《悟道录》

I have long admired the study of Daoist cultivation, yet for many years I struggled to distinguish what was right from what was wrong, and the orthodox from the heterodox. In the Gengwu year, I met Master Bai Lai and, guided by him, entered the orthodox path. In the Xinwei year, I traveled to famous mountains in various regions to pay my respects. When I reached Gansu, I sought out the elder Wu Yuan at Qiyun Mountain. He had annotated the alchemical texts of successive generations of patriarchs, including Elucidating the Truth of the Zhouyi, and had also written works such as Dispelling Doubts about the Dao and Difficult Questions on Cultivating the Real. The essential meaning of these books was profound and subtle, yet as clear as the sun and moon, so I went to pay him a visit. At the time, many distinguished people from all directions came to seek his instruction, and many others served under him. I therefore became his disciple, received his teaching, and obtained these books.

Afterward, I returned to my hometown, had the books bound into volumes, and went to see my revered teacher. I brought out the elder Wu Yuan’s works in particular and asked him to clarify their difficult points. My teacher read through them one by one and praised them without end. “The elder’s commentaries,” he said, “are sufficient to establish a standard of conduct for people throughout the world. Every word can serve as a guide; the meaning is clear and easy to understand, and the language is concise while the meaning is complete. They are truly a bridge to cultivating the self and establishing one’s destiny, and a standard for tracing the sources and development of the thought of the three teachings: Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism. Though the elder Wu Yuan’s works are numerous enough to pile up like a mountain, none are better at pointing directly to the essentials of cultivation and distinguishing right from wrong. If one can cherish these books and enter the Dao through them, what could be more precious?”

At the time, many fellow practitioners came asking for copies, but I had only one set and could not distribute it to everyone. My teacher said, “Rather than keep the books to yourself, make them available to those who share your aspirations. This will bring the elder Wu Yuan’s original intent to light and let later generations see the orthodox tradition. It is also a way to spread merit widely.” But I had no spare money at the time and could not afford to print all the books. I could only have Collected Works on Dispelling Doubts about the Dao reset and printed, and so it was published for the world. This book clears away heterodox doctrines and mistaken teachings, focusing on the essentials of Daoist cultivation. In exposing false doctrines and correcting errors, it is truly like a lifesaving gourd in a swift current. The remaining works must wait for people of purpose to provide the funds for their printing.

In the winter of the twenty-first year of the Jiaqing reign (1816), on the winter solstice of the Bingzi year, Xia Fuheng respectfully wrote this preface.

I count myself among the most inept people in the world. As a child, I studied Confucian learning. Near the age of twenty, I fell gravely ill three times and nearly died. My illness brought me to a moment of awakening, and I began to long to cultivate the Dao. Yet in my heart I remained doubtful, thinking that perhaps no method for prolonging life and preserving health truly existed in the world.

Later, I went to western Qin to recuperate. Passing through Jingyang, I met an old man with disheveled hair, and we felt an instant affinity. I spoke with him about matters concerning my own life and destiny. The old man said, “The Way of nature and life is open to everyone to cultivate; the key lies only in whether one has the resolve.” He also taught me a healing prescription. When I reached Nan’an, I followed it, and my ailments soon disappeared. From then on, I resolved to leave the worldly path and devote myself to cultivating the Dao.

Over the years, I sought guidance far and wide and met many people in Daoist circles, yet I never heard teachings that penetrated the true principles, nor found anyone who could resolve my doubts. Later, while traveling in Jincheng, I heard of an accomplished adept called the Old Man of Kangu. He wore the robes and cap of a Confucian scholar, yet behaved in an unusual way that was hard to fathom. I went to visit him and saw that his conduct was lofty and exceptional; what he said, too, accorded with right principle. Though I could not judge the depth of his cultivation, I was certain he was a true adept. Our affinities were in accord, and I was able to enter the proper gate. He instructed me first to fulfill my duties as a human being. I followed his instructions and returned to my hometown. After attending to my parents, I quietly studied the various alchemical scriptures (Daoist texts on Neidan cultivation). Some principles seemed clear to me, while others remained obscure; I could never bring them all together into a coherent understanding. I therefore knew that there were still essential secrets that had not been transmitted to me.

So I went north to Yanjing and south to Henan, traveling throughout Qin and Jin. None of the Buddhist monks or Daoist practitioners I met could resolve my doubts. Later, in Hannan, I encountered the Elder of Xianliu. He opened the treasure house for me, took out its precious treasures, and explained each one in turn. The doubts that had weighed on me for thirteen years were completely dispelled. Only then did I understand that the Great Dao requires a genuine transmission, and that nature and life must be cultivated together. This is different from heterodox paths and is not a method that clings to emptiness or outward forms.

Regrettably, my own foundations are shallow, my cultivation and merits insufficient, and my abilities limited. I am now seventy-eight years old, still on the path of cultivation and not yet at its final stage. My master’s kindness is profound, and I have truly failed him. Although I have not yet perfected the Great Dao, I have already given up the things that would create karmic offenses and obstruct the cultivation of nature and life. I therefore compiled into two books, Record of Awakening to the Dao and Exposing Errors Through Images and Words, the various misguided paths I encountered in my youth and my later experiences with an enlightened master. Together they form a collection titled Collected Record of Awakening to the Dao and Dispelling Doubts, which I hope will light a lamp for those seeking to learn. I have not yet attained the Dao myself, but I hope others may attain it, thereby making some amends for having failed my master’s kindness. I do not intend to deceive myself or others, nor to seek fame. These words serve as the preface.

On the third day of the third month in the xīn wèi year of the Jiaqing reign of the Great Qing, 1811, Liu Yiming, known as Wuyuanzi of Mount Qiyun, wrote this account of himself in his Abode of Ease.

The Dao exists between Heaven and Earth. There is nothing that does not possess it, and no place where it is absent. From the sun, moon, stars, clouds, lightning, thunder, and rain above, to the mountains, rivers, plants, trees, birds, beasts, and people below—even all things that move, are sentient, have feelings, or are without feeling—the Qi of the Dao flows through them all. The Dao is right before our eyes; people simply have not examined it deeply.

When I was twenty, I already knew that nature and life were a matter of great consequence. I sincerely sought instruction wherever I could, visiting many people and pursuing the principles for more than ten years, yet I heard little of the true path. Some teachings clung to outward forms; others amounted to empty talk. Later I met my teacher, the Elder of Kangu. After hearing only a few of his words, I could distinguish the true Dao from deviant paths. I then met the Venerable Man of Xianliu, whose guidance on subtle points let me glimpse the deeper meaning.

After receiving the secret transmission from these two teachers, I truly understood that every thing and event between Heaven and Earth—whether seen with the eyes, heard with the ears, reached on foot, or experienced firsthand—embodies the Dao and holds truth within it. Only then did I realize that the images and methods of cultivation described in ancient and modern Elixir scriptures and Daoist writings—including the precelestial and postcelestial, action and non-action, the ingredients and firing times, advancing and withdrawing, stopping and knowing when to be content, forming the Elixir and shedding it—are drawn from principles already present in Heaven and Earth and then explained further. They are not invented out of nothing or contrived as strange tales.

It is lamentable that later students of the Dao often lack sincerity. They are unwilling to work hard or persevere with patience. Some indulge in empty talk; some begin diligently but later grow lax; some cling only to side paths, misleading themselves and others. Others read a few lines of an Elixir scripture and imagine they have already attained the Dao. All these habits obstruct their cultivation and lead ultimately to illusion.

For this reason, I selected eighty-one things that everyone can see and understand, and explained them without arranging them in order or distinguishing what comes before and after. I analyzed each one on its own and called the work Record of Awakening to the Dao. I also added seventy-two sections of Songs of Lament for the Dao, hoping that the principles I have come to understand might help everyone understand them too.

Those who study the Dao should learn from things far away and also examine themselves close at hand. Using things with form and shape, they should investigate principles without form or shape. If they study subtle details deeply, hold firm to their resolve without turning back, and work steadily day after day, they will eventually come to understanding. This is my heartfelt hope.

The heavens are lofty and far-reaching, encompassing the emptiness of space, vast and boundless. There is nothing they cannot cover or contain. They bring all things into growth, yet do not claim virtue for themselves; they bestow their blessings on all things without expecting anything in return. People honor them, deceive them, feel gratitude toward them, or slander them, and the heavens let each do as they will. They make no distinctions between people’s likes and dislikes, beauty and ugliness, or among the fierce and stubborn and the gentle and docile in the myriad things.

The Earth is deep and substantial, dwelling in a low place. There is nothing it cannot bear or nurture. It supports heavy mountains such as Mount Tai, Mount Song, and Mount Hua; it receives the rushing waters of rivers, lakes, and seas; it endures trees and roots piercing through it, and bears the trampling of birds and beasts in peace. It takes no account of filth or affronts of any kind.

Observing Heaven and Earth, I have come to understand the principle of following Heaven and taking Earth as one’s model. If a person can be broad-minded and embrace all things, care for the elderly and pity the poor, help those in danger, give kindness without seeking repayment, refrain from making enemies even when resentful, and regard self and others as equals, seeing one another as one, then they can dwell in harmony with Heaven.

If a person can be gentle and humble, content with a lowly place, free from impatience and rid of a violent temper; if they do not grow angry when slandered or take offense when insulted; if they accept hardship, suffering, illness, and calamity as they come; and if, even when faced with danger, crisis, or adversity, they harbor neither vexation nor resentment, then they can be in accord with Earth. Honor Heaven’s vast embrace and follow Earth’s humility and capacity to bear, and you can share the virtue of Heaven and Earth and endure without end.

The sun and moon return and descend.

The sun’s course carries it into the heavens by day, where it illuminates the outer world; at night, it enters beneath the earth and illuminates the inner world. The moon’s course grows gradually brighter during the first half of the month, illuminating the outer world; during the second half, its light gradually wanes, nourishing the inner world. Whether illuminating what is within or without, the light of the sun and moon is, in the end, one and the same.

Observing these changes, I came to understand how to use the light within the heart. If a person can apply this light to outward words and actions—speaking and acting with care, avoiding what is contrary to ritual propriety, righteousness, and the Dao, and going nowhere that departs from the Dao; if they are not confused by wine, sex, wealth, or anger, enticed by riches, status, and fame, or swayed by worldly relationships—then this is like the sun and moon’s outward light.

If a person can apply this light within the heart—clearing away misguided thoughts and keeping sincerity, abandoning delusion and returning to one’s original nature; restraining anger and curbing desire so that distress does not arise and resentment does not take hold; cutting away the “three hairs,” removing the “six thieves,” sweeping aside the “seven emotions,” and purifying the “eight consciousnesses”; diminishing selfish desires and rousing the heart of the Dao; and remaining vigilant and cautious at all times, with not the slightest deluded thought in the heart—then this is like the sun and moon’s inward light. Here, the “three hairs,” “six thieves,” “seven emotions,” and “eight consciousnesses” are terms used in cultivating the mind. They refer, respectively, to thoughts, sensory temptations, emotions, and activities of consciousness that must be eliminated.

When both the inner and outer worlds are illuminated, with no place left in darkness, one can shine with the same brilliance as the sun and moon. Cultivation carried to its utmost brings the heart to a state of completeness and transparency, its light shining brightly, beyond the veiling of all things. When one’s wondrous nature is fully present and reaches throughout the entire Dharma Realm—the Buddhist and Daoist term for the totality of all existence—one can move and act like the sun and moon.

Thunder and Wind

Thunder’s sound is fierce and forceful, while the wind moves gradually and far, appearing gentle. Wind and thunder contend with one another, bringing firmness and gentleness together: fierceness contains gentleness, gentleness conceals force, and firmness and gentleness depend on each other.

By observing these principles, I came to understand how firmness and gentleness can be brought into harmony. When ordinary people cultivate the Dao and establish De, handle affairs, or interact with others, if they are relentlessly forceful and impatient, always trying to prove their superiority, their efforts cannot last; their momentum will eventually be checked. If they are relentlessly yielding and withdrawn, hesitant and indecisive, they will seem timid, and it will be hard to accomplish anything. Such weakness is of no use. If they can make decisions with firmness and resolve, yet act gently and by gradual steps—neither impatient nor sluggish, neither rash nor timid—and let firmness and gentleness complement each other in just the right measure, then whatever they do is likely to go smoothly. Apply this principle to learning the Dao, and in time you will understand its workings; apply it to cultivating the Dao, and in time you will achieve results. Thus the classic says, “Centrality is the root of all things under Heaven; harmony is the universal way they proceed.” When centrality and harmony are attained, Heaven and Earth each find their proper place, and all things can grow. Is the Way of centrality and harmony really a small matter?

The Changing Seasons

The four seasons—spring, summer, autumn, and winter—each have their own work. Spring brings all things to life; summer enables them to grow; autumn ripens them and draws them inward; winter stores them away. The seasons follow one another in turn, cycle after cycle, joining beginning to end without interruption.

