiences on a journey, like birds roosting in the woods for a little while. When people come, I do not turn them away; when they leave, I do not hold them back. I neither deliberately avoid nor pursue; I neither praise nor condemn.

I do not loathe what is ugly or envy what is beautiful. I do not seek out quiet rooms in particular, nor avoid the noisy marketplace. I do not discuss others’ rights and wrongs, nor boast that I am in the right. I do not exalt the honored or look down on the lowly and young. Whether facing closeness or enmity, age or youth, kin within or beyond the family, sorrow or joy, gain or loss, respect or contempt, danger or safety, I regard them all with the same heart, calmly and without distinction.

I do not chase after good fortune before it arrives, nor do I deliberately invite calamity. I respond when something calls for a response; when pressed, I rise to meet it. I fear neither blades nor tigers. I call things by whatever names suit their differences—why be bound by names? My eyes do not cling to colors and forms, and sounds do not linger in my ears.

All forms that can be seen and distinguished are illusory, not enduring realities. The appearances and sounds of men and women, too, are not fixed, lasting entities. The body and its appearances have no clinging mind of their own: they are unstained and unbound, and so move freely, with nothing external able to constrain them.

The luminous fullness of subtle awakening shines perfectly, reflecting everything through and through, within and without. It extends above, below, and in all four directions, with no distinction between near and far. It is like light, yet not light in the ordinary sense, like the moon reflected on water. It is difficult to grasp and difficult to relinquish—what could serve as its likeness?

Understand this subtle functioning, and you will rise far beyond worldly distinctions. If asked what principle it follows, it is simply this.

Though the hymn contains only a few dozen lines, it repeatedly clarifies the meaning of “no-mind.” Its subtle power lies in attaining no-mind: one can live amid the world yet transcend it, dwell among people without being bound by worldly affairs, and so remain free and at ease, unburdened by external things.

The mind cannot tolerate even a speck of dust. Once distracting thoughts arise, all kinds of selfish desires follow one after another. Thoughts dart from one thing to another, and one loses the ability to govern oneself, as though one had lost one’s own self. Then the servant is mistaken for the master and the master for the servant. How could one still be free and at ease?

If one can avoid clinging to anything, the mind becomes steady, like a staff planted firmly in the ground, unmoved by disturbance. One can then abide in peace. When one governs oneself, worries subside and attachments no longer arise. The radiance of perfect awakening is clear and transparent, illuminating within and without and reaching throughout heaven and earth, with no distinction between near and far. This is true freedom and ease; here lies the subtle efficacy of “no-mind.”

Hymn to the Heart Sutra

The Five Aggregates, truth, the senses and their objects, emptiness and form—all must not be grasped as truly existing. No Dharma can be fully expressed in words.

Once inverted and mistaken views have been dispelled, the still and quiescent essence reveals itself naturally.

“Aggregates” refers to the Five Aggregates: form, feeling, action, perception, and consciousness. “Truths” refers to the Four Noble Truths: suffering, its origin, its cessation, and the Way. “Faculties” refers to the six sense faculties: eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind. “Objects” refers to the six sense objects: form, sound, smell, taste, touch, and mental phenomena. “Emptiness” means quiescent cessation; “form” means attachment to appearances. These six pairs—all aggregates and truths, faculties and objects, emptiness and form—are ideas that arise from the mind, and all belong to distorted understanding.

If one can set aside all these ideas, the mind itself becomes still. This is the “Bodhisattva Who Observes with Freedom”—a bodhisattva who sees clearly, is at ease, and has no impediments in the mind—and it is what Śāriputra calls neither arising nor ceasing. So long as even a trace of these six pairs of ideas remains, the mind is still subject to arising and ceasing, and cannot be free. Only upon reaching a state beyond arising and ceasing, in constant freedom, are these six pairs of ideas completely purified.

Ode on the Absence of Sin and Merit

Act throughout the day without clinging to the thought that you are acting; sit in meditation all day without clinging to the thought that you are sitting. If you cultivate goodness without attachment to the appearance of merit in your heart, you do not take it to be merit. But doing evil does not thereby mean that you truly bear no guilt. If people in the world have not yet understood their original mind, they must not cling to these words and act recklessly. After death, they will still have to face the King of Hell, and may well suffer punishments such as being boiled in an oil cauldron or ground beneath a millstone.

Praising sacred names does not itself incur guilt, so where does blessed fortune come from? Guilt and blessing both arise from the mind. Intending to do evil is to create guilt; intending to do good is to seek blessing. Good and evil, guilt and blessing, all depend on the mind. If one reaches a state of no-mind, not even knowing what one is doing while walking, standing, sitting, or lying down, how could one distinguish good from evil or reckon guilt and blessing? Thus, doing good is not a way to accumulate merit, and doing evil, in itself, does not entail guilt. An infant, for example, has no understanding: its unknowing laughter and anger both arise without intention. How could merit or guilt be attributed to them?

“No-mind” here means a mind free of artificial distinctions and attachment. When this human mind is absent, the true mind naturally reveals itself. The realm of the true mind is as vast as Heaven and Earth, embracing all things. It makes no distinction between good and evil, creates no sinful deeds, and seeks no blessed reward. Merit and guilt do not occupy it. But if one has not yet understood the true mind and simply lets a stubborn, deluded mind take control, committing all manner of evil while believing oneself guiltless, how could one escape the punishments of boiling cauldrons and grinding mills after death? Boiling cauldrons and grinding mills are traditional Daoist and popular religious images of punishments in the underworld.

Ode on Perfect Penetration

Only after seeing true emptiness does one understand that emptiness is not nothingness. Where fullness and light are found, everything is perfectly penetrating. Only when the sense faculties, their objects, the mind, and phenomena are all seen to lack substantial reality can one understand that wondrous function and all things are interconnected from the beginning.

The nature of true emptiness is complete, unobstructed, and all-pervading. Its light reaches everywhere, and nothing can obscure it. It seems not to be empty, yet it can naturally be empty; though empty, it is not sheer nothingness. In essence, this means remaining still while responding to all things, and responding naturally to things within stillness.

