《百字碑注》

Pure Yang, Patriarch Lü (Lü Dongbin), is a model of compassion and wisdom among Daoist sages. For more than a thousand years, from the Tang dynasty to the present, he has sometimes vanished and sometimes appeared, his movements impossible to fathom. Through poems, lyrics, songs, and rhapsodies, he awakened the foolish and instructed the worthy, leaving behind countless works. Among works that explain in detail the stages of cultivating the Dao, the substances involved, and the timing of the firing process, with a complete account, none are more suitable than “Song of Knocking the Yao” and “Stele of a Hundred Characters.” For concise language, clear principles, and the ability to inspire understanding, “Stele of a Hundred Characters” is the finest.

The “Stele of a Hundred Characters” contains only a hundred words in twenty lines, yet from beginning to end it addresses both active methods and Wuwei (non-action) in Elixir cultivation, as well as cultivating life and cultivating nature. It is therefore called the “Ladder to Heaven”—truly a ladder leading to the Way of Heaven. Yet many people who cultivate the Dao do not see it as a ladder. They often pursue the strange and mysterious, and because this text seems plain and unremarkable, they overlook it. They have not thought deeply enough: the Way of the Golden Elixir calls for what is real and enduring. The most marvelous things are found in the ordinary, and the everyday contains principles that are anything but ordinary.

The text begins with nothing more than nourishing Qi, bringing thoughts under control, and settling one’s nature. What seems so remarkable about that? Yet if one practices accordingly, one can form the Elixir, ingest it, and then roam in freedom, reaching an understanding of the principles of transformation. Is that not extraordinary and far from ordinary? The marvelous is hidden in the plain; the exceptional is contained in the everyday. If students study the Patriarch’s teaching deeply, investigate its subtle principles, and practice it step by step in the proper order, they can gradually gain deeper understanding.

I have gained much from reading this text, and I am moved by the thought that people fail to recognize such a ladder to Heaven, thereby disappointing the Patriarch’s earnest wish to guide the world. I have therefore added brief notes beneath each line, hoping to make its subtleties clear. I also hope to form a bond with those who understand this Way, and together climb this ladder, thereby repaying the Patriarch’s kindness.

On the third day of the third lunar month in the Wuwu year of the Jiaqing reign, 1798, Supu Sanren wrote this preface in the Abode of Ease.

“Nourish Qi, forget words, and keep to stillness” means cultivating primordial Qi, forgetting words, and abiding in quiet.

From beginning to end, the foundation of cultivating nature and life is simply to cultivate the innate, formless Qi of the True One; there is nothing else. What is gathered as the medicine is this Qi; what is refined as the medicine is also this Qi. It is this Qi that is restored in returning the Elixir. Casting off the Elixir, taking the Elixir, forming the embryo, and casting off the embryo all involve this same Qi. When arts and calculations are used to extend life, it is this Qi that is prolonged; when the Dao is used to preserve the body, it is this Qi that is preserved. From purposeful effort at the beginning to Wuwei (non-action) at the end, and from seeking long life to attaining freedom from birth, all refer to the same thing. An ancient classic says, “Know the One, and all things are complete.” This saying is enough to explain the principles taught in many classics.

Yet this Qi is neither something with form nor nothingness. It has no shape or appearance, cannot be known through ordinary cognition, and cannot be distinguished by the mind. It cannot be seen, heard, or touched; it is elusive and profound, beyond description. Any attempt to depict it can go no further than this. If one must give it a name, Confucians call it the Taiji (Supreme Ultimate), Daoists call it the Golden Elixir, and Buddhists call it Perfect Awakening. By its nature it cannot be spoken of, so what is there to cling to and keep? If it could truly be explained and held as a concrete object, it would not be the innate, formless Qi, but postnatal breathing Qi. Innate Qi does not decay, even over countless kalpas; postnatal Qi is born and dies along with the illusory body.

Some people in the world have not received the true transmission and do not understand what innate Qi is, so they mistake postnatal, tangible Qi for it. Some say Qi is in the Sea of Qi, the Dantian (energy center), the Yellow Court, the Ren and Du meridians, or between the kidneys. Some close their mouths and regulate their breathing to make it steady; some hold their breath or practice embryonic breathing to store Qi; others guide Qi upward along the back and downward along the front, gathering it in the Yellow Court. Their methods differ, but whether they keep Qi still or circulate the breath, they all hope to form Neidan (internal alchemy) out of nothing. Where, then, can this tangible Qi ultimately condense?