By observing the changes of the four seasons, I came to understand how decrease and increase depend on each other. “Decrease” means removing what is excessive in firmness and impatience; “increase” means making up for what is lacking in gentleness. Firmness must not go too far, and gentleness must not be lacking. Gentleness should receive firmness, while firmness should give gentleness its force. When firmness and gentleness support each other, and Yin-Yang are in due balance, one can adapt to different circumstances: great and small, high and low, advance and retreat, favorable and adverse. One need not cling to the square or the round, and can also accommodate both the crooked and the straight. Then one can move in good order, like the four seasons, responding to changing conditions without obstruction. Human beings, too, have a foundation akin to that of Heaven and Earth, and within the heart are changes akin to those of creation. We therefore need not be bound by the changes of Heaven and Earth around us.

The Moon Borrowing the Sun’s Light

The moon is purely Yin and has no light of its own. Only by borrowing the sun’s radiance does it shine. The moon’s waxing, waning, and course through the sky also accord with the order of the four seasons; its changes flow freely, without obstruction. Human beings, too, have a foundation akin to that of Heaven and Earth, and within the heart are changes akin to those of creation. We therefore need not be bound by the changes of Heaven and Earth around us.

The Moon Borrows the Sun’s Light

The moon is inherently Yin and has no Yang energy. It must borrow the sun’s light to shine; this is also what causes the moon’s waxing and waning.

Observing this phenomenon, I understood the principle of “transforming Yin by borrowing Yang.” The human body, too, is inherently pure Yin, without Yang, and must borrow Yang energy from “the other household” to replenish itself. “The other household” means what lies beyond oneself: Heaven and Earth, the sun and moon, the myriad things, and all kinds of phenomena. “The Yang of the other household” refers to the innate, empty, pure, and unified true Qi—the energy that enables people to attain long life and immortality.

People possess this energy at birth, but after entering the postnatal state, it gradually disperses into Heaven and Earth, the sun and moon, the myriad things, and all kinds of phenomena. It no longer belongs to oneself and thus becomes something of “the other household.” Once we understand that this energy has dispersed into the world outside us, we can retrieve it at any time and bring it back to ourselves: what was lost can be regained, and what was absent can be made our own again, just as the moon borrows the sun’s light to shine. This is the celestial secret of seizing the workings of creation and reversing Yin-Yang.

People in the world who are confused mistakenly believe that “the other household” means a woman. This idea leads them astray.

Setting the Furnace and Establishing the Cauldron

Those who refine the elixir must first set up the furnace and cauldron. The cauldron is firm and serves to contain the ingredients; the furnace is yielding and serves to regulate the firing process. If the cauldron is not secure, the ingredients can easily be lost; if the furnace is improperly set, the firing process will become disordered.

By observing these phenomena, I came to understand how to cultivate body and mind. A steadfast resolve to cultivate the Dao is like a cauldron: the longer it endures, the stronger it becomes; it does not falter in the face of setbacks, and its mind and spirit remain steady and unmoved. This is like setting the cauldron firmly in place. Remaining constantly aware of one’s thoughts and condition is like a furnace. Applying oneself gradually, without haste or agitation, is like setting the furnace in order.

Once the cauldron and furnace are stable, one can refine away the seeds of samsara accumulated over countless lifetimes and reveal the “Original Yang” (Qianyuan) countenance that was present from birth: one’s innate, pristine nature. In this way, one sheds every impurity that would lead to further rebirth. When the impurities have been refined away and the true gold emerges, the old is cast off and the self renewed. Then one adjusts the furnace and cauldron anew, prepares tongs and hammer, and continues cultivating at a higher level. The true gold is melted into liquid and condensed into frost, until at last one returns to the pristine original state from before one’s parents gave birth to one. Only then is cultivation complete. For this reason, the alchemical scriptures and Daoist cultivation texts all regard setting the furnace and establishing the cauldron as essential to beginning the practice.

Yang Sui and Fang Zhu

The Yang Sui, an ancient fire-making device, is separated from the sun by tens of millions of miles, yet can draw fire from it. The Fang Zhu, an ancient vessel for gathering dew, is separated from the moon by tens of millions of miles, yet can draw water from within it. This is because the Qi of the Yang Sui and Fang Zhu belongs to the same category as that of the sun and moon.

By observing these phenomena, I came to understand how to draw in Yin and Yang. The Yin and Yang within the human body are originally united as one Qi. After entering the postnatal state, they separate and each takes its own place. As a result, vital Qi gradually diminishes while deathly Qi gradually grows. What diminishes continues to diminish; what grows continues to grow, until decline sets in. If one knows how to turn the light around and look inward—to gather the spirit and turn one’s gaze back upon oneself—and to use the postnatal body to cultivate one’s innate, precelestial true nature, then in an instant Yin and Yang will naturally meet and merge. There is no need to bring this about deliberately or to force it. Those who have lost this method are as if a thousand miles away from it; the key lies in whether one is willing to commit oneself.

Dung Beetle and Lion-Beast

The dung beetle rolls dung into a round ball, and the lion beast also gathers material into a ball. After a long period of gestation, a dung beetle larva emerges from the dung ball, while a young lion appears inside the other ball. The dung and the ball are originally lifeless things, empty within. Yet they do not rely on bodily union. Instead, they respond to one another through spirit and Qi (vital energy): the two energies, female and male, communicate with each other, while the mind remains focused and undistracted. This causes spirit to gather and Qi to congeal into form, allowing form and substance to emerge from what is formless and immaterial.

From this, I understood the principle by which existence arises from nonexistence. Human beings are born by receiving the Yin and Yang energies of Heaven and Earth—the two fundamental energies—and both are present within the body. If practitioners can bring Yang energy and Yin energy together, allowing Yin energy to follow Yang energy and the two to coalesce, then, amid a hazy and profound stillness, a spark of life will appear: existence arising from nonexistence. In this way, they can form the “sacred embryo,” the inner achievement of Neidan (internal alchemy) that symbolizes new life, and generate the “Dharma body,” a transcendent body cultivated beyond the ordinary. When the practice reaches a certain level, one can break through the void and have another body beyond the physical one, move invisibly between the sun and moon, pass unhindered into metal and stone, and transcend the limits of natural transformation.

Black Lead and Mercury

In furnace alchemy, mercury scatters and flies off when exposed to fire. When black lead is added, it restrains the mercury, causing it to congeal into a mass and stop scattering.

From this, I understood the method of using Yang to restrain Yin. The human heart, governed by private desires, is easily unsettled; its movements are unpredictable, and we do not know where they arise. At the sight of an external scene, emotions spring up, like dust scattered by the wind or mercury scattering and splashing when exposed to fire. If the Dao-centered mind—the right awareness aligned with the Dao—is kept constant, if we remain vigilant, guard against danger, and notice our thoughts as they arise, the human heart will find no opening through which to emerge. It will be unable to arise, like mercury gathering and solidifying when it meets lead.

Then, with diligent practice, apply the work of “increasing and decreasing”: strengthen the Yang within the Dao-centered mind and lessen the Yin within the human heart. Keep increasing and decreasing until there is no longer any need to do either. The human heart will then settle, and the Dao-centered mind will become firm. Once the true foundation of cultivation is attained, one can become a sage, attain immortality, or become a Buddha; the foundation for cultivating nature and life is established in this way. From there, further cultivation of higher practices will naturally lead to deeper insight.

Chasing Shadows and Mocking Reflections

A child chases its own shadow, thinking it is fun, without realizing that the shadow is leading the child along and wasting its energy. A boastful person mocks their image in a mirror, imagining they have the upper hand, without realizing that the one being mocked is actually themselves; they are only wasting their words.

From this, I understood the method of avoiding misfortune and gaining good fortune. Most people in the world are insatiably greedy. They seek profit and obtain it, or pursue fame and attain it, and then imagine these things are enough to satisfy them. Yet, like those who chase shadows and mock reflections, they fail to see that they are in fact controlled by external things. In the end, they are only wasting their energy and words.

From this I understood the principle of seeking good fortune and avoiding misfortune. People in the world are insatiably greedy, exhausting themselves in the pursuit of profit and fame. Once they have gained wealth and renown, they think these are enough to sustain and glorify them, not realizing that toil day and night wears down the spirit. Injuring one’s nature for things outside oneself can even cause Qi and blood to decline. When life reaches its end, money cannot buy it back, and enemies cannot hold death at bay. Only one’s misdeeds remain, and in the next life each person bears the consequences. How is this any different from children playing with shadows or madmen mocking human figures? The wise and perceptive see things differently. They value life and cherish De, looking down on the myriad affairs of the world. They care for their original Qi and preserve their spirit, allowing no illusory things to damage what is genuine. Such people cannot be altered even by the transformations of Yin and Yang, much less by anything else.

Planting Millet and Hemp

Plant millet, and you harvest millet; plant hemp, and you harvest hemp. Hemp will not grow into millet, and millet will not grow into hemp, because their seeds are different.

From this I understood the principle of cause and effect. When a good thought arises in the heart, one’s actions turn toward goodness, and in the end one receives blessings. When an evil thought arises, one’s actions turn toward evil, and in the end one brings misfortune upon oneself. Good and evil thoughts are the causes of things; receiving blessings and bringing misfortune are their results. Every cause has its result: plant a good cause, and it will not bear an evil result; plant an evil cause, and it will not bear a good result. The consequences of good and evil follow like a shadow follows the body, with certainty; the only difference lies in whether the seed planted was good or evil. Thus, when a noble person acts, they attend to the beginning and proceed with care, and so can naturally bring things to a good end.

Grafting Peach and Apricot Trees

When a peach tree grows old, grafting it with a young branch will still make it bear peaches. When an apricot tree grows old, grafting it with a young branch will still make it bear apricots. This is because, though the tree is old, the life force at its root has not yet been severed.

I have observed these phenomena and, from them, understood how a person can restore vitality, much as a tender shoot is grafted onto an old tree. People grow old because they indulge their desires, carry too many worries, and exhaust themselves with their affairs, while the body’s root Qi has not yet been entirely extinguished.

People grow old because they indulge their desires, let worry and sorrow injure the heart, and wear out the body with their affairs, depleting Jing, Qi, and Shen. They take the false for the real and hardship for pleasure, gradually draining away the little vitality that remains. Their nature becomes disordered and their life unsettled; their foundations weaken, and so they pass from adulthood into old age, then from old age into death. This cannot be attributed entirely to Heaven’s decree; in truth, people bring it upon themselves.

If people can recognize their mistakes and repent, completely change their way of life, cut off the entanglements of affection, and stay away from wine, sex, wealth, and anger—the desires and habits represented by these things—they can regard riches and status as floating clouds and power and profit as enemies. If they cling to nothing in the world, focus single-mindedly on guarding Qi with the purity and harmony of an infant, preserve simplicity and stillness like an unmarried young woman, nourish Jing and cultivate Shen, dispel delusions and return to their true nature, constantly tend the root of life, and follow the right path at every step, then right thoughts will grow while delusions diminish. With sincerity within and without, in accord with the principles of Heaven, they can fully realize their nature and establish their life, recover from old age, and return to youth. This is like grafting a tender shoot onto an old tree. The immortals of antiquity said, “Even at seventy or eighty, so long as one still has a breath, one can refine the Returning Elixir”—the Neidan that symbolizes the gathering of Jing and Qi and a return to the origin and renewal of life. These words are indeed true!

Hair Falling into a Pool of Water Turns into a Snake in the Heat

When hair falls into a pool of water and lies under the summer sun, it can take the shape of a snake. Why is this? Though hair is lifeless, when it receives the moisture of water and the warmth of sunlight, moisture and heat gather together, and it seems to regain vitality. Even so, the Returning Elixir can be refined. These words are indeed true!

Hair Turns into a Water Snake

When hair falls into a puddle and is exposed to the summer sun, why does it take the shape of a snake? Though hair is lifeless, when it meets the dampness of water and the sun’s heat, moisture and warmth gather together and condense into a current of Qi. Amid transformations hidden from view in the darkness, a spark of life appears. It gradually fills out and begins to move, and so the hair turns into a snake, winding through the water.

Seeing this, I came to understand the Way of securing the root and consolidating life force: how to strengthen life at its source and gather its vitality. A person’s Yang Qi belongs to Fire, and Yin Qi to Water. When Yin and Yang are in harmony, the forces of Water and Fire regulate one another. Within them is a spark of life that gradually emerges from weakness and continues to renew itself without end. What is frail can become vigorous, and what is weak can grow strong. A life nearing its end can gather its vital force; a short life can be prolonged. This is the Way of deepening the roots and firming the base, so as to live long and endure.

The Crane’s Embryonic Breathing and the Tortoise’s Breath

The crane is skilled at preserving and nourishing its spirit, so its embryonic breathing is steady and it can live for a thousand years. The tortoise is skilled at nourishing its Qi; even without eating, it can live for a hundred years without dying.

Seeing this, I came to understand the Way of extending life and increasing longevity. If a person can be humble and stay low, gentle and simple, sincere and free of deceit; if they do not dissipate their original Qi but continually nurture it, then their Qi will be abundant. If they can be selfless and free of worry, reduce their desires and calculations, and avoid exhausting their spirit by keeping the mind and Shen at rest, then their Shen will remain whole. When Qi is abundant and Shen is whole, the root of life is secure and its foundation firm. In time, it will not decline, and life will naturally be prolonged. The principle is certain. The crane and tortoise can each live long by preserving one—one its spirit, the other its original Qi. How much more can those who preserve both Shen and Qi live long?

Water Freezes and Ice Melts

When water encounters cold, it freezes into ice; when ice encounters heat, it melts back into water.