Ode on Following Things

Let all things appear before you in their myriad forms, changing and still as they will, and let them run their natural course. The power of stillness and wisdom, complete and luminous, remains untouched, like a lotus that grows from water while its petals stay clean.

Though this ode has only four lines, it expresses throughout the same idea: “The complete and luminous stillness and wisdom remain forever unstained.” “Complete and luminous” refers to subtle, true manifestation; “stillness and wisdom” refer to true emptiness. True emptiness is naturally present within all things, yet remains untouched by them. Its subtle wonder lies in “qian”: remaining untainted and pure.

Although the preceding hymn consists of only four lines, all of them express the same idea: “perfect clarity and settled wisdom, free from all defilement.” “Perfect clarity” refers to wondrous existence, while “settled wisdom” refers to true emptiness. True emptiness is naturally present in all things, yet is not stained by them; wondrous existence can naturally encounter all things and respond to them. One responds to things at all times while the mind remains still, and can be at ease wherever one is—like a lotus rising from the water, growing in muddy soil yet untouched by its impurity.

Hymn to the Precious Moon

A bright moon hangs high in the empty sky,

Shining over all lands, its clear light flowing without obstruction.

Try to gather it up, but it will not be gathered; try to push it aside, but it will not move.

It neither advances nor retreats.

It shines there, yet that place is not far away; it shines here, yet does not come forward.

It shines outside, yet is not outside; it shines within, yet is not within.

Within sameness there is difference, and within difference there is sameness.

Tell me, can you see this puppet play?

The Tathagata’s true empty nature—the true emptiness realized by the Buddha—is wondrously awakened, fully integrated, and shines its light everywhere. It is like a bright moon suspended in the sky, whose radiance reaches every place under heaven. Try to gather it up, but you cannot see the light collect in one place; try to push it aside, but you cannot see the light being displaced. It neither advances nor retreats. When it shines on a distant place, that place does not seem far away; when it shines on a nearby place, that place does not seem nearer. It shines outside, yet is not outside; it shines within, yet is not within.

The light shines in every direction—gathered or dispersed, forward or backward, near or far, within or without. Its appearances differ, but the light itself is the same. Within sameness there is difference, and within difference there is sameness: all things unfold from a single source into many distinct forms, and those many forms ultimately return to that same source. When extended, it fills the Six Directions—the four quarters of earth and the upper and lower realms; when drawn in, it is stored away in the deepest obscurity. All of this moves with lively freedom, like a puppet performance.

Song of Gathering the Pearl

A poor man hides a pearl in his clothing;

It is already whole and shining.

Yet he does not know to seek within himself,

And instead counts other people’s treasures.

Continually counting up other people’s treasures is of no benefit to oneself in the end; it is only wasted effort. Better to recognize the treasure one already possesses, whose worth surpasses millions upon millions of pieces of gold.

This luminous jewel—the innate clarity of the mind and nature—shines with unsurpassed brilliance, illuminating all the great thousand worlds, the Buddhist term for the vast expanse of the cosmos. It has never lost even the slightest part of itself; it has only been obscured by veils like floating clouds. Once you recognize this wish-fulfilling Mani jewel, a metaphor for the pure, clear, and radiant nature of the mind, who would still crave things as insubstantial as foam or flowers conjured in the air? The Buddha’s mind-jewel and my own mind-jewel are one from the beginning, and my nature, too, belongs to the ocean of Buddha-nature.

The jewel is not a jewel to be grasped, and the ocean of mind is not an ocean of mind to be grasped. A broad and open heart can contain the entire Dharma realm, the totality of all that exists. Let the world’s turmoil fill the scene before you: when concentration and wisdom are complete and clear, the mind remains at ease.

It is neither emptiness nor form, meaning tangible things. Within and without, it is clear and unobstructed. The wondrous powers manifested through the six spiritual penetrations are inexhaustible; how could benefiting oneself and benefiting others ever come to an end?

Once you see and understand this principle, all matters are settled. You no longer cling to learning or contrivance, but pass your days in Wuwei, non-action. The mind is calm and unworldly, like an infant whose thoughts have not yet emerged; in conduct, you respond to circumstances without insisting on any particular way.

There is no need to deliberately eliminate deluded thoughts, nor to deliberately cultivate some so-called true mind, for the distinction between true and deluded thoughts belongs to worldly vexation. Since ancient times, all phenomena have been without fixed marks; yet within this marklessness there is still the Dharma Body, the unborn and undying ground of being.

The Dharma Body is the Buddha of true nature. It is neither a person nor a thing. It fills heaven and earth in its vastness and can only be described as “rare and subtle” and “indistinct and elusive”—beyond hearing, seeing, or grasping.

It is untouched by defilement, and its light appears naturally. All phenomena arise from the mind. When thoughts do not arise, the many phenomena subside of themselves; from this, one understands that sin and merit have no fixed form.

There is no need to cling to cultivating a Buddha or to proclaiming a Dharma. A person of insight has a clear understanding unlike that of ordinary people. As soon as he speaks, his words ring out like a lion’s roar—direct and forceful. He does not, like the shallow-minded, become entangled in arguments about arising and ceasing.

The key to this song lies in the line, “When the mind does not arise, the dharmas vanish of themselves.” Here, “dharmas” does not mean Buddhist teachings, but the many thoughts and delusions that arise in the mind. When thoughts cease to arise, all things appear empty. The pearl of one’s original nature shines constantly; meditative stillness and wisdom merge in radiant clarity, and both inside and out are clear. Everything in the world is like a bubble on water or an illusory flower in the air. What is there to cling to?

Even the turmoil of the world before one’s eyes cannot obscure one’s original nature. The practitioner does not cling to written learning, but follows things as they unfold, like an infant whose thoughts have not yet emerged. Their actions proceed in accord with circumstances, without dividing things into real and illusory. The Dharma Body—the original nature that transcends form and remains unchanged—reveals itself naturally. The innate, uncontrived Buddha-nature comes to light, filling heaven and earth and illuminating the whole cosmos. How could obstacles like drifting clouds conceal it?