What is Qi like when it gathers? Must it necessarily condense into a lump of energy? I often see people who practice cultivation in the world insist on focusing their attention on the head, and they often develop a discharge of fluid from the brain. Those who insist on focusing on the lower body often suffer from seminal emission and leakage; those who focus on the middle body often experience abdominal distension. Those who fix their attention on the Hall of Light (Mingtang, the area within the forehead in Daoist inner visualization) may go blind; those who cling to a stubborn mind may fall into madness. They set out to seek long life, yet instead hasten their death. How tragic!

They do not know that the innate Qi of emptiness and nothingness—the primordial energy that existed before Heaven and Earth took shape, without form or image—contains Heaven and Earth and gives life to all things. It is so vast that there is nothing outside it, yet so minute that there is nothing within it. When it unfolds, it fills the Six Directions (above, below, and the four quarters); when it contracts, it is hidden in what is subtle and obscure. It can only be experienced, not easily put into words; it can only be nurtured, not deliberately held in place. When you neither speak nor guard, and forget both speech and guarding, you do not deliberately bring forth and nurture the myriad things, yet you nurture yourself through Wuwei (non-action). This is the highest level of nourishing Qi.

The life-giving movement of the Great Dao is fluid and lively, confined to neither “being” nor “nonbeing.” Cling to “being,” and you become attached to forms and appearances; cling to “nonbeing,” and you sink into empty stillness. Neither attachment to appearances nor absorption in empty stillness is the Dao by which the transformations of Heaven and Earth unfold, nor the Dao of “true emptiness and wondrous existence” spoken of by sages. To speak of nourishing Qi is necessarily to speak of nurturing something, so this is not simply a matter of clinging to emptiness. To speak of forgetting words and guarding the mind means you should not cling to a fixed place or position, so this is not a matter of being bound to forms and appearances either. Cling neither to emptiness nor to appearances, and a way of nurturing opens that falls into neither empty stillness nor attachment to forms. In stillness, this nurturing does not move; when met with a response, it can flow through and reach everywhere. Once the response has run its course, it returns to stillness. This is the way of nourishing Qi.

Subdue the Mind by Not Acting

Earlier, it was said that nourishing Qi requires neither speech nor guarding, which seems to mean that nothing needs to be done. Yet the mind still has to be subdued, so that it does not stir recklessly or get pulled along by attachments. “Respond when touched, and remain still when silent” is precisely the key to nourishing Qi.

Earlier, when discussing the cultivation of Qi, the text emphasizes neither speaking of it nor holding onto it. This can seem like doing nothing at all. At birth, a person’s innate Qi is abundant, but when Yang Qi reaches its height, it begins to turn toward Yin. Perhaps only sages of the highest De can preserve innate Qi and keep it from dissipating. Those of lesser capacities enter the acquired state, where innate Qi lies hidden and acquired Qi takes the lead. Yang Qi gradually wanes as Yin Qi grows. Habits accumulated over the years and worldly entanglements then come to the surface, affecting the body’s entire constitution. The discursive spirit—the mind that judges and deliberates—runs wild, while external delusions seize the opportunity to disturb it. At this point, the person’s body and mind are entirely Yin; they cannot even recognize what Yang essence is. Though they may wish to cultivate Qi, they do not know where to begin.

The ancestral master’s “Ode to the Yellow Crane” says: “Those of highest De preserve their form through the Dao; those of lower De prolong their lives through techniques.” In other words, people of highest De preserve their bodies through the Dao, maintaining a state of pure, undiminished Yang. Those of lower De prolong their lives by using methods, gradually attaining cultivation through the coordination of Kan and Li, Daoist internal alchemy terms that represent Yin and Yang. Preserving form through the Dao belongs to Wuwei (non-action); prolonging life through techniques belongs to action. People of highest De have not lost their innate Qi. By remaining centered and upright, and holding fast to the One, they can preserve their original true form. Those of lesser capacities have already damaged their innate Qi, and their Yang Qi is trapped by Yin. They must therefore work with the transformations of Yin and Yang and draw upon the workings of creation: first stabilizing the foundation of life, then progressing from active cultivation into Wuwei, before they can hope to attain the Dao.