I have thus come to understand what makes someone a sage or an ordinary person. At birth, people’s nature is originally good, and there is no distinction between sages and ordinary people. The difference arises only later, from the habits and influences they accumulate. To make a habit of doing good and not lose one’s inborn nature is to be a sage; to make a habit of doing what is not good and lose one’s inborn nature is to be an ordinary person.

If someone who once acted wrongly learns to correct their mistakes and turn toward good, to cast off misguided thoughts and return to the right path, and through good deeds forms good habits and restores their inborn nature, then even someone who began as an ordinary person can become a sage. Conversely, if someone whose nature is good does not know how to guard themselves carefully and remain alert, but is swayed by outside influences until they gradually make a habit of doing what is not good and lose their inborn nature, then even someone who began as a sage can sink into ordinariness.

Goodness is like water; what is not good is like ice. A sage can become an ordinary person, and an ordinary person can become a sage, just as water can freeze into ice and ice can melt back into water. Thus the purpose of the Great Learning is to illuminate luminous virtue and bring people to rest in the state of supreme goodness.

Lush Trees and Far-Flowing Waters

When a tree’s roots grow deep, its branches and leaves naturally flourish. When a river’s source lies far away, its waters naturally run a long course. Such results come from having deep foundations.

From this I have come to understand how to preserve what is fundamental. A person’s Original Jing, Original Qi, and Original Shen—the Daoist terms for the essence of life, its vital energy, and spiritual awareness—are the source of nature and life: a person’s inherent nature and lifespan. When Original Jing is not depleted, the body remains sound; when Original Qi is not damaged, life remains strong; when Original Shen is not clouded, one’s nature remains clear. A sound body, a strong life, and a clear nature are not easily altered by external things or constrained by the transformations of nature. When nature and life are in one’s own hands rather than determined by Heaven, it is like a tree whose deep roots support luxuriant branches, or a distant water source that sustains a long-flowing river. Once the foundation is established, the Dao can unfold, and vitality continues without interruption.

Yet many people do not know to preserve life at its source. Instead, they make superficial efforts only at the tips of the branches, vainly hoping to attain the Great Dao. This is like climbing a tree to look for fish: in the end, they will find nothing. Is this not foolish?

The Pine’s Heartwood and the Bamboo’s Nodes

The pine’s heartwood is firm, and the bamboo’s nodes are hard. So even when winter comes, they do not wither; wind, snow, and frost instead make them flourish all the more.

From this I have come to understand how to cultivate body and mind and establish the foundation of life. When people have nothing on their conscience, remain respectful and sincere, and embrace the whole world without clinging to themselves, their hearts become firm. With a firm will, they are not led astray by wealth and status, do not change in poverty, and do not submit to power. They are unafraid when difficulties arise and do not despair when misfortune strikes. Good and ill fortune, blessings and calamities, and one’s external circumstances come from the conditions around oneself; how one shapes one’s destiny, however, remains in one’s own hands.

When people restrain themselves, handle matters well, stay in the place they ought to occupy, and do not lightly change their position, their integrity becomes steadfast. With steadfast integrity, they do nothing contrary to ritual and law, take no position against what is right, and commit no injustice. They can endure hardship and enjoy pleasure, hold high office and live in humble circumstances, and even face life and death. Whether they are attending to affairs or remaining still, external things do not sway them.

With a firm will and steadfast integrity, one can meet both ease and danger, act and be still, and handle affairs with flexibility and understanding, without being bound by a fixed way. Whether circumstances are favorable or adverse, or change in any number of ways, one remains unhindered.

A branch left exposed will rot over time. Once it has been burned in a fierce fire and turned to charcoal, it is hard to damage, however it is placed or whatever obstacles it meets. A lump shaped from earth and water will fall apart in the rain; fired into a brick, it can endure for a long time.

From this I have understood the principle of cultivating the Dao in order to attain it: people fail to attain the Dao because they have not been tempered in the great furnace of Heaven and Earth. If one can proceed steadily through the world, undergo trials in every matter, and remain unwavering even when life and death hang in the balance, one will become like true gold, growing brighter with each refinement, or a precious mirror, growing clearer with each polishing. When cultivation and tempering reach completion, bringing clarity, unobstructed radiance, and serene purity, one clings neither to being nor nonbeing, and both things and self return to stillness and emptiness. When body and spirit alike reach a wondrous state, one can unite with the Dao and realize the true. Then one is like charcoal and brick, made lasting and firm by the fierce fire, and difficult to damage.

If a corpse has been buried underground for a long time and a small piece of flesh remains uncorrupted, it will turn into an evil spirit and harm the living. If a corpse lies exposed for a long time, the vapor of damp heat will rise from it and form ghost fire, leading people astray.

Seeing these things, I came to understand a way to escape great calamity. From top to bottom, inside and out, nothing in the human body is free of evil spirits and ghosts. The eyes, nose, mouth, tongue, and limbs on the outside are linked to one another and draw in malign influences from the world beyond. The heart, liver, spleen, lungs, and kidneys within stir one another and give rise to deluded thoughts. Attacking one another from within and without, they damage our innate nature and do not stop until life itself is endangered. Can one even begin to describe how they harm and mislead people?

The Ancient Patriarch, the Daoist honorific for the sages of antiquity, said: “The reason I have great trouble is that I have this body. If I had no body, where would trouble come from?” From this we know that the body is my great trouble. If I can cast off this burden, I will naturally exist beyond the rule of trouble. This existence beyond the rule of trouble is the true self.

To escape trouble, one must first recognize the true self. Only then can one understand that this body is “other” and is not the same as “me.” For the true self to cast off this body is as easy as turning one’s hand, requiring no effort at all. Yet many who cultivate the Dao take the body to be themselves and their troubles to be real; they cling to them as if living beside ghosts, unwilling to let go. Other fools toil over this body that brings great trouble: they manipulate and adjust it, gather and replenish its energies from above and below, push and move them around, and vainly hope to attain the Dao this way. They mistake servants for masters and thieves for sons. They not only fail to escape trouble, but make it heavier. No wonder they spend their lives in ceaseless toil and end up gaining nothing.

Water is above; fire is below.

Water is naturally cold, while fire is naturally dry and hot. When fire is above and water below, each remains in its own place, and the two cannot harmonize. When water is above and fire below, the fire’s heat does not blaze upward so fiercely, and the water’s coldness can be warmed.

From this I have understood how Yin and Yang come together and separate. A person’s Yang energy is firm; without restraint, firmness becomes excessive dryness and heat, like fire above. Yin energy is yielding; without support, softness becomes excessive timidity and weakness, like water below. When firmness and softness cannot harmonize, isolated Yin cannot bring forth growth, and Yang acting alone cannot increase. Vitality then declines.

If firmness is strong without becoming fierce, and softness is used to guide it, this is like fire below. If softness is gentle without becoming weak, and firmness supports it, this is like water above. When firmness and softness are balanced, Yin and Yang are in harmony, nature and emotion blend together, and water and fire regulate one another. This is what is meant by “reversing Kan and Li”—bringing the positions and functions of water and fire, Yin and Yang, into harmony.

The seeds and kernels of fruits.

Every fruit contains a seed, and every seed contains a kernel. The kernel is divided into two halves, each with a heart of its own. This heart is a spark of life: the fruit can grow only because it takes this as its root. This is what is called the “Heart of Heaven and Earth.”

By observing these things, I came to understand the principle of life arising from Yin-Yang. Only when Yin and Yang unite can a kernel form; wherever there is a kernel, the Heart of Heaven and Earth is present. When Yin and Yang do not unite, no kernel forms, and the Heart of Heaven and Earth is absent. This heart is the root from which all things continually grow. Those who attain it can become sages, Buddhas, or immortals; those who lose it sink to the level of ordinary people, animals, ghosts, or demons. Whether the Heart of Heaven and Earth is present depends on whether Yin and Yang unite or separate.

If those who study and cultivate can harmonize Yin and Yang, avoiding all partiality and bringing themselves into balance and integrity, the Heart of Heaven and Earth will reappear. Then every gesture will accord with principle, and every step will lead to what is true and free of delusion—as though the pivot of change in Heaven, Earth, and all things lay in their own hands.

Muddy water is not clear to begin with, but when left to settle, it becomes clear. A tarnished mirror is dim to begin with, but when polished clean, it shines.

Seeing this, I understood the principle of clarifying the mind and revealing one’s nature: recognizing the original mind and bringing one’s innate nature to light. The human mind is unclear and the temperament unsettled because it contains every kind of thought—greed, anger, delusion, and desire—and every kind of emotion—joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure. Added to these are the root dusts left by past lives—the conditions that give rise to sensations and attachment—long-accumulated habits, and misleading, aberrant Qi from outside that clouds the spirit and blocks the apertures of inner clarity. This is like muddy water or a tarnished mirror: one’s original, true mind and nature are lost in confusion, left at the mercy of the Three Corpses, the Daoist spirits within the body said to obstruct cultivation, while the Six Thieves—the eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and mind, which draw one outward—run rampant. No defilement is avoided, no external thing turned away, and the inner world becomes utterly polluted.

If one can suddenly awaken and turn inward in self-reflection, wash away the dust and polish off the tarnish, then gradually refine and remove the accumulated errors and habits, deluded thoughts, and wrongful conduct of a lifetime, the longer one persists, the deeper one’s work becomes. Eventually, nothing remains to be refined, like ore entirely removed to reveal pure gold. One’s original mind and nature then emerge whole and complete, and the light of wisdom arises at once, illuminating the Three Thousand Worlds—the vast expanse of worlds spoken of in Buddhist and Daoist scriptures—as though they all lay in the palm of one’s hand, unobstructed. This is like muddy water settling back to clarity and a tarnished mirror shining again after polishing: one’s nature has never been diminished.

Movement brings heat; stillness brings cold.

When ordinary people are active, their bodies grow warm; when they sit quietly, their bodies grow cold. If they feel cold and become active, they grow warm again; if they feel warm and sit quietly, they grow cold again. This shows that cold and warmth are not determined entirely by the weather and seasons; they also depend on how people act.

From this I have come to understand that the key to the transformations of Yin-Yang and the workings of creation lies in knowing how to adjust. Firmness belongs to Yang, and gentleness to Yin. A firm-tempered person who is too impatient can reduce that impatience and return to calm by becoming humble and yielding. A timid, weak-willed person can overcome timidity and advance toward greater understanding by setting a clear resolve and acting with effort.

Someone who can be firm or yielding, follow principle and circumstance, and know when to advance or withdraw—who can be great or small, rise or descend, and be empty or full—can guide change in step with the moment, alter the course of life and death, redirect the movement of Qi (the force through which Yin-Yang operates and transforms), turn away from death, and move toward life. Just as activity warms the body and quiet sitting cools it, people too can change their circumstances through their own actions.

A tall tower is built little by little from the ground up, and a tree thick enough to be encircled by both arms grows slowly from a seedling. Neither can be accomplished in a single day, because growth comes through gradual accumulation.

From this I have come to understand that genuine, deep practice—and the insight gained through one’s own experience—must follow the principle of gradual progress. Cultivating the body and mind and preserving life are among the most important and difficult undertakings in the world. They cannot be achieved in haste, nor can the proper sequence be skipped. One must stay grounded and advance step by step, learning through each undertaking; climb from low to high and move from shallow understanding toward deeper insight. Practice steadily, without counting the years or abandoning one’s resolve, and in the end one can reach the desired state. Never settle for getting by or stop halfway, leaving yourself exposed to future troubles.

An undertaking that requires long perseverance and cannot be completed easily can succeed only through sustained effort. If one begins diligently but later grows lax, or indulges in idle fantasies while hoping to preserve life and accomplish a rare and great undertaking, there is no sense in it. As the sages say, “A person without perseverance cannot be a shaman or physician.” How much more does this apply to the great undertaking of cultivating the body and mind and preserving life?

Low-lying places, after a long time, naturally fill in; raised places, worn down over time, naturally become level. This is because emptiness bears the sign of fullness, while height contains the cause of decline.

Observing this, I have grasped the principles of gain and loss, increase and decrease, emptiness and fullness. Those who are arrogant and self-important rely on their talents and abilities, believing themselves wise and superior to others, and are easily disliked. Their complacency often brings them faults, and in the end they fall below others, unable to hold on to a high position—like raised ground that becomes level after being trodden for a long time. Those who are humble and modest do not flaunt their intelligence or talents. They lower their bearing and treat others with equanimity, and are often respected and liked. Their open-mindedness also often brings them gains, until they eventually surpass others and are no longer in a low position—like a hollow that fills through the accumulation of days. Thus, the higher a junzi’s Dao (the Way), the humbler their attitude; the deeper their De (Virtue/Power), the less complacent they are. When all arrogance has vanished, an irritable temperament fades away completely.

The Carp and the Old Fox

A carp can transform into a dragon among the clouds, and an old fox can transform into a feathered immortal—a legendary flying immortal. This is because their spirit and vital energy are abundant, enabling their bodies to change.

