《修真十書盤山語錄》

When the master was teaching the Dao on Panshan (a sacred Daoist mountain), he said: Beginners who start their cultivation by delving into abstruse and difficult principles will find no foothold or reliance, inevitably giving rise to doubts. If these teachings seem too abstract and insubstantial, leaving one without solid ground, genuine faith cannot arise—and without faith, persistent practice becomes impossible. Practicing incorrectly leads to haphazard efforts, and over time, one grows weary and abandons the path.

Let me now share with you a concrete method of cultivation: Begin with what your eyes can see, your ears can hear, and what your heart can truly believe. Progress gradually from the shallow to the profound, step by step, and you will not stray from the right path. In truth, the sights and sounds of daily life are all manifestations of the great Dao.

What, then, are the trustworthy models for practice? Look—are not the vast emptiness, the heavens and earth, the sun and moon, the mountains and rivers, the wind and clouds all clearly displayed before your eyes? These are the living textbooks of cultivation, the very gateways to the Dao.

To be specific: Be like the clouds in the mountains—coming and going without intention, drifting freely, unbound by external things. The cultivator's mind should be just like this. Be like the wind that moves all things—passing freely without obstruction, leaving no trace, unhindered by grass, trees, or forests. The cultivator's mind should be just like this.

Be like Mount Tai—majestic and unmoving, steadfast and unshaken by anything external. The cultivator's mind should be just like this. Be like the nature of water—soft and flowing downward, nourishing all things without contention, adapting to square or round vessels while remaining pure in essence. When gathered into rivers and seas, it embraces all streams without distinction, accommodating fish, turtles, shrimp, and crabs alike. The cultivator's mind should be just like this.

Be like the radiance of the sun and moon—illuminating all things impartially, bright and penetrating, ceaseless through day and night. The cultivator's mind should be just like this. Be like the sky above—eternally clear yet embracing all; like the earth below—eternally tranquil yet nurturing all things without harm. The cultivator's mind should be just like this.

Be like the emptiness of space—boundlessly vast, containing and encompassing all, whether sentient or insentient, all sheltered within heaven and earth. The cultivator's mind should likewise embrace all without clinging to movement or stillness, existence or non-existence—neither separate from the myriad things, nor bound by them.

This passage explains how practitioners of the Dao should cultivate their hearts and nature to attain unity with the Dao.

First, it clarifies that a Dao cultivator's mental state should resemble the clarity of heaven, the tranquility of earth, the radiance of sun and moon, and the natural transformations of all things—maintaining an inner state of emptiness and purity. Cultivating the Dao means harmonizing with the Way of heaven and earth. Through persistent practice, one will naturally merge with the Dao when the time is ripe. Clinging to words and thoughts, however, will only lead one astray from the true Dao. Since we've entered the Mysterious Gate (Daoism), we should all devote ourselves diligently to cultivation.

Someone asked how beginners should approach cultivating heart and nature. The master replied: Sever all selfish thoughts and scheming intentions completely; relinquish all delusions—indulgence in wine and lust, greed for wealth, disputes over right and wrong, attachments to relationships and desires. When external matters no longer burden you, the body becomes light; when the heart holds no attachments, the spirit becomes free. With both inner and outer purity maintained over time, delusions will naturally cease. One must also constantly watch speech and conduct, moderate food and sleep, and preserve physical and mental purity. When worldly defilements are completely removed, one's original spirit (the innate spiritual nature) will manifest, allowing one to become a supremely free and unfettered Daoist.

The master admonished everyone: Practitioners should understand that the Dao can be cultivated within worldly life—there's no need to obsess over ascension to immortality. Family and loved ones are your immortals—no need to seek other divine connections. Don't follow crowds in their pursuits, nor blindly oppose what others reject. You won't attain the Dao while sleeping, so avoid meaningless gatherings. Meet good fortune without excessive joy, face difficulties without undue sorrow. Learn from those superior to you, help those less advanced. Prefer suffering loss yourself over harming others for gain. Speak less of empty words, practice more real cultivation. Emotional desires belong to the mundane; freedom from worldly dust marks the immortal path. Willing humility brings true nobility; contentment in poverty constitutes real wealth. Return to the constant Dao, accord with heavenly principle and human sentiment, follow the upright path while avoiding heresy, comprehend the true meaning of Dao and De (Virtue), and achieve perfect integration of essence and function—this is Quanzhen (Complete Perfection, the highest state of Daoist cultivation).