An ancient immortal said, “Returning the Elixir is easiest; refining oneself is hardest.” The “Spring in the Garden” also says: “For the sevenfold return of the Elixir, one must first refine oneself and await the proper time.” That is, before refining the returned Elixir, one must first cultivate oneself and wait for the right moment. The key to refining oneself is bringing the mind under control; to do so, one must first understand what “mind” means. There is the “human mind” and the “Dao mind,” and there is also the distinction between the true mind and the false mind. The Dao mind is the mind that, by nature, is undisturbed by discriminating awareness and follows the patterns of Heaven; it is the true mind. The human mind arises later as a mind of perception and desire. It contains the seven emotions and six desires, and is the false mind. The true mind benefits nature and life; the false mind harms them. To bring the mind under control is to subdue the delusive part of the human mind.

Yet this does not mean holding the mind in place, emptying it, or forcing it to become calm. It means following its natural course. The “Wuzhen pian” says, “Follow its desires, and guide them step by step.” These words give the key to bringing the mind under control: follow the course of each thought and guide it gradually. Hence the saying, “Bringing the mind under control is doing without doing.” It is “doing” because the human mind must indeed be subdued; it is “not doing” because it is not forcibly suppressed. In this way, one guides without straining, and effects follow naturally without force.

A person’s stubborn mind is often shaped by habits accumulated over a long time, like wood hardened by fire until it becomes iron—firm and difficult to break. If it is restrained too abruptly, one thought is merely used to suppress another. This can produce even more distracting thoughts and deepen attachment, or even bring on mental illness. The “Yinfu Jing” says, “Fire is born from wood; disaster arises when it is overcome.” This describes precisely such a backlash. Bringing the mind under control must therefore be cultivated gradually to be effective. Gradual practice does no harm to body or mind; it benefits the person, allowing one to act without becoming attached to one’s actions.

Whether active or still, one must recognize the Dao-heart as the foundation. When one reaches a state free of disturbance and concern, where else is there to search?

Thus, subduing the stray thoughts and desires within the human heart requires gradual cultivation before it can truly take effect. This gradual practice harms no one and benefits oneself: one acts without becoming attached to one’s actions.

The primordial, original Qi—the innate vital energy that generates all things—is the source of Heaven, Earth, and humanity. It contains all principles and is always present; it is the foundation of nature and life. To preserve it is to be a sage; to lose sight of it is to be an ordinary person. Yet when primordial Qi falls into the acquired condition, it becomes hidden and difficult to reveal. Even when it appears by chance, it is often pulled by fame and profit and disturbed by selfish desires, so that one misses it even when it is right before one, gaining it only to lose it again.

To find this Qi, one must first recognize the Dao-heart. Primordial Qi is hidden within the Dao-heart: the Dao-heart is its substance, and primordial Qi its function. Though they have different names, they share the same source. The Dao-heart is therefore the foundation of cultivating the Dao. The Dao-heart is like a master, and the human heart like a servant. Once the Dao-heart is recognized as master and the human heart is made to follow it, stray thoughts and desires can naturally settle. Whether one is active or at rest, the Dao-heart takes the lead, and the human heart gradually transforms into the Dao-heart. With no deluded thoughts within and no reckless actions without, the inner and outer remain settled, making it difficult for outside, turbulent Qi to intrude. One then enters a state free of disturbance.

In this state, the heart is empty, bright, and clear; there is only the Dao-heart, and nothing else. Where else could one search?

Keeping a constant, true heart also means responding to external things. The key, when doing so, is not to let the heart become confused.

Since the foundation of cultivation is already understood, one should remain free of attachment in daily life. Then one’s original nature can stay settled over time. When what is true within is firmly established, illusory things in the outside world cannot injure it.