The Chan of the Tathagata—the meditative state realized by the Buddha—is by nature like water. When the water is still, wind and waves naturally subside. Whether rising or resting, the mind should remain clear and settled. Meditation is not something that occurs only when one sits alone.

Some people today think that sitting quietly is enough to attain realization, without understanding that everything depends on seeing one’s nature—that is, clearly perceiving one’s own nature. When one sees how one’s nature relates to seeing, hearing, awareness, and knowing, awareness naturally settles within that nature. Once meditative concentration is perfected, the function of wisdom is inexhaustible. This is called the spiritual powers of the Buddhas.

If one wishes to investigate the substance and function of this state, what one sees is only the empty space in the ten directions. In that expanse there is nothing, nor is there any “mysterious vagueness”—an elusive, indescribable vision of the profound. Since the mysterious state cannot be found, deliberately searching for it only leads one astray and away from the right path. Understand that even the words “straying” and “losing the way” must not be clung to as proof of one’s cultivation. The original mind is already empty and still; what gain or loss is there to reckon with in advance?

Simply let go, one by one, of attachment to all things, until it has been completely cleared away. Then the mind’s bright, complete state will appear naturally, no different from that of the Buddhas.

The physical body is a fetter that binds us, so one should blend with the light and mingle with the ordinary world, tempering one’s brilliance and living in accord with everyday life. In walking, standing, sitting, and lying down, harbor no contrived thoughts or distinctions. Why contend over right and wrong, or calculate honor and disgrace? The body is only a temporary lodging, like an inn where a traveler stays. The true host within is called Vairocana, the Buddha who symbolizes the Dharma Body that illuminates all. Vairocana neither comes nor goes; from this we know that arising and ceasing cannot be established either.

Someone asked what Vairocana looks like. The moment you take it to be something with a form, you have already gone wrong. It is also wrong to say that all the things before us, the objects of the sensory world, and the many karmic forces within that world are different from one another; it is equally wrong to say they are wholly the same. If one can see the true nature of each thing and each sensory object, one can see Shakyamuni and Kashyapa, the Buddha’s disciple, within them. If you say they are all distinct, the ten thousand sounds each ring out in their own way. If you say they merge into one, it is like a gust of wind gathering all things together.

If you wish to recognize the Mani jewel—the wish-fulfilling jewel, often used as a metaphor for perfect true nature—do not think you must first “obtain” some method to know it. When medicine is used to cure an illness, the medicine is no longer needed once the illness is cured. When the mind is deluded, one may temporarily use a method to dispel confusion; once the mind is awakened, there is no need to cling to the method. It is like polishing a darkened mirror: the grime naturally disappears.

Because all phenomena are illusory, let go of attachment to every appearance. When all appearances have been left behind, that is what is called the supreme and utterly true state.

To adorn the Buddha-land—to make the Buddha’s pure realm complete and splendid—one should practice compassion impartially and relieve suffering. The original Bodhi vow, the deep aspiration to seek awakening and benefit living beings, should not become an attachment to outward appearances or merit. In this way, merit and wisdom can be perfected, and one may later be more likely to receive a prediction of future Buddhahood. If even a trace of bias toward annihilation or permanence remains in the mind, one has no affinity with the Buddhas.

Consider, too, the deluded attachments of ordinary people: they are all stained by worldly craving and habit. Only because their attachment to sensual desire is so deep do living beings continue to be born in different forms—as womb-born, egg-born, spontaneously born, and moisture-born beings. To learn the Dao, one must strive with fierce determination, making the mind as firm as iron and refusing to be led by desire. Even if one has children, a wife, or concubines, there is no need to regard oneself as different from others on that account.

Always keep a mind that is bright and complete, and do not let desirable things stir your thoughts. When attached to none of the myriad phenomena, there is no need to distinguish hell from heaven. Then one can understand “my destiny lies in my own hands”: in the midst of emptiness and stillness, nothing rises and nothing falls. Though one may enter and leave the lands of the Buddhas, one never departs from the original Bodhi mind.

Guanyin Bodhisattva has thirty-two responsive manifestations; I, too, should realize this state. The many inconceivable transformations all emerge from a nature that is free and unobstructed.

I am a Chan practitioner with no mind, making no distinctions about worldly affairs. In the past I was like a black ox; now my whole body is white, meaning that my nature of mind has been purified through cultivation. At times I sing and laugh to myself, and people say I seem out of my mind. They do not know that, though I wear coarse cloth on the outside, within I keep a priceless treasure. When they hear me speak of emptiness, it may sound as if I am swallowing things whole, without any order. Only the Buddha can understand this teaching. How could ordinary people grasp it from appearances alone?

Some who practice Chan do nothing but argue and trade barbs, boasting of how quickly they can answer questions, while failing to recognize their own original mind. They merely pick leaves and twigs, without investigating the root. Once the root is found, the branches and leaves flourish naturally; without the root, they cannot last.

These people also boast that they possess a wondrous method like a magic pearl, yet they never rid themselves of attachment to self and others. They are far from the wondrous source of numinous awareness that I speak of—the source of the mind’s lucid awareness. This is both sad and laughable: they have studied the Dao for years, are proud and self-assured, and refuse to seek instruction from anyone, only to waste their lives. This happens because they are ignorant and confused, dull in their natural capacities, and burdened by wrong views and deep karmic hindrances. If they cannot awaken in this life, how will they avoid sinking into ruin in the next?

This song of just over a hundred words conveys the meaning of only four sentences: “The nature of Tathagata meditation—the meditative state of the Tathagata—is pure like water; when the mind itself is pure, its turbulence naturally subsides; in all one’s daily activities, the mind remains clear and at ease; this is not true only when sitting alone in stillness.”

The essence of Tathagata meditation is supremely pure, clear as water. It gives rise to no ripples and is stained by no dust, so it never sinks into delusion. This purity is always present, whether one is active or at rest; peace does not belong only to sitting. If one takes sitting itself to be meditation, that is not true meditation but a dull, empty stillness. It cannot be called Tathagata meditation.