Observing these legends, I have grasped the principle of spiritual powers and transformation. Fish and foxes receive only one-sided portions of the Qi (vital energy) between Heaven and Earth; all they rely on is a small measure of spiritual awareness. Human beings, too, are the most spiritually endowed of all things. We receive the balanced Qi of Heaven and Earth, possess all Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water), and embody the five virtues corresponding to them. We stand between Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things, endowed with the complete nature bestowed by Heaven and Earth. If we can nourish the balanced Qi of Heaven and Earth, preserve harmony among the Five Phases, keep body and mind centered and impartial, and allow primordial Qi to flow as an undivided whole, then we can accord with the transformations of Heaven and Earth. Through this, people can cultivate themselves into sages and refine themselves into immortals, bringing both body and spirit to a wondrous state. They can unite with the Dao and realize the truth, then transform without limit. Is this merely a matter of changing the body?

The Dragon’s Transformations

The dragon’s wondrous powers are plain to see: it can grow large or become small, rise high or descend. After uniting with the Dao and realizing the truth, it can undergo a thousand transformations without end. Is this merely a matter of changing the body?

The dragon’s wondrous powers are plain to see: it can grow large or become small, rise or descend, conceal itself or appear. It can pass through mountains and split rocks, summon clouds and mist, and spread rain. How can it do all this? Because a wondrous power is at work within it.

From this I have come to understand that the Way of wondrous transformation is unfathomable. What makes a person human is Shen (spirit), the root of life and mind. When Shen remains within the body, a person lives; when it departs, the person dies. Shen’s workings extend throughout Heaven and Earth and reach from above to below; it knows past and present. It enters even the tiniest places and is nowhere absent. It can enter water without drowning, enter fire without being burned, and meet metal and stone without being obstructed. At its greatest, it fills the cosmos; at its smallest, it reaches the tip of a hair. Look for it, and it cannot be seen; listen for it, and it cannot be heard. Try to grasp it, and it cannot be held. It cannot be passed on in words or depicted with brush and ink.

Those skilled in using this wondrous Way can respond to change as it arises. Their De (Virtue/Power) accords with that of Heaven and Earth, their radiance answers that of the sun and moon, and their actions move in harmony with the four seasons. They can also join the spirits in discerning good fortune and misfortune. Before the Way of Heaven becomes manifest, they can act ahead of it; once it appears, they can follow the timing of Heaven. Like a divine dragon, they transform without pattern, beyond the reach of outward appearances.

Like withered wood and cold ash.

Even when dry wood is burned, it gives off no more flames; even when cooled ashes are stirred, they do not grow warm again.

From this I came to understand how one can change one’s temperament. Influenced by inborn endowment and disposition, a person may become uncontrollably angry at the slightest offense and do things that violate the natural order. Sometimes, even caught amid water and fire, they fail to notice the danger; they may fall into a cave or a well without realizing it. They disregard their own lives and treat life and death as nothing. Such calamities are beyond counting.

If we can restrain ourselves so that our words and actions accord with ritual and proper conduct, temper our hardness and move toward gentleness, put aside resentment and distress, and let go of the desire to outdo others; if we can transform a temperament brimming with blood and Qi (vital energy), quick to anger and agitation, and bring it to calm and gentleness; if we can concentrate our original Qi, become supple, and nourish Shen (spirit) with an open heart, then we can reach a state of no self and no other, no “this” and no “that.” Looking outward at things, we do not cling to them; examining ourselves, we do not cling to the body; turning inward to observe the heart, we do not cling to thoughts. Free of discriminating views, the heart is empty, clear, and still.

Then we are like dry wood that burns without flame and cold ashes that stir without warmth: living amid the transformations of Heaven and Earth, we are not stirred by changes in the outside world; living within the transformations of Yin-Yang, we are not bound by Yin-Yang.

Draw Near to Cinnabar, Draw Near to Coal

An object placed near cinnabar will, over time, be stained red; placed near coal, it will, over time, be blackened by it.

Stay near cinnabar long enough, and you will be stained red; stay near coal long enough, and you will be stained black.

From this I have understood how good and evil take hold through habit. When someone keeps company with kind people, they often hear kind words and see kind deeds. Repeatedly exposed to them through hearing and sight, they gradually take root in the heart, and a habit of goodness forms without one’s noticing. The same is true of keeping company with wicked people: hear wicked words and see wicked deeds often enough, and, over time, wicked habits will form. A person’s goodness or wickedness is related to their inborn nature, but much of it is also shaped by habits acquired later in life. That is why a gentleman should choose his neighbors carefully and be prudent in choosing friends.

The Infant’s Innocence

A newborn infant is without knowledge or awareness. It is untouched by drink, sex, wealth, and status, and has no attachments of affection or love. It knows nothing of riches and poverty or of success and failure in official life, and has not suffered harm from water, fire, weapons, or war. It has no “self-character” (attachment to the self), no “other-character” (attachment to others), no “sentient-being character” (attachment to living beings), and no “life-span character” (attachment to the length of life). In its eyes, all things are empty and still. It is untainted by worldly dust and remains pure and innocent.

From this I have understood the way of returning to youth. If a person can suddenly awaken and turn back, free themselves from attachment to all things, and rest in a state undisturbed and unpulled by desire, they can remove the dust and afflictions accumulated over countless lifetimes, sweep away the habits formed in this life, and let go of every fixation. Reaching a state of empty clarity and purity, even if the body grows old, the heart and nature can regain the innocence of a newborn. The outward form may be weak, yet inwardly it will be firm and strong. This is returning to youth: returning to one’s original nature, like that of an infant. If innocence is lost, then even a strong and healthy body is no better than that of a pig or an ox. What good is that?

The Use of the Bellows

The bellows—a tuoyue, an ancient device for blowing air—has openings at both ends, each fitted with a movable flap, while its body is hollow and straight. Its hollowness is its substance; its straightness is its function. The openings at either end are passages through which breath enters and leaves; the two movable flaps are the pivots that govern opening and closing. As the bellows is pushed and pulled, drawing in and releasing, it remains hollow inside without bending. Once it is set in motion, it produces wind. Its opening and closing, its waxing and waning, all occur naturally.

From this, I have observed and understood the way substance and function work in cultivating the true Way—that is, cultivating body and mind to attain the true Dao. If a person can make inner emptiness and stillness the foundation, and meet changing circumstances with an upright heart; if they can draw in and release freely, remain empty and still without yielding, and let each movement of the mind flow like wind, while allowing opening and closing, waxing and waning to follow their natural course, then they can be free of selfishness and desire and let the principles of Heaven flow of themselves. In this way, firmness and gentleness are balanced, movement and stillness are fitting, bending and extending are just right, and concealment and manifestation accord with the moment. One can then connect with the Qi of the void and join with the transformative workings of Heaven and Earth. Like the bellows, hollow yet straight, pushed and pulled so that breath flows naturally and Qi moves without interruption, how could one fail to attain long life?

The Dipper Handle and the monthly divisions: an ancient calendrical concept in which the direction pointed to by the handle of the Northern Dipper marked the month.

Of the seven stars of the Northern Dipper, the first four are called the “Kui,” and the last three the “Gang,” also known as the “Dipper’s handle.” The direction in which the handle points is auspicious; the place where it stands is inauspicious. For example, when it points toward the Yin position, Yin is the month marker for that month; when it points toward the Mao position, Mao is the month marker. The handle shifts twelve times over the course of a year, corresponding to the twelve months. The place it points to is auspicious because vital energy (Qi) is flourishing there.

By observing the Northern Dipper’s movements, I came to understand how to reverse the movement of Qi. A person’s forceful energy is like the Gang stars in the sky: when this energy moves outward, things may seem auspicious on the surface, but the inner self is harmed; when it moves inward, the inner self benefits, but the outer self is harmed. This is like the place the Gang stars point to being auspicious while the place they occupy is inauspicious.

After birth, people enter the acquired realm, and their forceful energy is spent entirely outward: they compete to prove their strength and seek victory, cling to what is false and abandon what is true, thereby damaging the inner “Three Treasures”—Jing (essence), Qi (vital energy), and Shen (spirit). Auspicious energy disperses outward, while inauspicious energy gathers within the body. As the years pass, Yang energy is depleted and Yin energy grows pure and dominant. How could death then be avoided?

Thus, perfected beings who have attained the Dao reverse the Dipper’s handle and set the Kui and Gang in motion, directing their forceful energy toward inner cultivation. They cut away the “Three Corpses” (Daoist deities said to dwell in the body and hinder cultivation), eliminate the “Six Thieves” (six desires or sensory lures that disturb the mind), sever every attachment, and sweep away the mind’s dust. They do not let the false harm the true, nor allow external things to agitate the heart. In this way, auspicious energy grows day by day and inauspicious energy recedes; the former continually increases as the latter continually diminishes. Once auspicious energy has become abundant and inauspicious energy has been dispelled, there is no reason one cannot attain long life.

The Madman and the Drunkard

A madman leaps over a wall. Though he falls, he is not injured. A drunkard tumbles from a cart. Though he falls hard, he does not die. Why? Because they have forgotten their bodies and know no fear.

Seeing this, I came to understand the principles of nurturing life and preserving the body. What sustains human life is the Three Treasures: Jing (essence), Qi (vital energy), and Shen (spirit)—the foundations of life in Daoist teaching. When the Three Treasures come together, a person can live; when they disperse, a person dies. To bring them together, one must first be free of self, that is, not cling to the self. Without such attachment, the mind can be empty and still. When the mind is empty and still, Jing, Qi, and Shen will not leak away or dissipate; they will only increase, never diminish. As the Three Treasures grow ever fuller, vitality can continue without end, bringing longevity. Madmen and drunkards merely forget their bodies for a time, yet already escape death. How much more can those whose Jing and Qi are abundant, whose Shen is complete, and whose Jing and Qi are firmly held preserve their lives?

Grasp the Main Cord and the Collar

To arrange a fishing net, one takes hold of its main cord; to fold a garment, one grasps its collar. In each case, one begins with what matters most.

From this I came to understand the fundamental principles of cultivating the Dao: cultivating mind and body in pursuit of a higher life. The mind governs the whole body and is the foundation of becoming a sage or worthy, a Buddha or an immortal. When the mind grows still, its many concerns subside; when it stirs, all kinds of distracting thoughts surge up. If the mind can be kept empty and clear, so that inner thoughts do not race outward and external things do not disturb it; if, when responding to events, the mind remains calm, and when calm, it can still respond with ease—then even amid bustling crowds and noise, it will be as clear as a bright mirror and as steady as still water, without dust or ripples. In this way, one is not pulled along by one’s surroundings. One can also handle affairs by grasping what matters, as when taking hold of a net’s main cord or a garment’s collar, and act appropriately in every situation.

Panning for Gold and Picking Jade

Panning for gold in sand and picking jade from stone are not things one can obtain casually. Only through hard work and deep accumulation can one gain something.

From this I have understood the principle of making progress step by step and accomplishing something through cultivation. The innate true treasure is like gold and jade; the false impurities formed after birth are like sand and stone. These acquired impurities can bury the innate true treasure, just as sand and stone cover gold and jade. So to seek what is true in the innate nature, one must gradually remove what is false in the acquired nature.

The “true” is the numinous root of the innate primordial Qi. The “false” consists of the various karmic causes accumulated over many lifetimes, as well as one’s acquired temperament and nature, the Qi of the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water), and ingrained habits developed over time. The true is buried beneath layer upon layer of appearances and is not easily revealed. One must therefore cultivate gradually, removing impurities step by step until one can see one’s true nature. Continue stripping away what is false until nothing remains to be removed; when all false appearances have gone, the true nature will naturally become clear. It is like gold and jade emerging only after all the sand and stone have been cleared away. This is the work of enduring hardship before arriving at sweetness, and of allowing fragrance to emerge from filth.

Drawing Water with a Counterweighted Lever

When a counterweighted lever (a device for drawing water) is used, the empty bucket end sinks while the other end, once filled, rises. The motion cycles back and forth without stopping, drawing water to irrigate the fields.

From this I have understood how emptiness and fullness work together. When people are open-minded and treat others with humility, they benefit and become inwardly enriched, enabling them to rise further. The more open-minded and humble they are, the more they can be enriched and elevated. As long as openness continues, enrichment continues; as long as humility continues, elevation continues. Emptiness and fullness, low and high, transform into and connect with one another. As moral cultivation grows ever more substantial, one can reach a lofty and lucid state.

The Book of Changes says: “Submissive penetration is beneath the bed; with the help of the historian and the diviner, many are in agreement. Good fortune.” Xun, one of the Eight Trigrams of the Book of Changes, is beneath the bed; with the help of the historian and the diviner, rites are performed in abundance, bringing good fortune. The passage means that the higher one’s moral attainment, the humbler one becomes inwardly.

Flowers and Fruit of Plants

Plants blossom and bear fruit.

Plants and trees flower when the season is right, then bear fruit, each following the time of year. In this way they grow and flourish. If they miss the season, it is a sign of decline, because they have gone against the natural order.

From this I have understood the principle of following the right moment and moving with the times. Human life depends on Shen and Qi—spirit and vital energy. When something happens, we must respond; when something external appears, we must engage with it. We should deal with each situation as it arises and respond well as external things change. We should not anticipate what lies ahead, nor let what has passed linger in our minds. In this way, Shen is not injured and Qi is not depleted. This is like plants and trees flowering and bearing fruit in season: it is the way to preserve life.