Seeking the Way of True Constancy does not mean fleeing the world, nor does it mean relying only on sitting in meditation and suppressing thoughts. It requires steady effort: putting the Way into practice and undergoing its trials in real life. Only then can one truly attain True Constancy. If one knows “the true” but does not put it into practice, then even if one seems calm and undisturbed, one will be like a wooden carving or clay statue: still on the outside, yet troubled within. This is what is meant by “the Chan mind is originally still; stillness gives rise to demons”: pursuing stillness single-mindedly can instead give rise to distortions. This is like shutting oneself indoors to catch a thief: it cannot dispel the illusory, but may harm one’s original nature. How, then, could one attain True Constancy?

Thus the Way of True Constancy must be able to respond to external things without becoming lost in responding to them. “True Constancy responds to things” means meeting the illusory with what is true; “responding to things without becoming lost” means using the things of the world to cultivate one’s original authenticity. The true is hidden within the illusory, and the illusory has not departed from the true. Without the illusory, there is no way to realize the true; without the true, there is no way to transform the illusory. The key to cultivation is to keep the heart-mind settled while responding to things, and to grasp the chance for life amid disorder and danger, like holding the helm steady among the waves.

If one can avoid becoming lost, that is True Constancy. One who has attained True Constancy may spend the whole day handling all kinds of affairs without letting them unsettle the heart-mind; even while dwelling in stillness and Wuwei (non-action), one is not changed by the myriad things. Why, then, should one avoid responding to the affairs of the world?

When one does not become lost, one’s nature and temperament naturally settle.

When facing external things without losing one’s original mind, the Dao mind—the clear and upright mind aligned with the principles of Heaven—can be truly and enduringly preserved. When the Dao mind remains present, deluded thoughts in the human mind, which is influenced by selfish desires and emotions, do not arise. When deluded thoughts do not arise, one’s temperament, shaped by innate endowment and acquired habits, does not flare up. The inborn nature then becomes clear and radiant, like a crystal tower: unstained and unburdened, still and unmoving, naturally at peace.

In general, the ability to keep one’s nature settled depends entirely on the practice of facing external things without losing oneself. When one loses oneself, the human mind takes charge, true nature is obscured, and deluded dispositions come to the fore. When one does not lose oneself, the Dao mind takes charge, deluded dispositions dissolve, and true nature emerges. The key to keeping one’s nature settled lies entirely in not losing oneself. Patriarch Huanghe says in his rhapsody: “The whole achievement lies in the practice of facing external things without losing oneself. When one loses oneself, the human mind takes charge, true nature is obscured, and deluded dispositions come to the fore. When one does not lose oneself, the Dao mind takes charge, deluded dispositions dissolve, and true nature emerges. The key to keeping one’s nature settled lies entirely in not losing oneself.” To cultivate a path that transcends the secular world by following the principles of worldly life—these words strike at the heart of the matter.

When Nature Is Settled, Qi Naturally Returns

“Nature” refers to principle: in Heaven, principle is called principle; endowed in a person, it is called nature, hence the term “inborn nature.” “Qi” refers to life: in Heaven, it is called Qi; received by a person, it is called life, hence the term “Heaven-given life.” At birth, principle and Qi are inseparable, as are life and nature. Principle and Qi are originally one; nature and life are originally one matter. Later, under the influence of acquired habits, principle and Qi gradually cease to flow into one another, and nature and life seem to separate.

If one can settle one’s original nature, preventing it from being altered by external influences and habits, upright Qi will naturally return. In this way, even if one seemed to have lost the root of life, vitality can be restored; nature and life become one again, and principle and Qi were never truly at odds. This is what is meant by “fulfilling nature and reaching life”—fully realizing one’s nature and reaching the root of life. In the end, the key to Qi’s return is for nature to be settled. When nature is truly settled, Qi returns naturally, without any forced effort.

When Qi Returns, the Elixir Naturally Coalesces

The “Elixir” refers to the complete and luminous fruit of cultivation. The scripture says that when nature and life are connected and Qi has returned, the Elixir naturally coalesces. The essential condition for the Elixir to coalesce is Qi’s return, and the key to Qi’s return is for nature to be settled. Once nature is settled, Qi returns naturally, without deliberate striving.

The “elixir” is a perfectly integrated, luminous substance formed from the union of Yin and Yang Qi. When the mind and nature abide in stillness, all manner of thoughts subside; this is called true serenity and emptiness. Stillness at its utmost gives rise to movement, and emptiness at its utmost gives rise to light. Original Qi—the source Qi spoken of in cultivation—arises from the void and gathers into an elixir in an instant. Thus it is said that the elixir can be refined in the span of a single double-hour.