True meditation joins concentration with wisdom and has inexhaustible subtle workings. It clings neither to the mind nor to the objects of its attention, stands apart from all appearances, and at the same time adorns the Buddha-land and practices compassion equally toward all. It enters ordinary life without being stained by worldly dust, dwelling in the world while remaining above it. It may seem not to cultivate meditation, yet everything is meditation; it may seem not to enter concentration deliberately, yet it is always at peace.

Those who seek realization through nothing but sitting in stillness, keeping their mouths shut and lips pressed together, yet do not know their own original mind, are like wild-fox meditators. They grow clouded and lose their clear awareness, only to confuse themselves further. How could such people understand the true nature of meditation, whose awakened clarity works freely and without obstruction?

The Song in Praise of Chan Master Xuedou says: The Chan teaching passed down from Caoxi branched into many schools, illuminating past and present and flowing without obstruction. Some scholars today fail to investigate the source and mistake a puddle beside a hoofprint for the sea.

Chan Master Xuedou grasped the true meaning. Like thunder rolling and the Dharma drum beating, his lion’s roar struck fear into false views and delusion. At times he wrote poetry; at others, he taught the Dharma, offering repeated admonitions to guide the confused and obstructed onto the right path. His words were clear and forthright, yet their meaning reached far, like the ringing of jade and metal whose sound carries through the ages.

Sadly, the deluded chase after outward appearances and linger on the surface, treating words and texts as a way to pursue names, forms, and doctrines. Suchness—the true, unchanging nature of all things—has no fixed form or words. It has no higher or lower, and no bounds. It is neither form nor emptiness, nor two opposing entities. Though the worlds of the ten directions contain countless dust-like realms, their nature is perfectly integrated as one full moon.

True meditation is never confined by the distinction between speaking and silence. It can be neither grasped nor cast aside. To meet all phenomena without clinging to them is the Tathagata’s true teaching.

To dispel delusion, people often set “truth” against “falsehood.” But if deluded thoughts do not arise, “truth” has no contrast and cannot be brought to light. Only by understanding that neither truth nor falsehood can be taken as something real does one attain an untroubled true mind. With a mind free of hindrance, one is at ease. Once fully awakened, one can dissolve the sins accumulated over many lifetimes and realize Bodhi—awakening—without deliberate striving, thereby escaping the cycle of birth and death.

At the end, the poem says that while alive, Chan Master Xuedou spoke with ease, leaving the world an example to follow. Last night I summoned him and jokingly said I would pierce his nose and hang him from my staff. I asked him, “What is the highest truth?” He replied, “Anything that can be spoken may be slander.”

On the surface, this song praises the Collected Works of Zuying. In fact, it conveys the “suchness and true reality”—the real nature of things when they are no longer obscured by deluded thoughts. The lines “Simply face all appearances without clinging in the mind; this is the Tathāgata’s true rule of practice” sum up the work’s central teaching: to encounter all kinds of phenomena without becoming attached to them is the true principle of the Tathāgata’s cultivation.

Not clinging in the mind is to be without mind. When mind is absent, neither the true nor the false arises. When neither arises, there is nothing to obstruct you; free of obstruction, you are at ease. Within this ease, true nature remains constant, and you are forever released from the cycle of birth and death. The line “Last night I summoned it to me and pierced its nostrils, fastening it to my staff” also holds a deeper meaning beyond the Immortal Elder’s words. Students may ask themselves: What is being “summoned”? What does it mean to “pierce its nostrils”? To “summon it” is to call forth the nature of suchness and true reality. To “pierce its nostrils” is to penetrate the mind, which is neither material form nor sheer nothingness. To awaken to this nature and understand this mind is like holding a staff that can prop up the sky above and the earth below. It has no reverse side; it is whole and complete, radiant and bright, pure and unstained, free and at ease. This is what Chan Buddhism calls the “first principle from the West”—the most fundamental truth. What else is there to say?

An Explanation of Precepts, Concentration, and Wisdom

Precepts, concentration, and wisdom are subtle workings of the Buddha Dharma. Although the Buddha taught these principles, those who have not yet understood them fully may become attached to them. The following brief explanation may help them awaken.

When neither mind nor its objects are clung to, and thoughts do not arise, this is called “precepts.” When awareness is perfectly full and bright, and all is clear and transparent within and without, this is called “concentration.” When one responds to things in accord with conditions, with inexhaustible subtle function, this is called “wisdom.” Precepts, concentration, and wisdom depend on one another and are fulfilled together; each is also the essence and function of the others, and they are never separated, even for an instant. It is like the sun shining by means of its light, while the light is made manifest through its shining: without light, it cannot shine; without shining, its brightness cannot appear. Ultimately, precepts, concentration, and wisdom all arise from the same nature, just as light, shining, and brightness all arise from the same sun. If even “one” cannot be grasped as something real, how could the three truly be three? When distinctions between three and one are both let go, the mind becomes clear and tranquil, pure and unstained.

The Immortal’s explanation has already entered the samadhi of precepts, concentration, and wisdom—the deep state reached through focused cultivation. Precepts, concentration, and wisdom all arise from the same true nature, just as the light that illuminates all things comes from a single sun. If even “one” cannot be grasped as something real, how could the three be grasped as three? When attachment to both the three and the one has fallen away, the mind becomes clear and pure.

The Immortal’s words are concise and their meaning clear. If students cultivate in accordance with them, they can reach the far shore—the state of liberation. Yet although the Immortal has explained the matter plainly, he is still concerned that students may lack breadth of understanding and strength in cultivation, and so may fail to follow this path to awaken to the source, the root of life and the Way. He therefore offers further commentary to help later students progress from the shallow to the profound, and climb step by step from lower ground to higher.

“Precepts” means facing external things without being led by emotion or sullied by the many affairs of the world. “Concentration” means that the mind is sincere and free of delusion, neither wavering nor changing. “Wisdom” means responding to things with flexible understanding, without bias in either direction. Precepts, concentration, and wisdom depend on one another. At first they require deliberate effort in cultivation; in the end they become natural, blending completely into a single nature and reaching a state free of attachment to views and understanding, clear, pure, and impartial.