If we covet wealth, become absorbed in sensual pleasures, pursue achievements and contend for fame, turning these things over in our minds day and night; if we scheme before events occur and cannot let go once they have passed, then Shen and Qi will be depleted. This is like plants and trees flowering and bearing fruit out of season: it is a way of bringing decline upon ourselves.

Therefore, the noble person treasures Shen as if it were a precious possession. When putting Shen to use, they let it work without displaying it excessively. When gathering Shen inward, they keep the mind quiet and free from reckless movement. They act when it is time to act and stop when it is time to stop. In both action and stillness, they remain appropriate, never allowing empty delusions to damage their true nature.

Wooden puppets and clay figures.

Wooden puppets and clay figurines are lifeless things. Yet when people worship them with sincere devotion, over time they seem to show signs of spiritual power and answer their prayers. From this I came to understand a method of cultivation that “brings the dead back to life.”

People in the world often mistake the false for the real and suffering for joy. By day they are absorbed in worldly relationships; by night they fall into dreams and illusions. They bustle about, yet seem to follow a path leading to death, never truly living. Though their bodies act, their hearts are already dead; though their forms remain, their spirits have long since withered. Day after day, year after year, Yang energy is gradually depleted until only Yin energy remains. How could they avoid decline and death?

If you understand that worldly affairs are all illusory, you should awaken abruptly and turn your heart around. Be single-minded and steadfast; do not waver, indulge in vain imaginings, or give way to worry. Devote yourself solely to nurturing nature and life. In cultivation, remain watchful and alert, guarding against even the smallest error. As your practice deepens over time, the mind will naturally become clear and the spirit naturally grow radiant. When no distracting thoughts arise within, external things can no longer disturb you. Then you can discard the false and preserve the true, reach a state of communion with Heaven and Earth and mastery over ghosts and spirits, influence the transformations of nature, and transcend the myriad things. You can escape the torments of hell and ascend to heaven, open the gate to life and close the gate to death. Thus, the means to prolong life and increase longevity become attainable.

The Lamp’s Light Shines Brightly

The light of a lamp or candle illuminates the room.

When a candle shines inside a room, the room becomes bright while the outdoors grows dim. Move the candle outside, and the outdoors becomes bright while the room darkens.

From this I have realized that people must use their intelligence and talents appropriately. A person’s intelligence is like the light of a candle. If it is directed outward—toward winning at all costs and pursuing fame and profit, with calculations and anxious thoughts day and night—then false circumstances will lead that person astray, and they will forget their roots. Such people may appear clever on the outside, but inwardly they are in darkness, continually wearing down both body and mind.

If someone can let go of delusion and return to what is real, neither showing off their intelligence nor flaunting their cleverness, and can make cultivating nature and life their foremost concern, gather in the Shen that rushes outward, turn their gaze inward, cultivate body and mind, and keep faith with their original nature, then even amid all things they will understand that those things ultimately return to emptiness. They will not be swayed by external things or tainted by worldly troubles. Clear within, and unattached to outward fame or gain, such a person may become a worthy or a sage, or even attain Buddhahood or immortality. They may seem lacking in cleverness, yet in truth they have reached a higher wisdom. As the Jing says, “Great wisdom seems foolish; great skill seems clumsy.”

Qu Wine and Rice Porridge

Wine can only be brewed with yeast; without yeast, it cannot become wine. Porridge can only be cooked with rice; without rice, it cannot become porridge. Since yeast already contains the character of wine, the saying goes: “Great wisdom seems foolish; great skill seems clumsy.”

Fermenting starter can make wine; without starter, wine cannot be made. Rice can be cooked into porridge; without rice, porridge cannot be cooked. Starter inherently contains the vital quality of wine, so it can ferment wine; rice is the essence of grain, so it can be cooked into porridge. This is because each follows the principle that things of the same kind bring one another to completion.

From this I have realized that cultivating nature and cultivating life also requires finding the root they share. Here, “nature” means the inborn nature bestowed by Heaven—not habitual dispositions shaped by temperament, but a nature capable of transforming even one’s temperament. “Life” means the inborn root of life—not the length of one’s years, but the life that transcends the distinction between an early death and longevity. Those who cultivate the Dao and wish to nurture nature and life must find their seeds. Only by finding them and cultivating in accordance with them can nature and life reach fulfillment. If one cultivates something other than this root, one will instead damage nature and life.

This “seed” lies outside the body, but it is not any tangible substance such as metal, stone, plants, or trees. Nor is it within the body as a physiological substance such as blood vessels, Jing (essence), Qi (vital energy), or bodily fluids. These are all things with form and appearance, and are not of the same kind as the true root of nature and life. How, then, could they bring nature and life to fulfillment? One should understand that the true seed of nature and life is nothing other than the primordial, innate Qi (vital energy): the fundamental Qi from which all things arise, pure and undivided.

This Qi cannot be seen or heard, nor can it be grasped. One cannot search for it only within the body, nor seek it outside the body. It does not leave the body, yet it is not confined to the body. It appears and disappears amid the obscure and elusive, concealed within a realm of emptiness and stillness. When gathered in, it appears as “true emptiness”; when it unfolds, it appears as “wondrous existence.” It cannot be passed on in words or depicted with brush and ink. If one insists on drawing it, one can only draw a circle, “〇.” If one insists on naming it, Confucians call it the Taiji (Supreme Ultimate), Buddhists call it Perfect Enlightenment, and Daoists call it the Golden Elixir. The three names differ, but they point to the same root. This alone is the true seed of nature and life.

“Exhausting principle” means thoroughly investigating this true seed; “fully realizing nature” means bringing this true seed fully to expression; and “fulfilling life” means bringing this true seed to complete fruition. Once the true seed is recognized, one cultivates by following the method of reversing the course and returning to the innate. Use it to cultivate nature, and nature can become clear; use it to cultivate life, and life can be established. Thus the Cantong qi (Token for Joining the Three), a classic of Daoist cultivation and refinement, says: “Things of the same kind are easy to work with; things of different kinds are difficult to bring skillfully to completion.” It is just like fermenting wine, which requires starter, or cooking porridge, which requires rice.

When a bell is struck, it rings; when a drum is beaten, it sounds. The bell and drum are solid on the outside but hollow within, and so they can produce sound.

From this I understand the principle of “wondrous presence within true emptiness.” “True emptiness” is like the hollow inside a bell or drum; “wondrous presence” is like the sound that emerges when they are struck. If practitioners take true emptiness as their fundamental nature and wondrous presence as its activity, they can remain still while responding, and respond while remaining still. Their minds are serene and unmoving, yet they meet and resonate with the things around them and respond freely. After each response, they return to stillness; within stillness, things can once again appear. They are empty without becoming fixed in emptiness, present without clinging to presence—clear and open, full of living vitality. In this way, through ceaseless tempering in the transformative furnace of Heaven and Earth, they shed the dust and grime until the mind is like a bright mirror. When the clouds and mist disperse, the luminous moon appears, revealing an indestructible Dharma body—a firm and unspoiled state of cultivation—that transcends the changes of Yin-Yang and endures as long as the vast emptiness of the Great Void.

A puppet can nod onstage, and a kite can rise into the sky, because someone pulls and controls them with strings.

From this I understand the principle of movement and stillness in the human body and the circulation of Shen and Qi. The body is like a puppet or a kite: by itself, it cannot move. Shen—the spirit that governs the activities of body and mind—is like the person operating them; Qi—the breath and energy that circulate within the body—is like the string. Shen moves Qi, and Qi moves the whole body, allowing a person to act or be still, just as someone guides a puppet or a kite. Shen moves Qi, and Qi moves the body; this is how a person can walk, stop, speak, or remain still in Wuwei (non-action).

Those who cultivate the Dao, if they understand how to guide Qi with Shen and nourish Shen with Qi, bringing Shen and Qi into harmony, can sense the presence of Jing and Qi in a state that is indistinct and profound. These subtle realities are genuine. Practitioners gather them and return them to the body, bringing about transformations without limit and enabling them to work with the workings of Heaven and Earth. This goes beyond merely controlling the physical body.

Parrots learn to speak under human instruction, and stone monkeys learn to perform under human instruction. These abilities are not innate; they acquire them through gradual teaching.

From this I have come to understand the value of seeking a teacher and visiting friends. Parrots and stone monkeys are both animals, yet with human guidance they can speak human words and dance human dances. How much more, then, can people—the most perceptive of all beings—achieve? With a wise teacher’s guidance and good friends’ help, there is no reason one cannot advance to a higher level.

If one can truly study under a wise teacher and make good friends, sincerely discern the principles involved, draw on others’ knowledge to make up for one’s own ignorance, and use their insight to open up one’s own narrow understanding, then even someone naturally dull can become perceptive, and even someone of a yielding temperament can grow strong. What, then, could prevent one from becoming an immortal or a Buddha?

Those ignorant students in the world who think themselves right, make careless judgments based on personal conjecture, congratulate themselves on their cleverness, and refuse to ask humbly for guidance will only hinder their own prospects. They may seem to deceive others, but in truth they deceive themselves, treating the great matter of life and nature as a game. No wonder some people labor all their lives and reach old age having achieved nothing. It is truly lamentable.

Elm Samaras, Shepherd’s Purse, and Wheat

In the second month, when all things begin to grow, elm samaras fall in great numbers. In the eighth month, when all things draw inward, shepherd’s purse and wheat instead begin to grow.

Elm Samaras and Shepherd’s Purse

In the second month, all things are growing, yet elm samaras fall. In the eighth month, all things are drawing inward, yet shepherd’s purse and buckwheat grow. This is a symbol of De containing punishment, and punishment containing De.

From this I have understood the principle of using benevolence and righteousness together. Benevolence is soft and governs compassion; righteousness is firm and governs judgment and the fulfillment of things. Benevolence without righteousness leads to protecting others indiscriminately, without distinguishing right from wrong. Righteousness without benevolence makes judgment prone to excessive severity. In both cases, the principle of moderation is lost. When benevolence and righteousness work together, decisiveness within benevolence prevents confusion about right and wrong; flexibility within righteousness prevents rigid inflexibility. This is just like elm samaras falling in the second month, when punishment lies hidden within De, and shepherd’s purse and buckwheat growing in the eighth month, when De is contained within punishment. Together, they embody the Way of harmony and balance.

Longing for Water, Longing for Fire

When the body is overheated, one longs to drink water; after drinking, the heat subsides. When one feels cold, one longs for fire; once fire is obtained, the cold is gone.

From this I have understood the principle that Yin and Yang depend on one another. The Dao cannot have Yin without Yang, nor Yang without Yin. When Yang reaches its height, Yin must regulate it; when Yin reaches its height, Yang must carry it forward. When Yin and Yang are neither excessive nor deficient, and firmness and softness are well matched, primordial Qi flows naturally. The root of life is not depleted, and vitality continues without interruption. In this way, people can fully express their nature and establish their life, without being pulled along by the myriad things or constrained by worldly affairs. They live amid the dust of the world yet transcend it; they are in the world without being bound by its affairs.

If Yin and Yang are isolated from one another and firmness and softness lose their coordination, vitality comes to a halt. Growth becomes impossible, and life instead grows weaker by the day. When this depletion reaches its limit, one falls into peril.

Facing South, Facing North

When you face south, your back is necessarily to the north: you can see the south but not the north. When you face north, your back is necessarily to the south: you can see the north but not the south.

From this, I came to understand the principle of choosing the good Dao and holding firmly to it. When a person devotes themself wholly to goodness, all they see, think, say, do, and engage with is good; their daily life and work, too, conform to goodness in every way. With goodness alone in their heart, they cannot see evil. When a person devotes themself wholly to evil, all they see, think, say, do, and engage with is evil; their daily life and work, too, conform to evil in every way. With evil alone in their heart, they cannot see goodness.

When goodness and evil each come into view, it is often difficult to attend to both. The crooked and the upright cannot stand together, nor can loyal ministers and treacherous ministers serve in the same court. Thus, the noble person pursues goodness as if afraid of falling behind. On seeing what is not good, they turn away from it at once, as they would from scalding water. They guard the Dao as they would a precious treasure, with single-minded devotion and unshaken resolve, never changing even unto death. They do not cease their efforts until their cultivation has reached depth and they have gained understanding for themselves.

When pulling up weeds, you must dig out every root, or they will grow back. When planting a tree, you must firm the soil around its roots, or it will soon wither. From this I came to understand how to remove what is false and cultivate one’s true nature.

Selfish desires and ingrained tendencies belong to what is “false,” like weeds. One’s innate nature and conscience belong to what is “true,” like trees. To remove what is false, you must clear away selfish desires and habitual tendencies completely, down to the roots, so they cannot grow again. If even a little remains, it may quietly return over time, growing from little to much and causing great harm.

To cultivate one’s true nature, you must watch over it constantly and keep nourishing the innate innocence within. Watering it with “spirit water” and warming it with “true fire” are symbolic expressions in Daoist Neidan (internal alchemy), referring to the continual nourishing and refining of body and mind. You must also protect it carefully so that the true nature is not disturbed. Only when the foundation is firm, Qi (vital energy) abundant, and spirit complete will it remain unchanged by external things and unburdened by worldly affairs, leaving no cause for future harm.