Finally, a crucial reminder: Practitioners must absolutely avoid discussing others' faults or worldly affairs irrelevant to their cultivation—neither speaking idle words nor entertaining delusional thoughts. This constitutes true practice.

The recorded sayings of Master Panshan teach us: To spend whole days discussing right and wrong is to lose oneself in delusion. If one devotes oneself to refining the heart-mind and constantly reflecting on one's own faults, where would one find idle time to meddle in others' affairs? In conducting oneself, one should learn from others' virtues while avoiding their shortcomings, not excessively focusing on external matters—only then can one gradually attain transcendent states.

The Master said heaven and earth are like parents to the myriad beings. The heavens cover all without discrimination, and the earth bears all without distinction between good and bad. Similarly, those in high positions (those with status and authority) should emulate heaven in nurturing and embracing those below, while those in lower positions should emulate the earth in reverently submitting to those above. Living between heaven and earth, we must follow this natural principle—acting recklessly against it will only invite calamity.

Cultivation must accord with natural law; it cannot be forced. Both internal refinement and external conduct depend on the degree of one's dedication. When the Dao's methods have not yet manifested, one should immerse oneself in practice; when the conditions of Dao ripen, one must actively engage in benefiting the world. The key lies in steadfast determination—there is no fear of accumulating too much merit, nor of spreading good deeds too widely.

Someone once asked, "Can three years of arduous practice free one from the cycle of rebirth?" The Master replied: Practitioners must establish firm resolve and constantly refine their hearts with diligence—they should not harbor hopes for quick results. There was once a Daoist who, newly ordained, boasted that liberation from rebirth was a trivial matter, only to suffer years of severe illness that gradually wore down his will. This shows that cultivation must not be approached with a competitive or impatient heart.

Those seeking the Dao must diligently seek guidance, just as travelers must frequently ask directions to avoid losing their way. Even mundane skills require a teacher's instruction—how much more so the profound mysteries of the great Dao? If beginners lack the guidance of an enlightened master, what can they rely on for realization? The path of cultivation is filled with hardship.

Life and death constitute the greatest barrier of human existence—how can one transcend it without drawing near to realized adepts (zhiren)? Ancient cultivators never treated spiritual practice carelessly; they devoted their entire lives to serving authentic masters. Without knowing the proper methods of cultivation and without approaching enlightened teachers, even the most determined practitioner will inevitably make countless mistakes.

A cultivator must first apply fierce effort to temper and eliminate those deeply rooted, stubborn thoughts in the mind, as if forging iron. If even this physical body must be seen through and relinquished, how much more should those illusory mental constructs be discarded? All must be thoroughly swept away to attain freedom from afflictions. As for external possessions, their coming and going is like mosquitoes buzzing about—simply wave them away. But the most tenacious attachments in the heart are the very root of samsara. When Changchun Zhenren (Qiu Chuji) cultivated at Panxi, tigers and leopards often roamed at night. At first he considered building walls for protection, but then realized: "If one still fears and avoids at the critical juncture of life and death, how can true transcendence be achieved?" He thus abandoned all defenses, surrendering to life and death, whereupon fear naturally vanished until even mortality could be faced with equanimity. This state is the most difficult to attain.

Practitioners must avoid two pitfalls: blindly imitating others' strengths while obsessing over their faults. Those who spend days judging right and wrong have already distorted their heart-mind. Those who constantly criticize others are in truth the most confused. Truly discerning individuals only reflect inward to correct their own deviations. To fixate on others' rights and wrongs is fundamentally contrary to the Dao.

When cultivators gather, it resembles Mount Tai embracing all things: some are unremarkable timber, others are pillars of the realm; some stand transcendent while others lean on companions; some are spiritual herbs, others thorns. Yet the mountain itself remains unmoved, impartially encompassing all. Flowing water, strange rocks, dense forests, wild grasses—each follows its inherent nature in spontaneous growth.

The natural behaviors of birds and beasts all contain the mystical workings of immortals. They depend on each other as naturally as wormwood and hemp stalks stand upright without support. Heaven and earth endure in perpetual motion, while all things find their proper place. To forcibly cut down the long and supplement the short, altering their innate nature, would not only disturb the peace of all creatures but also cause them to lose their original essence.