In true purity, even “one nature” cannot be clung to. What, then, remains of the three things—precepts, concentration, and wisdom? That is why both the three and the one must be forgotten for the mind to become clear and pure. Along the path of cultivation, precepts, concentration, and wisdom are needed; in the state of purity, they too dissolve naturally without a trace. If one still clings to the three or to the one, one has not yet reached true purity and meditation. A verse says: “When the mind is deluded, one must rely on the teachings to illuminate it; when the mind awakens, its limpid clarity no longer needs these teachings.” This is because both mind and teachings must be set aside, and all forms left behind. To forget both the three and the one and become naturally pure is precisely what this means.

Xijiang Yue (Twelve Poems)

One

There is no need to forcefully suppress deluded thoughts, nor deliberately to seek Suchness—the true, unchanging nature of all things. Original nature accords with Buddha-nature from the beginning; why cling to a fixed order between delusion and awakening?

Once awakened, one can become a Buddha in an instant; remaining deluded means sinking for a long time. If, in a single thought, one can accord with true cultivation, one can dispel stains of sin as countless as the sands of the Ganges.

Human nature merges into the Buddha-nature of all Buddhas, and the Buddha-nature of the Buddhas in every direction is likewise. The cool, clear moonlight falls upon a cold spring; a single moon can appear at once in a thousand pools.

Viewed on a small scale, it is so subtle that even a hair’s breadth cannot be discerned. Viewed on a vast scale, it fills the three thousand great thousand worlds—the immense cosmos described in Buddhism. It is not confined by shapes such as high or low, round or square; how, then, could length or depth be ascribed to it?

My nature, the Buddha-nature, and the nature of people throughout the lands and regions of the world are no different from one another. This nature does not increase when one dwells in a sage’s realm, nor diminish when one is an ordinary person. It is like a single bright moon reflected in a thousand pools of water. This nature may appear small or large, high or low, square or round, shallow or deep, long or short, yet it is not confined by any of these forms of size, height, shape, depth, or length. People simply make use of it every day without knowing it.

The Fourth:

All things and methods of practice are, at root, without any fixed form. To speak of emptiness is not to fall into a state of nothingness. Stillness and disturbance, speech and silence, are originally connected. In a dream, why speak of dreams at all?

In applying effort, there is no clinging to some “function” of that effort. When the work is accomplished, one does not even know that one has been applying effort.

The Fourth:

All things and methods of practice are, at root, without any fixed form. To speak of emptiness is not to fall into nothingness. Stillness and disturbance, speech and silence, are originally connected. In a dream, why speak of dreams at all?

In applying effort, there is no clinging to some “function” of that effort. One practices without deliberately seeking results. It is like fruit ripening naturally on a branch; there is no need to ask how to cultivate the seed.

When the Tathagata teaches the Dharma, there is in truth no fixed Dharma to teach. When the Tathagata speaks of emptiness, this does not mean that nothing exists. Only what has no fixed form can be called the true Dharma; only emptiness that does not fall into nothingness can be called true emptiness. True Dharma and true emptiness encompass stillness and disturbance, speech and silence. One makes no deliberate distinctions and clings to no desire for knowledge, but simply follows the natural order. What Dharma is there left to teach, what emptiness is there left to discuss? To force oneself to teach the Dharma or discuss emptiness is like speaking of a dream within a dream. How could one then understand the nature of true Dharma and true emptiness?

This nature is still and unmoving, yet through response it can manifest its function; after manifesting its function, it returns to stillness and immobility. This is what it means to “apply effort without clinging to its function, and practice without deliberately seeking results.” The root of the Dharma lies in emptiness, and within emptiness there is also Dharma. It is neither real nor unreal, neither existent nor nonexistent; it is complete and clear, without obscurity. With sustained practice, transformation will come of itself, like fruit growing on a branch and ripening in its own time. This is the cultivation of the true seed of Buddha-nature; there is no need to ask how to cultivate the seed.

Lay aside thoughts of both good and evil for a time, and do not concern yourself with prosperity or decline. Let worldly affairs fade or appear, grow clear or dim, as they will. Live according to your needs: eat when hungry and drink when thirsty.

Keep the mind and spirit quiet, clear, and constantly still. Sitting or lying down in daily life, singing or reciting poetry, need not hinder cultivation. A pool of autumn water is clear, blue-green, and deep. Even when the wind blows, there is no need for alarm; let it be as it is.

The heart of this poem lies in these two lines: “Keep the mind and spirit quiet and clear, constantly at rest; sitting or lying down in daily life, singing or reciting poetry, need not hinder cultivation.” When the mind and spirit are quiet, thoughts of good and evil, flourishing and decline, and the hidden or shifting fortunes of worldly affairs do not enter the heart. Live in accord with circumstances; sit, lie down, sing, or recite, at ease and free, without thought or worry—like a pool of autumn water, clear, blue-green, and deep. Even when the wind passes over it, no waves arise. What is there to worry or fear?

When facing external conditions, there is no need to force thoughts out of the mind. “Bodhi”—awakening, or the right path that leads to awakening—is merely a name provisionally established as a skillful means. Form and emptiness, brightness and darkness, are equal from the outset; truth and delusion should not be regarded as two separate realities.

After awakening to the Dao, one understands the principle of the Pure Land and no longer needs to cling to the idea that it lies far away, in Tianzhu (India) or Caoxi, a place associated with Huineng, the Sixth Patriarch of Chan Buddhism. Who says the Land of Ultimate Bliss must be at the far edge of the western sky? Once fully awakened, Amitabha Buddha appears within one’s own nature.

The Tathagata’s nature is originally complete, luminous, pure, and unobscured. It belongs neither to form nor to emptiness, neither to brightness nor to darkness, and should not be divided into opposing sides of truth and delusion. Realizing this means becoming a Buddha here and now. Why, then, face external conditions and forcibly eliminate worldly thoughts and feelings? Since many people have yet to awaken, names such as Buddha and Bodhisattva, along with the name “Bodhi,” were established as skillful means to guide people from gradual cultivation toward sudden awakening, and ultimately to the realization of Buddhahood. “Bodhi” is a transliteration of a Sanskrit term meaning the right path: turning from what is crooked toward what is right, and gradually moving toward awakening.