So, removing what is false must be so thorough that nothing remains, like digging out every weed root. Cultivating one’s true nature must likewise leave nothing inauthentic, like planting a tree with its roots firmly set in deep soil. An ancient classic says, “If even a trace of Yin Qi remains, one cannot become an immortal; if even a trace of Yang Qi is exhausted, one will not die.” These words are indeed true.

Full bottle, half bottle.

When a bottle is filled to the brim, water spills out and some is lost. When it is only half full, nothing leaks away, and it can remain full for a long time.

From this, I came to understand the relationship between fullness and emptiness, misfortune and blessing. If someone is content with themselves and full of pride, relying on their own abilities and talents, always pressing forward and never yielding, always showing strength and never showing weakness, thinking only of themselves and looking down on others, they will eventually invite trouble. This kind of “fullness” brings no real benefit.

By contrast, someone who is humble and takes the lower position, treats others generously and is willing to yield, and does not insist on having everything to the full; who does not boast of their achievements or pride themselves on their talents, but often examines their own faults and respects others’ strengths; who knows when they have enough and when to stop, and understands when to advance and when to retreat, will ultimately receive blessings and rise from a low position to a high one.

As the saying goes, “Humility brings benefit; self-satisfaction brings loss.” Humility is more precious than self-satisfaction.

Each thing has its own natural quality. If it is decorated for no reason, painted in five colors, and inlaid with gold and jade, it may look splendid and imposing, but it loses its original simplicity. From this I understand that cultivating the Dao means returning to the unadorned and recovering one’s natural simplicity.

Human nature is originally pure and flawless. Once people enter life shaped by acquired conditions, the senses interact with the external world (the sense faculties and their objects), and thoughts, perceptions, and experiences steadily multiply. Habits then continually shape them, making it easy to be led by their cravings: those who love wine become absorbed in it; those who love sensual pleasures become absorbed in them; those who love wealth become absorbed in it; those who love to vent their anger become absorbed in rivalry and the desire to win; those who love status and riches become absorbed in them; and those who love amusement become absorbed in it. To satisfy their desires, people rack their brains, openly and secretly seeking only to indulge them. Everything they do pursues illusion: they take suffering for pleasure and poison for medicine. In this way, their original nature is completely buried. They may even disregard the loss of their bodies and lives, unaware that they are bringing calamity upon themselves.

Therefore, the sages of ancient times taught people to distinguish good from evil, recover their original mind, return to the unadorned, and rediscover their true nature. Once their nature is restored, their hearts are clear and at ease, untouched by the slightest stain and no longer burdened by worldly concerns. This is the foundation of becoming a sage and the seed of becoming an immortal or a Buddha. This is what is meant by a “True Person.”

“Having form and Qi” means possessing a body and Qi (vital energy).

Whatever has form will inevitably decline once it has come into being; whatever has breath will inevitably die once it has come to life. Form and breath are the roots of things’ flourishing and decay, and of life and death.

By observing these principles, I came to understand how to escape life and death. People receive the Qi of the later-heaven Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, and Water), and from it their bodies take shape; within the body, the Qi of the Five Phases is stored as well. When this Qi stirs within the body, it appears as the “Five Thieves”—the forces that deplete a person’s original vital energy: joy, anger, sorrow, pleasure, and desire. The Five Thieves entangle one another and drain a person’s true vitality, so life must inevitably lead to death.

Those perfected beings who have attained the Dao can transform later-heaven Qi and return to their original nature. They settle body and mind in emptiness, and conceal their spirit in a realm of purity and stillness. They are undisturbed by the Qi of the Five Phases and unaffected by the myriad things. Like withered wood and cold ashes, they show no signs of life. They have no fixed appearance or form, like the vast sky or an empty, silent valley. Neither Heaven and Earth can bind them, nor the transformations of creation confine them. This is called stealing the pivot of Yin-Yang and reversing the movement of Qi’s transformations, so that one’s fate is governed by oneself rather than by Heaven.

Heaven and Earth can command things with form, but not things without form; things with Qi, but not things without Qi; things with mind, but not things without mind. Without thoughts, there is no Qi; without Qi, there is no form. Without mind, Qi, or form, there is emptiness. What, then, can Heaven and Earth do to emptiness? Heaven and Earth can bring form and breath to life or death, flourishing or decay—but how can they make emptiness live or die, flourish or decay?

“A voice echoes through an empty valley.”

When someone calls out in an empty valley, the sound echoes back. In common usage, this phenomenon is called the “Valley Spirit.” Because a sound issues from the valley, though no form can be seen, it is given this name.

From this, I came to understand the principle of nurturing the spirit within emptiness: when the human mind is open, clear, and unobstructed, it is like a valley. Within that openness and clarity, a subtle vital presence lies concealed; this is the spirit. The valley is still and quiet until something stirs it, and then a sound can emerge. Only an empty valley can reveal this subtle wonder; without one, there is nothing to reveal it. The spirit’s wondrous quality lies precisely in emptiness.

People in the world often accumulate selfish desires, obscuring their inner openings. Their minds become muddied and confused—how could they still possess an open, clear state of mind? When the mind is not open and clear, a person grows lost and dull, as if in a drunken dream. Their vital presence dissipates in turn, so how could one speak of having a spirit? To lose one’s spiritual clarity is to be as good as dead, even while alive.

If you can sweep away every attachment and dissolve the obstructions within your mind, leaving it pure, open, and clear, without clinging to anything, then naturally you will be like an empty valley. In a hazy, indistinct state, something subtle seems to be there. Without deliberately seeking the spirit, subtle responses arise of their own accord: a call is answered, and spiritual clarity reaches its utmost. When the mind and spirit expand, they can fill Heaven and Earth; when gathered in, they lie hidden in secret places. In this way, you can connect with Heaven and Earth and accord with their workings.

Weighing scales, rulers, and measuring rods.

Weighing things requires a small precision scale; only after weighing can their heaviness or lightness be accurately known. Measuring things requires a ruler or a measuring rod; only after measuring can their length be determined.

From this I realized that the use of ingredients and the timing of the firing process in the Elixir method also follow certain rules. Here, “ingredients” refers to the two Qi energies of Yin and Yang, while “firing process” refers to the work and timing involved in cultivation. Maintaining the center and remaining balanced, without leaning to either side, is like weighing with a scale. Following the proper sequence of advance and retreat is like measuring with a ruler or rod. Harmonize the two Qi energies according to the balanced method, so their proportions are just right, neither too much nor too little. Apply the firing process in the proper sequence of advance and retreat, carefully judging its duration and knowing when to advance and when to withdraw and hold steady. Only then can the movement of Qi reach completion and the firing process be properly managed. The phrase “two eight make one jin” is a symbolic measure in the Elixir method, meant to emphasize that the ingredients must be combined in exactly the right proportions.

The key to getting the proportions of the ingredients right is balance; the key to ordering the firing process correctly is knowing when to advance and retreat. If you can maintain balance and understand advance and retreat, the ingredients will be pure, the firing process will not go wrong, and the Great Dao will be easier to cultivate.

Alas! Judging when to proceed slowly or quickly, and discerning good fortune from misfortune, requires the careful judgment of someone with experience. Knowing when to advance or retreat, when to stop and when enough is enough—how could the ignorant and unenlightened manage this? How could the use of ingredients and the firing process be easy to understand?

Rafts, fish traps, and fishing nets are all implements used for crossing water or catching fish.

To cross a river, you need a raft; once you have crossed, you can leave it behind. To catch fish, you need a bamboo fish trap; once you have caught the fish, you should put the trap away.

From this I have realized that practitioners can use methods to prolong life. The “methods” referred to here are those used in cultivating the Dao. When Yang energy is at its height and Yin energy begins to arise, the body’s sensory desires can disturb the mind like the “Six Thieves,” while the energies of the Five Phases clash with one another. The Three Corpses—the Daoist inner worms, also a metaphor for the desires within that obstruct cultivation—wreak havoc inside the body, while the Seven Emotions surge outward. The innate spiritual root is thus depleted day by day, until almost nothing remains. Without the great method of subduing the dragon and taming the tiger, and the skillful means of turning the Dipper’s handle—the handle of the Big Dipper, here a metaphor for transforming the movement of Qi—how could evil energy be dispelled and righteous energy restored? This is why methods of cultivation are indispensable.

The Great Dao is naturally Wuwei (non-action). Why, then, use methods to force oneself to cultivate? They are needed to remove one’s own afflictions. Once those afflictions have been cleared away, the methods are no longer needed, just as one leaves the raft behind after crossing the river and puts away the fish trap after catching the fish. This is the principle of using methods at first and then setting them aside: one borrows techniques to extend life, then no longer uses them once life has been extended. But until nature and life have been secured, one must apply these methods to seize the workings of creation and reverse the movement of Qi, as if shifting the stars and turning the Dipper. Only then can one bring nature and life under one’s own control, free from the decrees of Heaven, and transcend the Three Realms and the Five Phases.

The hibernating insects awaken once more.

After autumn, all the insects enter hibernation; in spring, they become active again. Life is nurtured precisely within hibernation.

Observing this, I understood the principle that “life arises within death.” People cannot attain long life because they cannot first “die.” Here, “death” means bringing the ordinary human mind to rest. The stubborn, unyielding heart-mind of the body commands the seven emotions and six desires—joy, anger, sorrow, fear, love, aversion, desire, and other feelings and appetites—as well as the five thieves, factors that deplete the body and mind’s vital essence and energy, and the eight consciousnesses, a Buddhist term for levels of cognitive activity. It drives every kind of deluded thought and strange imagining, entangling and disturbing the mind and harming the Dao-mind. When the human mind is constantly active, the Dao-mind is constantly weakened. As the Dao-mind wanes, the vital energy of the Dao disperses, and nature and life become unsettled; in the end, decline is unavoidable. To let the Dao-mind arise, the ordinary human mind must first come to rest. Once it does, the thoughts that disturb body and mind lose their hold and disperse of their own accord, like snakes without a leader. When there is nothing left to dispel, the Dao-mind arises naturally, and the vital energy of the Dao is restored. This is what is meant by darkness giving way to brightness after a long time, and life returning after death, like insects that first lie dormant and then revive.

Pearls in Mussels, Chicks in Eggs

Old mussels nurture pearls, and hens hatch chicks from eggs, because their spirit and vital energy have not dispersed.

From this I understood the principle of nurturing the sacred embryo—the process by which the original force of life is conceived and gathered through cultivation. The sacred embryo is the “embryo of the sage,” the root of life itself. When that root is restored, the sacred embryo gradually coalesces, as a pearl already exists within a mussel or an egg within a hen, though neither has yet fully matured or emerged. At this stage, one should not force the work. Simply remain focused within the compass—the state of keeping body and mind settled and gathering the thoughts inward during cultivation—so that the water does not dry up and the fire does not grow cold, while carefully guarding against possible deviations and dangers. As the work develops from tender to firm, from subtle to manifest, a precious pearl the size of a millet grain will naturally burst forth from the furnace of creation. It pervades Heaven and Earth; no movement, direction, or reversal can obstruct it, and it merges with the void. Just as a mussel holds its pearl without losing its vital energy, and a hen hatches her egg without letting her spirit wander, when the proper stage of the firing process arrives, the pearl ripens of itself and the chick naturally breaks from its shell.

The “pearl the size of a grain of millet” refers to the Neidan (internal alchemy) formed through cultivation. It bursts forth from the furnace of creation, reaches through Heaven and Earth, and moves freely in every direction, changing with or against the natural course without obstruction, until it becomes one with the void. It is also like a pearl held within an oyster, its vital energy undispersed; like a hen incubating an egg, its spirit never straying. When the firing process reaches maturity, the pearl forms naturally, just as the chick naturally breaks out of its shell. The images of the pearl and the incubating egg show that Neidan cultivation requires constant guarding and nurturing; when the time is ripe, it comes to fruition of itself.

Phoenix and Peacock

The phoenix appears only rarely, and so people regard it as an auspicious sign. The peacock often displays its splendid feathers, and so is easily captured.

From this I understand that display and restraint are bound up with fortune and misfortune. Those who show off their talents, boast of their abilities, compete to outdo others, and devote their thoughts to empty pursuits often bring calamity upon themselves. Those who restrain their cleverness, abandon the belief that they are smarter than others, remain humble and modest, and apply themselves to personal cultivation can often attain good fortune. Calamity comes from applying intelligence to external things; good fortune comes from applying discernment to inner cultivation. When the mind’s energies turn outward, one mistakes the false for the real, depletes Jing (essence), Qi (vital energy), and Shen (spirit), and sets out on the path to decline. Applied to inner cultivation, they can dispel deluded thoughts, preserve sincerity, nurture Jing, Qi, and Shen, safeguard life, and return to its source of vitality.

Whether intelligence is directed outward or inward affects fortune and misfortune, and bears on life and death. Thus, the exemplary person cuts off the pursuit of external things and cultivates the heart; the petty person busies himself with what is outside and loses what is within. So it is with the phoenix and the peacock: one stays hidden and unseen, while the other constantly displays its beauty, and the fortunes they invite differ accordingly. How could one be careless in the use of intelligence?

The moon begins to wane once it reaches its fullness, just as it begins to lean westward when it reaches its highest point. This is the constant, unchanging cycle of Yin-Yang waxing and waning, increase and decline.