In general, the key to returning the elixir—causing the Qi developed through cultivation to congeal into an elixir—is the Qi’s turning back. The key to the Qi turning back is for mind and nature to abide in stillness; the key to that stillness is freedom from delusion; the key to freedom from delusion is bringing thoughts under control; and the key to bringing thoughts under control is understanding the ancestral source, the root to which cultivation returns. Once you understand the ancestral source, you can bring thoughts under control and meet external things without being deluded by them. Then mind and nature naturally abide in stillness, Qi naturally turns back, and the elixir naturally congeals. All three instances of “naturally” here stem from meeting external things without being deluded by them.

Meeting external things without being deluded by them is the work of “refining the self,” or cultivating mind and nature. When this work is perfected, the elixir will naturally congeal. The Song of Understanding the Dao says: “Before refining the returning elixir, first refine your nature; before cultivating the great medicine, first cultivate your mind. When mind and nature are settled, signs that the elixir and medicine are nearing completion will naturally appear. Only after mind and spirit are clear and still will the medicinal sprouts begin to grow.”

Returning the elixir is the easiest part; refining the self is the hardest. If refining the self has not reached a state of self-forgetting and freedom from attachment, mind and nature cannot settle, and mind and spirit cannot become clear and still. How, then, could the returning elixir be refined? Yet without understanding the ancestral source, there is no way to begin refining the self. Master Sanfeng (Zhang Sanfeng) said: “When laying the foundation, one must use the bellows; when refining the self, one must also have true lead.” True lead is the ancestral source. Without a true teacher to point out this one “great medicine”—true lead—who would dare begin the practice?

Within the vessel, combine Kan and Li: in the vessel, a symbol of the elixir’s refinement, harmonize Kan and Li. Kan represents water; Li represents fire.

When the Qi mechanism turns back and gathers into an elixir, the true seed—the fundamental medicine in Neidan cultivation—has been obtained. Only then is one considered to have recovered the original condition present at birth. This is called “returning the elixir,” or the “lesser returning elixir.” But the elixir has not yet undergone the true tempering of Water and Fire; it remains an immature “raw elixir” and cannot be swallowed to prolong life. It must be refined into a substance of pure Yang before it can extend one’s years and increase longevity.

Kan, one of the Eight Trigrams (Bagua), symbolizes Water and is Yin on the outside, Yang within. The Yang within it is the true Yang, the upright Yang at the center. It is not the turbid essence in the physical kidneys, but the primordial, true One Water of spirit. Li, another of the Eight Trigrams, symbolizes Fire and is Yang on the outside, Yin within. The Yin within it is the true Yin, the upright Yin at the center. It is not the blood in the physical heart, but the primordial true Fire of numinous emptiness. The Water and Fire spoken of here both arise naturally within the void; they are not Water and Fire in a tangible, visible form. The cultivator uses them to cook and refine the numinous medicine, keeping the firing process uninterrupted through all twelve double-hours. One neither deliberately forgets it nor forcibly urges it onward, but lets it flow continuously without exerting too much effort. The “Mirror for Compounding the Medicine” (Ruyao Jing) says, “Water must not dry up; Fire must not grow cold.” This is the principle it describes.

“Compounding within the pot” means that natural Water and Fire need not be sought from outside; they are quietly set in motion by the intent of the spirit. Whether the medicine is mature or not, and whether the firing process should advance or subside, must be adjusted at every moment. One must grasp the changes with subtlety and care, allowing no part of the cultivation process to leak away.

As Yin and Yang alternate in their movement and cycle through transformations, their generative activity spreads everywhere—and at that moment, it is like a peal of thunder.

The work of refining Water and Fire together is the same as the work of “Tun at dawn and Meng at dusk.” “Tun at dawn” means advancing the Yang Fire in the morning; “Meng at dusk” means circulating the Yin Tally in the evening. Advance the Yang Fire when Yang Qi is in season, and circulate the Yin Tally when Yin Qi is in season. Since Yin contains Yang and Yang contains Yin, when Yin and Yang join and gather, transformation will unfold of its own accord.