The passage following “person, self, sentient beings, and life-span” appears in the extant scripture only as “there is no need for thought after thought.” Its meaning is that one need not cling to comparisons of rank among the marks of person, self, sentient beings, and life-span. The Dharma itself naturally penetrates and illuminates all things; there is no need for the mind to dwell on any particular distinction.

Self, others, sentient beings, and those who live long—four kinds of attachment described in Buddhism, in which the self, other people, sentient beings, and life itself are regarded as real and unchanging—as well as distinctions of rank between people, are all illusory appearances. Observe these distinctions and the thoughts that claim to see, hear, and judge right and wrong with clear insight; see their true nature, then let go of attachment and allow them to remain in a state of neither knowing nor grasping. Be this way in life, and be this way in death. One may live, and one may die. Then life and death will no longer bind you, and you will naturally be free of them.

Practicing generosity while attached to outward appearances brings rewards that remain within the human or heavenly realms. It is like shooting an arrow upward toward the drifting clouds: when its force is spent, the arrow must fall. Better to cultivate Wuwei (non-action) and the truth of things as they are—the principle of reality free from attachment to outward forms—and return to simplicity and innocence. Forget external circumstances, dissolve emotional attachments, and follow your inborn nature. Then you can attain the forbearance of the unborn, the wisdom of realizing that all things are originally free of arising and ceasing, with a mind that is calm and unmoving.

Section Nine

When the fish and the hare have been caught, one forgets the fish trap and the snare: once a goal is achieved, one no longer clings to the means used to achieve it. The raft for crossing a river and the ladder for ascending to heaven are the same: once you have reached the other shore, you should set them aside. Before awakening, you need words as aids; after awakening, words may become bonds. Although these words speak of the principle of Wuwei, you must transcend the words themselves as well.

Fish traps are used to catch fish; once the fish are caught, the traps can be forgotten. Rabbit snares are used to catch rabbits; once a rabbit is caught, the snares can be forgotten. Rafts are used to cross rivers; once across, they can be left behind. Ladders are used to climb to high places; once there, they can be set aside. Words are like this too: they help us discern principles, but once we have understood those principles, we need not cling to words.

The phrases “forget the fish traps and rabbit snares, set aside the rafts and ladders” teach us to realize our true nature. This nature is originally Wuwei (non-action): it does not act recklessly or cling to deliberate striving. Yet we must not mistake “empty stillness and non-action” for the final goal of cultivation. If we remain only in a state of empty, tranquil non-action, how can we reach wondrous awakening to suchness—the realm of accord with our true nature and fully radiant enlightenment? Only by letting go even of attachment to “non-action” can we deepen our cultivation and truly realize something.

After awakening to the Dao, do not pursue extinction single-mindedly, withdrawing into utter stillness and cutting off all activity. Instead, follow conditions and guide those who have not yet awakened. Free yourself from the views of annihilation and permanence—the mistaken beliefs that everything is utterly extinguished or that all things remain unchanged forever—and do not cling to empty stillness and non-action. Use skillful means to guide sentient beings toward the true realm.

Cultivate the Five Eyes, the capacities of vision that include worldly sight, the wisdom eye, and the Buddha eye; realize the Three Bodies—the Dharma Body, Reward Body, and Emanation Body—and the Four Wisdoms, which arise when consciousnesses afflicted by delusion are transformed. Practice all wholesome deeds, including the Six Perfections: giving, upholding the precepts, patience, diligence, meditation, and wisdom. Perfect wisdom is like a radiant wish-fulfilling jewel, reflecting pure wisdom. It benefits sentient beings and brings deliverance to oneself as well.

Buddhist teaching begins with awakening to one’s original nature. Yet awakening does not mean doing nothing and seeking only stillness and emptiness. One must also put one’s understanding of emptiness into actual practice; this is genuine Buddha-nature. Thus it is said: “After awakening, do not seek only extinction and stillness; respond to conditions and guide those who are deluded.” Guiding sentient beings is the practice of applying skillful means and accumulating merit.

The “Five Eyes” are the heavenly eye, the wisdom eye, the Dharma eye, the Buddha eye, and the physical eye. The “Three Bodies” are the pure Dharma body, the complete reward body, and the hundreds of billions of transformation bodies. The “Four Wisdoms” are the Great Perfect Mirror Wisdom, the Wisdom of Equality, the Wondrous Observing Wisdom, and the Wisdom of Accomplishing Activities. The “Six Perfections” are giving, keeping the precepts, patience, diligence, meditation, and wisdom. “Ten Thousand Practices” refers to all skillful means and forms of merit. The Five Eyes, Three Bodies, Four Wisdoms, Six Perfections, and Ten Thousand Practices are all aspects of cultivation that give equal weight to inner refinement and outward practice. As one’s true nature is continually refined, it becomes ever clearer, like a wish-fulfilling mani jewel—a legendary gem said to shine and reflect all things. Its radiance illuminates what is hidden and clarifies what is true, benefiting others and oneself alike, and continuing to work over time. How, then, could it be called mere emptiness?

Eleven

I have seen some people speak of original nature with nothing but grand words, rushing to answer questions. Yet when they encounter real situations, they become confused again. How are they any different from fools?

What one says should be put into practice; only then are one’s words and actions without fault. If one can use the sword of wisdom to cut through attachment to the mani jewel, one may be said to possess the Tathagata’s true wisdom.

This verse emphasizes the lines, “One who can use the sword of wisdom to cut through the mani jewel is said to possess the Tathagata’s true wisdom.” The key to genuine Tathagata wisdom lies in using wisdom to dispel attachment and putting that understanding into practice in one’s words and actions.