From this I have come to understand how “gentle fire” and “martial fire”—the different methods of managing heat during cultivation—are used in cultivating the Dao. Before the original nature has been restored, one must gather and draw in precelestial Qi, advancing with vigor so that it grows stronger and restores the root. Once the original nature has been fully restored, it is like the sun reaching its highest point or the moon becoming full: Yang Qi is now abundant.

When Yang Qi is abundant, it should be harmonized with Yin. At this point, one must promptly use gentle methods to nurture it, dispelling forcefulness and impatience to prevent danger. One gathers in one’s radiance and nurtures what is within, keeping the mind focused and undistracted, firmly sealing and carefully storing it away. For every increase in Yin, one stores away an equal measure of Yang, allowing none of it to leak or be lost. This is like the sun leaning westward after reaching its highest point, or the moon beginning to wane after becoming full: Yang fire and Yin tally (the cultivation methods that apply Yang and Yin at different stages) must be coordinated in due time. The stages of cultivation shift in turn, completing the cycle and beginning again, until Yang Qi sprouts once more. This is called the pure, vigorous essence of Qi.

Once the sacred embryo (the inner achievement formed through Neidan cultivation) is complete, one enters another realm, beyond the human world. This is “the precelestial within the precelestial.” Continued cultivation brings one achievement after another, each growing from subtle beginnings into clearer manifestation. When one reaches a sacred and wondrous state beyond comprehension, it is called “spirit.”

A sleeping person dreams, seeing scenes of joy, anger, sorrow, and delight, as though living amid wealth, status, and fame. The dreamer takes the dream for reality, unaware that they are dreaming.

When people dream, they see scenes of joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure, and find themselves in circumstances of wealth, status, and fame. They take the dream for reality, unaware that they are dreaming.

From this I have come to understand that people’s skill in cultivating the Dao can be shallow or deep. From birth, people are often clouded by drink, sex, money, and pride, while thoughts, attachments, feelings, and desires obscure their nature. They fall into illusion both inwardly and outwardly, and in this way lose their true nature. As long as a person cultivating the Dao has even a trace of impurity that has not been transformed, they cannot be considered accomplished, even if the Great Dao seems close at hand, because the root of misfortune has not yet been completely uprooted.

How can this be tested? Dreams offer a way to see. If drink, sex, money, and pride cannot touch you in a dream, and affection and desire cannot unsettle you; if your mind is clear and bright, unbewildered by illusion, then you have glimpsed your true nature. With deeper cultivation, you may even stop dreaming altogether; only then has the root of misfortune been fully uprooted. If even a trace of attachment remains in a dream, this shows that the “dust of the roots”—the attachments and afflictions that pull people along with external circumstances—has not been completely severed.

That is why it is said, “The Perfected Person has no dreams.” Having no dreams means that one’s cultivation has reached its utmost. Having dreams means it has not. To dream and know within the dream that you are dreaming shows that your cultivation has advanced; to dream without knowing you are dreaming shows that it has not yet achieved anything. When cultivation truly reaches its utmost and dreams cease entirely, you can master the transformations within yourself: asleep, you are as if awake; even in death, you are as if reborn. Here, “death” means the body’s passing away, and “birth” means the manifestation of the Dharma Body, the spiritual body that transcends the physical form. “Sleep” means that the eyes are closed, and “wakefulness” means that the Original Spirit is clear.

Merchants seek profit.

For a merchant to make a profit, they must first prepare capital and then learn how to conduct business. Only with both capital and business skills can they earn money. Having capital without knowing how to manage it, or knowing how to manage a business without having capital, will not get them anywhere.

From this, I realized that cultivating the Dao also requires two things working together: “method” and “resources.” Here, “resources” means the foundations and accumulated reserves needed for cultivation, not just money. A cultivator should build up De by doing good, nurture Jing, Qi, and Shen, and keep their resolve firm over time. Their strength should grow with their practice, and they should remain unwavering until the end of life. Sincerely carrying out these practices is like gradually accumulating capital.

One must also seek oral instructions from a master: understand where cultivation begins and how it concludes, when to advance and when to withdraw, how to distinguish urgency from patience and good fortune from danger, and when to stop. One must follow the stages of practice in order. Only then can the “medicinals”—the Jing and other elements needed for refinement and cultivation—be obtained in their true form, and the “fire timing”—the right moment and degree for practice—be properly managed. This is what it means to have “method.”

With a foundation for cultivation and mastery of its methods, one can draw on accumulated resources to fulfill what cultivation requires and use the methods to carry out the practice. When both method and resources are in place, progress can be made at every step, ultimately reaching great accomplishment. It is like a merchant who can profit wherever they go because they have both capital and business skills.

If one has accumulated resources but lacks method, or has method but lacks a foundation—and still ignores the proper stages, recklessly trying to leap ahead to success—one may end up falling behind. Even if the Great Dao seems close at hand, one may still fail to attain it. This is like a merchant who has capital but cannot run a business, or knows how to run one but has no capital: in the end, they cannot earn great profits or become a wealthy merchant.

So anyone truly resolved to cultivate the Dao should begin by building up their own resources, then seek instruction from others. They must ensure that they have both a foundation and the methods, so they do not hinder their progress on the path of cultivation.

“Restless monkeys and unruly horses” is a common metaphor in Daoist texts for scattered, unruly thoughts.

Monkeys are naturally restless and unsettled. If tied with a rope, they can be made to follow a person’s commands and cannot run about as they please. Horses are stubborn and hard to control, but once fitted with a saddle and bridle, they can be brought under human control and cannot gallop wherever they please.

From this principle, I came to understand how to set the heart right and make one’s thoughts sincere. The human heart, in its stubbornness, comes and goes without any fixed pattern and has no known resting place. It is like a restless monkey, never at peace for even a moment. Delusive thoughts continually arise and fade away: one moment we think of this, the next of something else. They are like a stubborn horse that never stops. The stubborn heart and delusive thoughts entangle one another, fuel desire, obscure one’s innate nature, and gradually damage body, mind, nature, and life. The troubles they bring are therefore the gravest, and their harm the greatest.

The first effort a practitioner must make is to set the heart right and make the thoughts sincere. When the heart is upright, all distractions can be set aside; when thoughts are sincere, stray thoughts will not arise. With distractions set aside and stray thoughts stilled, one can cultivate one’s nature until it becomes clear, and cultivate one’s life until it becomes secure. Yet setting the heart right and making thoughts sincere is not easy. Steady effort is needed for it to bear fruit. The key to steady effort is shendu: remaining vigilant and self-disciplined even when alone. To practice shendu is to remain wary even where no one can see you, and alert even where no one can hear you; to stay aware and reflect at every moment, never allowing the stubborn heart or delusive thoughts to stir, even in secret. One must restrain one’s nature from running wild, as if tying up a restless monkey or keeping a wayward horse firmly in check.

Ancient perfected immortals often compared the heart to a monkey and the mind to a horse because they had seen clearly that restless, unruly thoughts obstruct the Daoist path, and so vigilance must never lapse. If students of the Dao can truly restrain the stubborn heart and bring it to uprightness, and dispel delusive thoughts so that their minds return to sincerity, then they will have accomplished most of the work of cultivating nature and life.

Male and female reproduction.

When men and women come together in the world, they have children, and their descendants continue from generation to generation. If there were only men and no women, or only women and no men, it would be like solitary Yin that cannot give birth or solitary Yang that cannot grow; the capacity for life to reproduce would come to a halt.

Seeing this, I came to understand the principle of attaining immortality and Buddhahood. At birth, Yin and Yang are joined, and the sacred embryo—the inner foundation symbolizing the formation of the true self in cultivation—is complete. After entering the acquired state, Yin and Yang separate, and the sacred embryo is damaged. Those of the highest capacity have deep foundations. If they meet a clear-sighted master early, before Yin and Yang separate, they cultivate Wuwei (non-action), go directly to the other shore, and attain the sacred state.

Those of middling or lesser capacity may have ample primordial Qi, but once acquired Qi is set in motion, true Yin and true Yang become cut off from each other and cannot unite. Vitality gradually dissipates and is exhausted. Unless Yin and Yang are first brought into harmony through active cultivation, how can the sacred embryo coalesce again? To bring them into harmony means to reunite Yin and Yang as a single Qi.

Yet true Yang has already dispersed outward, lodged elsewhere, and, having lost its way, refuses to return. One must therefore devote effort and attention to seeking it out, however far the journey may be. True Yang may sometimes appear; at a call, it will return. Draw it back into oneself and join it with true Yin, as a husband and wife reunited become especially close. Then, naturally, a spark of vitality will arise from the midst of emptiness and coalesce into an embryo. After ten months of nurturing, a body outside the body can take form. After a further three years of nurturing, like caring for an infant, it can gather into form and disperse into Qi, appearing and disappearing in transformations beyond measure, until it becomes an indestructible body like a diamond.

This method of cultivation also resembles the principle of human reproduction: ordinary parents give birth to the fleshly body, while the spiritual father and sacred mother—the joined spiritual powers in cultivation—give birth to the true body. What the ordinary and the sacred produce is different; becoming an immortal and being born as a human are worlds apart. The Perfected Sanfeng said, “Following the ordinary course makes one an ordinary person; reversing it makes one an immortal. The key lies in the transformation of Yin and Yang.” How could the subtlety of this reversal of Heaven’s workings be easy to understand!

Some foolish people in the world reverse the relations between men and women and use this as a means to practice wicked arts of extraction and replenishment. The result is only to sow the cause of falling into hell. How could such a practice form a sacred embryo?

When a door is open, breath can flow through; when a window is wide open, light can enter. When the door is shut, inside and outside no longer connect; when the window is closed, light and air are kept out as well.

From this I came to understand that the Great Dao—the fundamental principle governing the universe—has a vast and flexible power. Some people in the world who cultivate the Dao stray onto narrow, winding paths: some close their eyes and contemplate emptiness; some keep to stillness in solitude; some sit in meditation and visualize spirits. They then assume they have attained the Dao. Yet they do not know that the Dao takes shape through the creative transformations of Yin and Yang in Heaven and Earth. Spread throughout the four quarters of Heaven and Earth, the Dao does not increase; gathered into a single Qi, it does not diminish. All the myriad things between Heaven and Earth, sentient and insentient, take form through the Dao. The Dao is present in everything, and everyone has it too. People simply do not know that they are within the Dao, just as fish in water do not know the water is there.

To cultivate the Great Dao, one should put it into practice amid the transformations of Yin and Yang in Heaven and Earth, test it through all things, and live it out among people. Such cultivation is full of life, free and unrestrained, open and upright. How could it be achieved by sitting quietly behind closed doors and sinking into lifeless emptiness? To seek the Dao through closed-door meditation and the pursuit of lifeless emptiness is like shutting the door and closing the windows: inside and outside cannot connect, all is pitch-black, and even daylight is nowhere to be seen. How, then, could one attain the Dao? And even if one claimed to have attained it, would it not be a Dao shrouded in darkness?

The Wuzhen Pian (Awakening to Reality, a Daoist Neidan classic) says: “A practitioner may for a time mingle with the world and nurture their inner radiance. When a circle is called for, they are round; when a square is called for, they are square. Whether revealed or concealed, moving with the current or against it, they remain impossible to fathom. Who could discern their actions or intentions?” It also says: “Know that a true recluse can dwell in the court or the marketplace. Why insist on retreating to the deep mountains to keep still alone?” To join the world without losing the Dao, and to dwell amid the court or marketplace, is the true way to cultivate the Dao’s power and bring its subtle workings into play.

Matchmaking brings couples together.

In the world, when a man and a woman marry, a go-between conveys the news between their families, and betrothal gifts complete the marriage rites. If they join together without a go-between or betrothal gifts, it is not a formal marriage but a secret liaison, unlikely to last.

From this I came to understand how to harmonize “nature” and “emotion.” Nature is inward, like the family in the east, and belongs to Yin; emotion is outward, like the family in the west, and belongs to Yang. When nature and emotion are separated, it is like a woman from the eastern family and a man from the western family who are kept apart and cannot meet. To bring emotion and nature into harmony, and match Yin with Yang, they must be reconciled by the “Yellow Matron,” the intermediary that brings Yin and Yang together. The Yellow Matron is one’s own “true intent,” also called “true faith.” Faith can connect what is apart and harmonize Yin and Yang; it is the Dao cultivator’s most important treasure. From the beginning of cultivation to its end—whether through active methods or Wuwei (non-action), gathering the medicine and directing the fire, forming the Elixir or releasing it—one must never be without it.

The Wuzhen pian says: “If the Li and Kan trigrams lack the Earth of Wu and Ji, then even containing the Four Images, they cannot refine the Elixir. Because they hold true Earth between them, the Golden Elixir can return.” Here, “Wu and Ji” refer to the true faith within true intent. “Wu faith” is the outer Yellow Matron, like the go-between; “Ji faith” is the inner Yellow Matron, like the betrothal gifts. Both are one’s own “true go-between” and “true betrothal gifts.” Once one understands how to use them to harmonize nature and emotion, nature and emotion can unite; harmonizing Yin and Yang allows Yin and Yang to meet. The two families become one, and the Golden Elixir begins to take shape.

Tasting Food

When eating, chew carefully and taste slowly, allowing the flavors—sour, sweet, bitter, and spicy—to be truly felt in the heart. Only then can one know the taste of the food. Recognizing this, the Golden Elixir begins to take shape.