The repeated transformations take place when things meet in a state of seeming absence and vagueness, and change amid profound darkness and stillness. As Yin and Yang repeatedly refine one another, blending and transforming, the innate numinous sprout grows from tender to firm, and from budding to maturity. Change proceeds gradually, then arrives all at once. Suddenly, a pill of utmost Yang bursts forth from the furnace of creation. It is like a thunderclap that rings through the sky and jolts a dreamer awake.

White clouds rise above the head, and sweet dew falls upon Mount Sumeru, the legendary mountain at the center of the world.

The pill of utmost Yang is refined in the cauldron. After swallowing it, use it to transform the Yin Mercury within yourself—the receptive, yielding aspect in internal alchemy—as nimbly as a cat catching a mouse. White clouds rising above the head signify that balanced, pure Qi ascends, bringing the Qi of the Five Viscera to the Origin. Sweet dew falling upon Mount Sumeru signifies that the divine water of the Flower Pool, the bodily fluids used in cultivation, descends, as if reviving every illness and restoring health. Mount Sumeru stands at the center of Heaven and Earth, symbolizing a treasure hidden within the human body. This treasure is the Sacred Embryo, the inner Elixir formed through cultivation, also called the Yellow Sprout. In a poem written for Zhang Zhennu, the patriarch says, “Earth’s thunder shakes; rain falls upon the mountaintop. It must wash the Yellow Sprout clean, so it can break through the soil.” This is precisely what he means.

Once the Sacred Embryo has formed, the divine water flows and nourishes the Dantian, the lower abdomen where internal alchemy is cultivated. Then, of its own accord, substance arises from what had no substance, and form takes shape from what was formless. There is no need to force the work through deliberate effort. Thus it says: “Drink the wine of long life yourself, and roam freely at ease—who could know?”

The text says “drink it yourself” and “who could know” because the state of long life and freedom concerns working with Yin and Yang and taking hold of creation’s transformations. Act ahead of Heaven’s timing, and Heaven will not oppose you; follow the sequence of the acquired world, and you can still accord with Heaven’s timing. Even the spirits of Heaven and Earth cannot fathom these transformations, much less ordinary people.

Sit quietly and listen to the song without strings; then you can understand and grasp the mysteries of creation.

The Zhuangzi says, “Gather the spirit and you can attain long life; forget the spirit and there is no birth.” Long life means cultivating life through deliberate methods; no birth means realizing one’s nature through Wuwei (non-action). The practice of realizing one’s nature is like facing a wall for nine years: it brings the spirit to the state of no birth.

The “nine years” mentioned here does not mean that one must literally practice for nine years. Nine is the number of pure Yang, symbolizing the nine transformations of the Golden Elixir’s liquid and the complete exhaustion of Yin energy, leaving Yang energy pure. “If even a hair’s breadth of Yin energy remains, one cannot become an immortal” means that Yin energy must be eliminated entirely before one can attain the realm of the immortals.

“Ten months of warming and nurturing” refers to the stage when the sacred embryo—a symbol of the achievement of the Golden Elixir in cultivation—matures and is transformed, just as a child is born after ten months in the womb. This is an analogy drawn from nature. During this period, one must guard against danger and remain vigilant, bringing all things to emptiness and allowing not even a trace of foreign, impure energy to enter the embryo’s origin. The mind should be like a towering wall, unaffected by external things and free of every concern.

“Ten months of warming and nurturing” and “facing a wall for nine years” express the same idea. They are not two different practices, but metaphors used by the ancients to describe stages of cultivation. Because the practitioner warms and nurtures the embryo and faces the wall, the text says, “Sit and listen to the song without strings.”

Here, “sit” does not mean sitting cross-legged physically. It means keeping the mind clear and the thoughts steady, without wavering. A “song with strings” produces sound; a “song without strings” has no sound at all. This silence might seem to be sheer emptiness. If there is no sound, what is there to listen to? The word “listen” indicates that this emptiness is not a fixed, lifeless void. It is “true emptiness,” which is empty yet does not become trapped in emptiness.

“Sit and listen” means turning away from attachment to forms and appearances. “Listen to the song without strings” means listening without clinging to listening or to sound. As the Jing of the Golden Casket (Jingang Jing, the Diamond Sutra) says, “If one sees me through form or seeks me through sound, that person follows a mistaken path and cannot see the Tathagata.”