When the master heard disciples discussing temple management, he said: "Those who cultivate the Dao and oversee temples should act according to their capacity, keeping affairs simple and living lightly. Never compete for fame and profit like worldly people, lest you lose your original aspiration and forget the root of Daoist practice. When facing positions of authority, outwardly show humility while inwardly preserving your true nature. In difficult circumstances, temper your mind with patience—doing well what you'd rather avoid, and stepping up when duty calls. With your heart settled in stability, receive visitors from all directions. Only by benefiting both self and others can you accumulate complete merit. Without cultivating the mind, treating external things as your identity breeds habits of miserliness and greed, narrowing your vision, committing worldly sins, and ruining your spiritual path."

During an evening meditation at Changzhen Temple, the master instructed the assembly: "Beginners in Daoist practice find it hard to cultivate alone. Though they may rely on temples or form friendships with fellow practitioners, they must distinguish three types of companions: First are 'cloud-companions and mist-friends' (fellow cultivators united in purpose)—those resolved to refine their hearts, investigate cause and effect, transcend worldly dust, and wander beyond society. They seek truth sincerely, their minds as free as clouds and mist, unbound by mundane affairs. Second are 'good companions and understanding friends' (ordinary virtuous associates)—those who study scriptures, practice arts like qin and chess, and engage in lofty discussions. Though not cultivating the heart, they do no evil. Third are 'wild companions and strange friends' (unwholesome company)—those who neglect spiritual refinement, ignore scriptures, disregard karma, and act bizarrely, quick to fight over slights and gang up against the virtuous. These three types face different destinies after death: Cloud-companions ascend to celestial realms as immortals or heavenly officials; good friends, their worldly ties unbroken, continue reincarnating among humans; while wild companions inevitably suffer karmic retribution."

When practitioners repeatedly create karma and suffer retribution, those arrogant and eccentric companions who enjoy offerings from all directions without accumulating any merit will ultimately repay their debts of harmful speech—either descending into Fengdu (the Daoist hell) or cycling through the beast realm in suffering. By then, regret will be too late. The wise and discerning should contemplate carefully and each seek a path of cultivation suited to them.

Master Danyang (Ma Yu, patriarch of the Quanzhen tradition) once composed a verse: Practitioners dwelling in monastic communities (pure gathering places for cultivation) should assess their own spiritual capacity and choose wise teachers as companions on the path. If fundamental principles remain unclear, one must inquire with humility. Within the community, mutual guidance and collective practice of supreme mind teachings are no trivial matter. Some lack discernment—they neither seek enlightened masters nor dwell in monastic purity, idly boasting of wandering freely while neglecting inner refinement. Traversing countless mountains and rivers merely wastes straw sandals as they chase comfort. At the slightest hardship, they flee. Such renunciants don’t even grasp what truly matters—ignorant of earnest practice, they seek only ease. Little do they realize the great matter of life and death will come—what then will they rely on? How can they squander their days? Where is their original aspiration for renunciation?

Practitioners differ in spiritual acuity. The dull-witted must not cling to stubborn views but should reside in monastic communities, humbly consulting those who understand. With time and deepening effort, they will naturally be guided onto the path and gradually awaken. But if naturally obtuse and lacking right view, daily mingling with worldly folk will deepen mundane ties until the Dao-mind withers. When demonic obstacles manifest hellish visions and no aid comes, they sink into ruin—a true tragedy.

Even long-term monastics who hear teachings morning and evening may grow lax and regress. Following old habits, their Dao-mind weakens while worldly concerns multiply; indulging the body without emptiness and stillness, they drown in mundanity. Walking alone, worldly attachments entangle them endlessly—countless hindrances arise unnoticed. Even encountering sages won’t reform them; instead, they deceive with cunning arguments until blessings exhaust and karmic obstacles grow. Turning back in time may still save them, but persisting in error brings hell within reach.

This passage records the trials encountered by two Daoist practitioners during their cultivation, revealing two common pitfalls on the spiritual path.

The first story tells of a hermit living in the mountains, wearing grass garments and eating wild fruits while vowing never to descend to the mundane world. One day, two armed men came demanding food, and the cultivator prepared mountain fruits for them. One man rudely grabbed fruits directly from the pot with his hands, complaining about the coarse meal. Provoked, the cultivator secretly fetched a hidden club to drive them away. The visitors then laughed, saying, "You cultivate in mountains yet nurture such competitive spirit—better return to worldly life!" Before disappearing, they revealed themselves as divine beings testing whether he could transcend external disturbances—a test he unfortunately failed.

The second account describes a Shandong Daoist who claimed to have completely refined the "fire of ignorance" (referring to anger and afflictions). His master arranged a test by sending a disciple to knock violently at his door at dusk. The visitor entered without removing shoes, jumped onto the seat, and behaved outrageously. The Daoist immediately exploded in anger, sternly rebuking him—only to hear the tester laugh: "I was sent to verify your claim of anger-free mind. One test exposed the truth." The Daoist was left deeply ashamed.