When eating, chew carefully and swallow slowly. First experience sour, sweet, bitter, and spicy flavors inwardly; only then can you distinguish their tastes. Once you have tasted them clearly, swallow what you find delicious and set aside what tastes astringent. The choice is yours to make.

I have come to understand that the same method applies to investigating principles and distinguishing truth from falsehood. The study of nature and life—the practice of probing human nature and the root of life—is subtle and profound. If your understanding is not sound, your practice will go wrong: it will not merely be useless but may cause harm. You must therefore first investigate the principles thoroughly. Understand one part, and put that part into practice; understand ten parts, and put all ten into practice. The key to fully realizing your nature and reaching the root of life lies in how deeply you investigate principle.

Investigate principle by moving from the shallow to the deep, from the broad to the fine. Peel back each layer and go deeper, until there is nothing more to peel away or enter into. Only when you see the foundation and recognize the source have you reached the utmost. It is like eating: first taste the food, then decide whether to swallow it. Even if you gain some insight of your own, if what you have found is only partly right, it may still lead you astray. You must also seek confirmation from people of greater understanding and broaden your knowledge. Accept what is right and discard what is wrong; only then can you truly make progress. The Book of Changes (Yijing) says, “Investigate principle, fully realize your nature, and thereby reach the root of life.” To investigate principle is to probe the principles by which one fully realizes nature and reaches one’s life’s true destiny.

If you do not even understand what “nature” means or what “life” refers to, what exactly do you hope to realize about nature and life? Some foolish people in Daoist circles mistakenly believe that nature resides in the heart and life in the kidneys, or that nature is in the Celestial Valley—a Daoist term for a place within the head—and life in the Dantian, the cultivation center in the lower abdomen. Some focus on the kidneys to cultivate life; others still the mind and settle the spirit to cultivate nature. Some cling to inert emptiness to cultivate nature; others use methods of gathering and taking in to prolong life. Some concentrate their spirit and intention at the fontanel, an aperture at the crown or elsewhere in the head, to nourish nature; others take elixirs to extend life. These practices are like gazing at a plum to quench one’s thirst or rubbing one’s eyes and seeing illusory flowers: in the end, they lead only to delusion and emptiness. If you do not even know what nature and life are, yet presume to realize them, is that not foolish?

Climb mountains and cross rivers.

When climbing a mountain, put strength into every step. Do not stop until you reach the summit. When crossing a river, take care with every step. Do not let your guard down until you reach the opposite bank. Near the summit, stopping just one step short still leaves you halfway up the mountain. Near the opposite bank, a single careless step can still put you in danger.

From this I have learned that cultivating the Dao, too, requires putting it into practice oneself. A true teacher is hard to find, and the Great Dao is hard to understand. If you are fortunate enough to meet a teacher and understand the Dao, you must cultivate steadily and realize the Great Dao in order to repay your teacher’s kindness. You must not slacken in the least.

The study of nature and life—the cultivation of the mind and body and the inquiry into life’s roots—is the most important undertaking in the world, and also the most difficult. You must strengthen your resolve, set a direction you will not easily change, and remain diligent and alert at all times. The longer the journey, the harder you must strive if you hope to achieve anything. Do not change your aim because you meet a small obstacle; do not stop cultivating because you see a minor sign of progress. Do not let hardship in food and clothing distract you, and do not turn back because you feel your strength is inadequate. Neither imagine that you can easily realize the Great Dao nor fear that the road is long. Devote yourself wholeheartedly to steady cultivation, keep this undertaking always in mind, and continue along the way. In time, success will come. It is like climbing a mountain: put strength into every step, and at last you will reach the summit. It is like crossing a river: take care with every step, and at last you will reach the opposite bank.

Conversely, if you shrink back, or begin with diligence but later grow slack, then even if the Great Dao lies right before you, you may still fail to realize it through your own efforts. Consider this: from birth, a person’s inner and outer being is entangled in Yin energy. Though some Yang energy is present, it remains hidden. Without a resolve that will not change even in the face of death, and strength as firm as that of a man of iron and adamant, how could one transform Yin and return to Yang, climb a mountain ten thousand feet high, and find one’s way out of the boundless sea of suffering?

Moths and earthworms.

Moths fly toward the lamp and end up plunging into the flame, where they burn to death. Earthworms seek warmth, only to be exposed to the blazing sun and die. Both creatures are drawn to light or heat, yet in doing so they imperil their lives.

Seeing these two examples, I truly understood the principle of seeking good fortune and avoiding misfortune. People in the world follow their desires: they compete for fame and profit, crave fine wine and beautiful companions, mistake the false for the real and suffering for pleasure. They toil day and night, worry from morning to night, exhaust their energy, and damage their spirit. Only when their breath is about to fail are they willing to quiet their minds. They are like moths burning themselves in the flame, or earthworms seeking warmth at the cost of their lives. It is as though the King of Hell has not yet come to claim them, but they are already sending themselves to their deaths.

Anyone who knows how to cherish life should yield to others at every turn, keep their sharpness in check, and step back in every matter. Then they will be like fish swimming in the deep and turtles hiding in the mud: untouched by praise or blame and undisturbed by fortune or calamity. Without deliberately seeking life, they preserve it; without inviting death, they escape it. This is a good way to seek good fortune and avoid misfortune. How sad that foolish people value what lies outside themselves and hold their own lives so lightly. Why hasten their own deaths in this way?

Silk from silkworms and honey from bees.

A silkworm spins silk in order to protect itself, unaware that people will take the silk and that this will cost it its life. A bee makes honey in order to sustain itself, unaware that people will take the honey and that this will bring about its death. Both creatures want to improve their lives, yet they end up hastening their own deaths.

Seeing this, I came to understand how benefit and harm depend on one another and can transform into each other. Everyone fears death, and that fear leads people to seek ways to stay alive. Once they set their minds on survival, they strive for food and clothing, exhausting themselves amid the hardships of daily life and storing up money and provisions in the hope of making their lives more secure. Ordinary people think this is how they preserve life, without realizing that it may not truly nourish life and may instead hasten death.

Why do I say this? The more importance someone places on securing the necessities of life, the more likely they are to neglect their own body. If they disregard their health and toil day and night, their spirit will be depleted and their Qi and blood weakened. In this way, they have already set out on the road to death. Some people who do not know when to stop are beset by illness, with no assurance of making it through the next day, yet still cannot bear to eat well or dress warmly. As they grow older, their greed only increases, and they remain oblivious until death, passing through life in a daze. How is this any different from the silkworm spinning silk and the bee making honey, only to bring about their own deaths?

People of great wisdom, by contrast, have another way to preserve life: they do not fix their thoughts on food and clothing or covet wealth and possessions. They set aside worldly riches and accumulate the “wealth of the Dharma”—the merit and wisdom gained through cultivating the Dao. They regard the physical body lightly and nurture the “true body,” the authentic life sought through cultivation. In this way, external things can scarcely sway them, and they are no longer drawn along by benefit and harm.

What farmers value most are the seeds they sow. With land and seeds, they can farm on their own without borrowing from others. A poor household that has land but no seed must seek help from someone else in order to cultivate it.

From this I came to understand why those who cultivate the Dao borrow seed. The “seed” here means the innate, primordial One Qi—the pure original energy present from the beginning. When this Qi flows in its ordinary direction, it gives rise to human beings and all things; when it flows in reverse, it can enable a person to become an immortal or a Buddha. For this reason, Elixir Classics and Daoist books call it the true seed of immortals and Buddhas. Everyone inherently possesses this true seed, complete and whole within themselves. But once people enter the acquired state, Yin Qi grows stronger and Yang Qi wanes, obscuring and burying the true seed until no trace of it can be seen. Even if someone devoted to cultivation can quiet the heart and still every stray thought, they have only cleared an empty field. Without the true seed, they still cannot truly nourish body and mind or rescue their life. Thus borrowing the true seed is indispensable to cultivation.

To borrow seed means to seek it from “the other’s household,” as distinct from “my household.” “The other” means another person. To obtain what belongs to someone else and put it to one’s own use, one cannot simply seize it empty-handed. One must ask with courtesy, approach humbly, and treat the other sincerely, so that they are willing to help. Only then can one borrow the true seed. Once the true seed is obtained, it can immediately begin to grow, just as shoots appear after seeds are sown and a shadow appears when a pole is raised; no exertion is needed. Without the true seed in the Elixir Cauldron, however, it is like cooking with water and fire in an empty pot: in the end, nothing is accomplished.

Yet some people cannot recognize what the true seed is or where “the other’s household” is. They mistake women for “the other’s household” and practice wicked arts of gathering and replenishing; or they swallow and consume filthy things such as plums or a woman’s first menstrual blood. Such practices are foul and utterly laughable and lamentable.

Alas! “The medicine comes from the southwest” refers to the Kun position, one of the Bagua directions. How can one practice what belongs to the Kun position without the “person”? The meaning has already been made clear; the only fear is that, when the encounter comes, one will fail to recognize the true partner.

The turtle hides; the fish sinks beneath the water.

A turtle that hides in the mud will not be harmed; once it leaves the mud, it is easily caught. A fish that shelters in deep water keeps its body safe; away from deep water, it is prey to birds.

“Medicine emerges from the southwest” refers to the Kun position, one of the Bagua directions, meaning the southwest. To act in the Kun position, could one possibly do so apart from other people? The principle has already been made quite clear; the concern is that people may still fail to recognize it when they meet.

The Turtle Hides and the Fish Shelters

From this, Guzhi Guan understands that the principles of nourishing life and harming life are these: people cannot add to their life, yet they often head toward death, because they do not know how to rein in their brilliance and keep a low profile. Trusting too much in their own cleverness, they make excessive use of their abilities. Cleverness and ability scatter the mind and spirit and unsettle one’s nature; upright Qi gradually wanes, while harmful influences grow, and the foundation of life is shaken in turn. How could this course lead anywhere but decline and death?

Thus, those who have attained the Dao harbor no deluded thoughts, and do not readily take in things from outside. They seem to possess something, yet seem to possess nothing; inwardly they are full, while outwardly they are modest, appearing dull and unassuming. Though discerning, they do not show it off; though radiant, they do not dazzle. They do not let delusion damage what is real, nor let external things disturb the heart. They respond only when moved to do so, act only when pressed, and take action only when there is no alternative. Though their bodies respond to the world around them, their hearts do not waver; though their bodies act, their mind and spirit remain settled. When facing change, they do not cling to its beginning or chase after its course. They are therefore not constrained by the workings of creation and are less likely to suffer calamity. They are like a turtle hidden in the mud, difficult to catch, or a fish sheltering in deep water, beyond the reach of birds.

When the Oil Runs Dry and the Charcoal Burns Away

When a lamp runs out of oil, its flame goes out. If oil is added before it runs out, the lamp can keep burning. When the charcoal is spent, the fire goes out. If more charcoal is added before it is spent, the fire can keep burning for a long time. In this way, the flame will not be extinguished.

When the oil in a lamp runs out, the lamp goes dark. If you refill it before the oil is gone, it can keep shining. When charcoal burns to ash, the fire goes out. If you add more charcoal before it is spent, the fire can keep burning.

From this principle, I have learned how to sustain life and care for body and mind. Heaven and Earth have a De (Virtue) that cherishes life: they wish everyone a long life, not an early death. Yet people bring death upon themselves and then blame fate. Is that not foolish?

Look at the myriad things: they sprout in spring, grow in summer, bear fruit in autumn, and are stored away in winter. When spring comes again the next year, they sprout anew. They continue to grow because they follow the natural order of the seasons and do not act recklessly beyond it. People, too, receive the balanced Qi (vital energy) of Yin-Yang and the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water), yet they fail to follow nature. Instead, they acquire all kinds of harmful habits, treating pain as pleasure and things that poison the body as medicine. They chase enjoyment and indulge their desires, damaging the roots of life. Over time, their spirit is depleted and their true spirit—the innate spiritual nature of a person—dissipates. Like a lamp when its oil runs out or a fire when its charcoal is spent, life then reaches a perilous point.

Those truly intent on transcending the ordinary world should value body, mind, nature, and life. They should prize their spirit as dearly as gold and jade, and cherish their true spirit as a treasure. They should not enter places where desire burns fiercely, nor struggle to prevail in disputes and conflicts. They should continually attend to preserving the roots of life and keep their thoughts grounded in what is right. Within, they should cultivate themselves with care; outwardly, they should speak and act with caution. In this way, they gather and settle the spirit, and nurture the original Qi within themselves without letting it leak away. This is what is meant by a noble person devoting effort to the roots: once the roots are established, the Dao (the Way) grows from them. Just as adding oil in time keeps a lamp from going out, and adding charcoal in time keeps a fire burning, what seemed lifeless can regain its vitality, and those who could not live long may yet extend their years. Can life and death truly be attributed only to the decree of Heaven?

Mud lotus, frosted chrysanthemum.

The lotus stem is hollow, so although it grows up from the mud, it remains exceptionally clean. The chrysanthemum blooms late, so after enduring the autumn frost, it appears all the more vivid. This is because the hollow stem is difficult for outside things to taint, while the late-blooming flower has had time to build up its Qi and can therefore withstand the cold.

Observing these two plants, I came to understand that cultivating the Dao depends on proceeding slowly…