“Tathāgata” means that it seems to have come, yet in truth nothing has come. This is the original nature of “true emptiness,” and the fundamental method and true formula for transcending the sacred embryo and realizing the Dharma body. In brief, the key to Wuwei (non-action) cultivation lies entirely in the word “sitting.” Sit down and let body and mind settle, then look inward at your own mind: it has no fixed, unchanging substance. Look outward at your own form: it, too, has no fixed, unchanging substance. Then look far away at the myriad things: they likewise have no fixed, unchanging substance.

Once you recognize these three points, all you see is “emptiness.” But emptiness, too, is not something to grasp; what is called “nothingness” must not be clung to either. When you no longer cling even to “nothingness,” this is called “clear illumination”: lucid awareness breaks the attachment to the void, allowing reality to reveal itself completely. This passage again emphasizes observing that mind, form, and things all lack fixed substance, then moving beyond attachment to both “emptiness” and “nothingness” to reach a state of complete clarity in which reality appears. At this point, there is neither birth nor death; only then has cultivation truly come to fruition.

“Having birth” means freeing oneself from the illusory fleshly body and strengthening the foundations of life. The Way of Returning the Elixir—the method of refining and nurturing Jing and Qi until they condense into the Neidan (internal alchemy) Elixir—refines and nurtures a tangible result from the formless. “Nonbirth” means transcending attachment to the Dharma body and understanding the school of nature, the teachings on original nature and awakening. The Way of the Great Elixir, in turn, advances from tangible cultivation to transformation back into the formless. “Having birth” and “nonbirth” are both pivots of the transformations of creation. Those who understand this principle first cultivate a tangible result of life from the formless in pursuit of longevity, then ultimately return from being to nonbeing and attain nonbirth. Clinging neither to being nor to nonbeing, they cultivate nature and life together, understanding the workings of Heaven and Earth’s creation and transformation and becoming one with Heaven and Earth.

In all, these twenty sentences are indeed a ladder leading to Heaven.

“Cultivate Qi and forget words; hold fast to the One” broadly describes the overall method and effects of cultivation. The line “Subdue the mind through non-action” refers to refining the self and laying the foundation: subduing scattered thoughts so the mind becomes settled. The lines “Know the ancestral source in movement and stillness; when there is nothing to do, whom else would you seek?” also describe refining the self and laying the foundation. The key is to know one’s own mind. The lines “In responding to things, remain in the constant and true; respond to things without becoming deluded” describe the practical work of refining the self: in everyday encounters, remain rooted in one’s constant and true nature, without being confused by external circumstances. The three lines “When not deluded, nature settles of itself; when nature settles, Qi returns of itself; when Qi returns, the Elixir forms of itself” say that when the work of refining the self is sustained, the Neidan (internal alchemy) will coalesce.

The line “Within the pot, Kan and Li are joined” describes the continued refinement of Yin-Yang within the body after the Neidan has coalesced. The line “Yin and Yang arise and turn back” describes the Qi of Yin-Yang moving back and forth, as the Elixir gradually grows stable after first forming. The line “A thunderclap transforms all” uses the sound of thunder as a metaphor for the scene of the Elixir’s release. The lines “White clouds rise above the crown; sweet dew falls upon Mount Sumeru” describe what appears after ingesting the Elixir. The lines “I drink the wine of long life myself; who could know my carefree ease?” describe what follows the Elixir’s ingestion and the formation of the embryo. Here, “forming the embryo” is a term in Neidan cultivation for the process by which the Elixir is completed. The line “Seated, I listen to the song without strings” describes the ten months of nurturing the Neidan. The line “Clearly understanding the workings of creation and transformation” sums up the essentials of dual cultivation of nature and life, and of awakening to the roots of life and one’s nature.

These eighteen lines explain the sequence, stages of refinement, and steps of cultivating the Reverted Elixir and the Great Elixir, from beginning to end. Their content is concise yet complete. By practicing according to the method, one can advance from shallow to deep and from near to far; hence they are called the ladder by which Dao cultivators ascend to Heaven. The phrase “twenty lines” counts the final two lines as well.