This passage emphasizes the words, “The wisdom sword can cleave the mani; this is called the Tathāgata’s true wisdom.” The Tathāgata’s true wisdom—the genuine wisdom possessed by the Tathāgata—pervades everywhere. Like a “wisdom sword,” it removes deluded thoughts and brings a person back to sincerity; hence the name. It is perfectly complete and radiant, beyond all obscuration, and never absent, so it is also called the “mani,” a jewel that gives off light. To “cleave the mani” does not mean to sever it, but to gather and take it in, preventing its radiance from being scattered outward. In its essence it is called the mani; in its function, the wisdom sword. The wisdom sword, the mani, and true wisdom all refer to the same thing, not three different things.

This true wisdom cannot be gained through words alone. It must be put into practice and refined through personal experience before it can truly be understood. If you cannot accomplish this yourself, but only discuss sharp exchanges and quick replies, and then assume you have realized your nature, what good is that when you become confused in the face of real situations and events? Only when neither speech nor conduct falls short can it be called true wisdom. Being quick to reply is not, by itself, true wisdom.

Twelve

To understand the wondrous Dao of non-arising—the principle that transcends birth and death—the key is to realize the true mind for yourself. The true body has no form or appearance, and no sound; such is the pure Dharma body, the unstained ground of being.

This Dao cannot be called either “nonbeing” or “being.” One should not cling to the “middle,” nor need one seek the “middle.” Let go of attachment to both sides, and do not grasp at a supposed center. To see this clearly is called the highest attainment.

To see one’s true original nature is to realize the wondrous Dao; there is no need to seek it elsewhere. The true mind is free from defilement and attachment. It does not waver, and has neither form nor sound. It is also called the “Pure Dharma Body,” the true body that is pure and undefiled. It is both mind and body: one cannot say that it truly exists, nor that it is entirely nonexistent. It abides between existence and nonexistence. So it cannot be sought in “existence” or in “nonexistence,” nor can one cling even to the notion of “neither existence nor nonexistence.” Since none of these expressions can fully encompass it, one might ask: what, then, is it? Those who truly realize this can transcend life and death in an instant and attain the wondrous Dao of the “Supreme Vehicle,” the highest level.

The true body and the true mind are originally one. In its essence it is called the true body; in its function, the true mind. Essence and function are not separate: body and mind merge as one, and both physical form and spirit reach a wondrous state, joining with the Dao and becoming true. Is this not what it means to transcend life and death?

Supplement: Read the Cantong qi (the Token for Joining the Three, a Daoist scripture that often uses the trigrams of the Book of Changes to explain the path of cultivation).

The wondrous workings of the Great Elixir, the highest achievement of Neidan (internal alchemy), take their model from the patterns by which Heaven and Earth operate. As Heaven and Earth revolve, the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) differentiate. When the Five Phases proceed in their ordinary course, all things are born and perish according to their usual patterns. When they move in reverse, the Elixir’s essence can remain enduringly clear and radiant, abiding without decay.

From the void, the first signs emerge, and the Two Modes (Yin and Yang) establish the foundation. The Four Images (Lesser Yang, Greater Yang, Lesser Yin, Greater Yin) remain within the two forms of Yin and Yang; the Eight Trigrams succeed one another like descendants. All things arise through transformation and movement, and so good fortune, misfortune, regret, and distress are distinguished. People use these principles every day without necessarily knowing them, while sages can investigate their source.

The principles of the Book of Changes (Yijing) subtly and fully illuminate the patterns by which Heaven and Earth operate, and so they are expressed through the hexagrams. The alternation of the Pi and Tai hexagrams symbolizes Yin and Yang rising and descending in turn. The transformations of the Zhun and Meng hexagrams symbolize movement and stillness shifting with dawn and dusk. Kan and Li represent man and woman, water and fire; Zhen and Dui represent the dragon and tiger, the hun and po souls. To hold to the center and what is correct is like the Book of Changes’ saying, “Yellow robe: supreme good fortune”—remaining centered and upright brings auspiciousness. If one rises too high, one loses one’s place and honored position. Ji Ji and Wei Ji symbolize the ending and beginning of all things, while Fu and Gou reveal the coming and returning of Yin and Yang Qi.

The moon’s waning and waxing correspond to the weakening and flourishing of spirit; the sun’s rising and setting accord with the changes of cold and heat in the Qi of the nutritive and defensive systems. Words are first established to explain the hexagrams; once the hexagrams are understood, the words can be forgotten. It is like setting up hexagrams to point toward their meaning: when the true intent is grasped, the hexagrams too can be set aside. Those who understand see things as simple and accessible; those who are confused grow more perplexed and entangled the more they study. Therefore, those who cultivate the Dao should not cling to the hexagrams and wording when reading the Cantong qi (Token for Joining the Three), a Daoist Neidan classic.

The sun and moon—often represented by gold and jade as symbols of Yin-Yang or of the sun and moon—move without pause, and time rushes by. We have only just heard that the flowers are blooming, and in the blink of an eye the autumn frost has arrived. Even if we boast that Peng Zu, the legendary long-lived figure, lived for more than a thousand years, his life was no more than a flash of lightning across the clouds.

Human life is brief: a hundred years amount to just over thirty thousand days. Through those days, the seasons of cold and heat alternate, putting us through endless hardship. Before we know it, youthful faces have grown old. Even when surrounded by children and grandchildren, the bonds of affection and love become sources of worry and entanglement. When Jing and Qi are spent and the body has withered, who can teach us to hold on to life, even for a little while?

We wish to prolong life for a time, but have no means to do so. We can only watch ourselves join the waters flowing away. Consider the sages of past and present: how many have managed to keep their physical bodies in the world forever? There are methods for preserving the body, but people today lack understanding. They rush into the mountains in search of herbs and medicinal plants, smelt lead and mercury, and refine elixirs.

The true method of refining the Elixir is different. One must seek “red blood” in the Kan position—the Water position among the Eight Trigrams, often used in Neidan to refer to kidney water and the Yang within Yin—then bring it to the Li position, the Fire position among the Eight Trigrams, often associated with heart fire, to refine Yin essence. Yin and Yang must be joined and harmonized at the proper time. When the moment is right, they must also be brought together through a mediator, so that the Golden Duke—a personification in Neidan of the Yang, Metal nature, medicine, or true intention—and the Maiden of the Crimson Chamber, a personification of Yin, Water nature, and medicine, may become husband and wife.