Master Changchun (Qiu Chuji) observes that practitioners should never become complacent about their progress, as pride inevitably leads to failure during trials. True cultivation requires achieving a heart like dead ashes and a form like withered wood—utterly devoid of self-congratulatory thoughts. Even when unmoved by external circumstances, higher realms still await beyond.

When asked about the merits of "guarding the circle" (referring to closed-door cultivation), the text doesn't answer directly. Yet these stories demonstrate that authentic practice lies not in external forms, but in genuine inner transcendence.

This passage recounts several stories testing the cultivation of a practitioner's inner nature. When Wang Chongyang (the Perfected One) was in the capital, he encountered a practitioner secluded in meditation behind a Daoist temple while devotees were performing purification rituals (Zhaijiao). Someone informed the Perfected One that the secluded practitioner wished to speak with him, so he decided to meet after the rituals concluded. Unexpectedly, the Perfected One suddenly left and forcefully knocked on the meditation chamber's door with his staff. Mistaking the disturbance for an ordinary interruption, the practitioner inside responded angrily. After the rituals ended, when people again requested a meeting, the Perfected One remarked: "The test is already done. This person still harbors strong self-awareness—not suitable for profound discourse."

Here the text highlights that the foundation of quiet cultivation lies in refining one's heart-mind and nurturing inner nature. The crucial test is whether one can maintain serenity when facing external disturbances. A true practitioner should be selfless like cooled ashes, remaining composed even during unexpected situations. If the slightest noise provokes anger, it reveals insufficient cultivation of heart-mind. Such secluded practice lacks real substance and only accumulates "oral debts" by accepting offerings without merit.

Two further examples follow: Qiu Chuji (the Perfected One of Long Life) noticed a seemingly mild-tempered practitioner in the kitchen and secretly had someone remove cooking utensils to test him. When the man couldn't find a ladle while making porridge, causing it to spill, he indeed flew into a rage. The Perfected One instructed him: "Spilled food is merely material loss—why let it disturb your heart-mind?" Only then did the man awaken to his error.

Another story tells of a humble carpenter named Zhang in the eastern hall who never showed anger, earning everyone's praise. Yet the Perfected One insisted on testing his authenticity. Zhang was deliberately assigned three simultaneous carpentry tasks (making a sitting couch, doors/windows, and other implements), during which he gradually revealed impatience. These stories collectively demonstrate: genuine cultivation must be tempered through daily trivialities—only practical trials reveal a person's true heart-mind refinement. Just as gold requires fire to prove its purity, human nature needs diverse circumstantial tests.

This passage from the Panshan Records documents essential mental cultivation methods for Daoist practice, focusing on how to maintain unwavering mental composure amidst daily affairs.

When practitioners engage with worldly matters, they must first establish inner sovereignty, preserving tranquility and equanimity. Handling affairs requires discerning priorities—even when facing extreme adversity, the mind must remain unshaken. Whether addressing one matter before another holds no real significance, as these are merely external illusions without fixed standards. The crucial principle is to "let the mind die while keeping the mechanism alive"—maintaining inner stillness while responding with flexible adaptability. By addressing each situation according to its immediate urgency while preserving steady serenity, one attains the state of "constant response with constant stillness."

Observing disciples whose minds wavered during tasks, the master instructed: "Though practitioners must engage with external phenomena, they must avoid attachment. Respond with a state of 'no-mind' (wuxin), keeping the mind's essence empty and receptive. Thus no phenomenon becomes an obstruction, just as the myriad manifestations of heaven and earth operate naturally without mutual hindrance. Clinging to 'self-image' (woxiang, ego-attachment) creates opposition—the slightest friction will disturb your fundamental mind, rendering whole days of labor fruitless."

In communal living or when handling affairs, special attention must be paid to guarding the mind's stability. True skill lies in constantly examining one's own faults while disregarding others' rights and wrongs. Face all circumstances with courageous acceptance, never led astray by external conditions while maintaining inner clarity. So long as the original aspiration doesn't regress, great merit will naturally be accomplished.

The text then recounts a practitioner who spent years in secluded cultivation within a "circular chamber" (yuanshi, a round meditation hut with only a small window for food). When companions eventually invited him out, an old friend tested him: "Brother, can the stillness you cultivated in solitude withstand bustling activity? Have you truly reached complete immovability?" The practitioner responded with arrogant silence. His friend continued: "I possess a touchstone to verify authenticity..."