The Golden Duke often rides a White Tiger, while the Maiden of the Crimson Chamber often drives a Red Dragon. The tiger sits quietly amid the autumn mountains, while the dragon surges up from a deep pool. When they meet, they engage in battle; the waters churn as if boiling inside a cauldron. The Yellow Matron, who mediates the union of Yin and Yang, and Old Ding, an auxiliary image in elixir practice, help them exert their power, as though shaking Heaven and Earth and driving spirits and ghosts away. After a short while, the struggle subsides; the clouds disperse and the rain stops. An Mysterious Pearl, a symbol of the forming inner Elixir, is planted at the bottom of the mud field, the Dantian. From then on, its roots and shoots gradually grow. It must be watered and tended at the proper times, and the true essence carefully preserved. After ten months, it is as though a fetus has been born. Then it can be swallowed, and only at that point does one realize that the ordinary body has acquired spiritual nature.

This practice is rarely encountered in the world, and ordinary people cannot all know it. If you had no roots for cultivating immortality in a former life, how could you come across it so easily? Now that you have encountered it, you should practice without delay, for time flies like an arrow. To catch fish, you must first cast a net; do not simply stand by the river, admiring what you desire. I hear that you have understood the principles of the medicines for many years. Why, then, have you not gathered your mind and refined lead and mercury? Do not let the wind blow out the candle flame. Otherwise, when you fall into the six paths of rebirth, you will be left with nothing but futile complaints against Heaven.

These days, there are many deceivers in the world who put on plain clothes and call themselves enlightened. Ask them what Metal and Wood—the Neidan terms for Yin-Yang and the Five Phases medicines—really are, and they fall silent as if mute. Yet they talk of cultivating breath and abstaining from grain, and of long, winding paths of practice besides. Have you not seen the Song on Breaking Delusion, which says that the Method of Taichi Containing the True is the finest of all? These words may sound somewhat wild and crude, but that is only to make them hard for ordinary people to discern. Only because you and I are of one mind do I dare tell you everything in my heart.

I originally lived north of Stone Bridge, surrounded by mountains that stood like a protective garrison and a waterway that opened like a pass, with ancient trees growing thickly all around. The stream beneath the bridge seemed to flow straight to Kunlun, while the spring water at the foot of the mountain tasted fragrant and clear.

Living in the mountains was truly something to praise: flowers that never withered grew everywhere. In a cave north of the mountain, a fierce tiger lay hidden. It leapt from its cave, its roar shaking the sky as it swept up wind and clouds. At the bottom of a deep pool south of the mountain, a jiao-dragon lurked. It rose into the clouds and brought rain, shrouding the mountains in a mist of water vapor. When tiger and dragon meet in combat, the Primordial Pearl—an inner alchemical symbol for the essential substance at the heart of cultivation—lies concealed within. This is an auspicious sign.

The scene was so enchanting that I felt secret joy. Alone, I poured and drank wine, growing steadily more intoxicated. Drunk, I played the unstrung zither, whose music symbolizes the natural subtle sound that needs no external strings. Every phrase of its music teaches one to attend closely and reflect. No one knew I was drunk; my mind grew clouded and hazy, as if I were entranced.

I looked up and observed the subtle workings of Heaven and Earth. The sun, which should have been setting in the west, seemed to rise again there; the moon seemed to return to the east. Heaven and Earth, Earth and Heaven, reversed their positions, while Yin and Yang joined and parted in turn, following nature. If one can grasp the key to the reversals and transformations of the Five Phases—Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, and Water—one can swiftly ascend among the rosy clouds and enter the Cavern Heaven, the pure realm where immortals dwell.

A house of gold and pillars of white jade; Jade Maidens and Golden Lads stand daily in attendance. The Southern Stars and the Northern Dipper are clearly arrayed, while the myriad forms appear in solemn splendor, boundless and without end. Cultivation knows no distinction between day and night; what matters is sustaining it without interruption. One must master the proper timing of gathering and dispersing, drawing out and adding in—the terms used in Neidan cultivation for regulating Yin and Yang and the alchemical substances. If you ask where the Golden Elixir, the essence formed through internal alchemical cultivation, truly lies, seek a teacher’s guidance and learn to recognize lead in water, an alchemical substance associated with Yang within Yin.

Wood can generate Fire, and Metal can generate Water. When Water and Fire are refined together, their order must be made clear. Distinguish what floats from what sinks, and recognize the principal and the subordinate, so that lead, silver, cinnabar, and mercury—the symbolic substances borrowed from the language of Neidan—may come together. Cultivation must balance firmness and softness; do not let the mind run unchecked. Knowing contentment and remaining content allows one to return to one’s proper place. Then the myriad spirits will arrive together to celebrate peace, as though the realm were prosperous, its people secure, and everyone joyful.

This matter deserves careful inquiry and reflection; those who follow the same path will naturally understand its meaning. Later, some who sought to cultivate the Real spoke only of quieting the mind, preserving and nurturing it, and circulating Qi. The essentials of cultivation are right before us and seem easy to grasp; yet truly attaining them and putting them into practice has a subtlety beyond compare. They can first help dispel illness and prolong life; then, through refinement by the proper firing process, the physical body is transformed into a Yang body.

Those who study the Dao should examine themselves rather than ask about minor methods from side paths. Such methods only deceive people for a time, while they fail to see that they are secretly wasting away. I urge later students to be firm and decisive, and not to abandon their homes merely to live far away in another land. The wondrous Dao is not apart from oneself. Why travel thousands of mountains and rivers in search of it?

Do not delay or covet small gains; hurry to seek a teacher and learn the fundamental principle. If a person lives without learning and cultivating, they cannot know into what womb they will be reborn in the next life. Since you have set your heart on cultivating the Dao, see it through to the end. The most important matter in human life is, after all, birth and death. If Heaven should fail those who are devoted to the Dao, then let me fall into the Three Paths—the realms of suffering and ill fate spoken of in Daoism and Buddhism—and become the lowliest of ghosts.