This passage from Panshan's recorded sayings reveals common pitfalls in spiritual practice through two illustrative stories.

The first story involves two practitioners discussing seated meditation. One believed prolonged sitting alone could lead to attaining the Dao (the Way). His friend deliberately provoked him by saying, "How is this different from livestock repaying karmic debts?" The meditator immediately flew into a rage. His friend exposed the contradiction: "Is this the result of your seated cultivation?" This shows that meditation without mind cultivation is like tethering a horse - once released, it still runs wild. True practice requires tempering one's nature through life's varied circumstances.

The second anecdote features Quanzhen (Complete Perfection) master Changchun Zhenren (Qiu Chuji). During a rainstorm, everyone scrambled to move drying bricks while an elderly practitioner remained unmoving. When someone complained, the master responded: "What's the value of bricks? If someone truly cultivates a luminous mind, that's the priceless pearl." This highlights Daoism's ultimate valuation of enlightened awareness over external displays.

The text then discusses common visionary phenomena in early-stage meditation: practitioners claiming mountain solitude grants precognition, or tasting wine during sitting only to receive actual wine offerings the next day. These "spirit-headed, ghost-faced" illusions represent initial quiet-stillness experiences. Mistaking them for reality leads to heterodox paths. As ancient sages taught, the true Dao is "invisible to the eye, inaudible to the ear, inexpressible in speech, and inconceivable to thought." Obsession with supernatural experiences creates mental obstructions that become difficult to heal.

The essential teaching is: Dao cultivation emphasizes mind refinement over meditation form; authentic attainment transcends sensory perception, while clinging to extraordinary phenomena leads to delusion. Like a jeweler who values the pearl itself rather than its container, practitioners must discern essence from appearance.

When practitioners sit in meditation, it is not uncommon to experience mental clarity and heightened sensitivity to external phenomena. However, becoming attached to such sensations leads one astray into heterodox paths. There was once a cultivator whose primordial spirit (Shen, the innate spiritual nature) suddenly left the body during seated meditation, traveling hundreds of paces before returning—only to see the physical form still sitting motionless. Though such occurrences may repeat, they are no more remarkable than ordinary wandering thoughts, merely perceived with greater vividness. To mistake these for genuine attainment is to fall prey to delusory appearances. As the saying goes: "No auspicious sign surpasses ordinary stability"—this is the true state of harmony with the Dao.

The master taught: During deep stillness, practitioners may witness various visions, all projections of the conscious mind (postnatal thinking) emerging in the silence to beguile the spirit. The ancients rightly said: "All phenomena are illusory." Precisely when attempting to transcend mental disturbances, the mind manifests as grotesque faces or bewildering apparitions. By maintaining unwavering composure—observing without attachment, abiding in emptiness—these phantoms find no foothold and naturally disperse. There was once an adept who had reached profound stillness of heart-mind. During meditation, countless demonic figures suddenly appeared riding through the air. Anchored in original awareness, he visualized his body as boundless void, indifferent to life and death, whereupon the demonic displays vanished spontaneously. When the sovereign heart remains unmoved, what demonic interference can arise? Such visions merely reflect unrefined delusory thoughts, dissolving when the mind becomes perfectly clear.

The master offered another example: Upon hearing of the "solid ground" (a metaphor for stable attainment), a practitioner entered retreat (the circular meditation enclosure) determined to witness this state. This very fixation caused corresponding illusions—ordinary sounds mistaken for celestial music, mundane sights perceived as golden boys, jade maidens, or immortal manifestations. These are but false realms born of deluded thoughts. Mistaking them for genuine attainment creates obstinate delusions that may haunt one's entire life. Few realize "solid ground" describes the mind resting in stable tranquility—like land cleared of thorns and rubble, fit for dwelling. When practitioners achieve earth-like equanimity, undisturbed by external conditions, they reach "immovable ground." When utterly untainted by worldly dust, it becomes "pure ground." Only when original nature (the primordial true self) shines forth in naked awareness does one truly stand upon the "ground"—the fundamental state of being.

The Ten Books on Cultivating Perfection: Panshan Records discusses how practitioners can transcend life and death to attain spiritual freedom.

A disciple asked, "Life and death are the great matters of human existence, yet I still don’t understand how to resolve them." The master replied, "If no deluded thoughts arise in the mind, there is naturally no life or death. If you cannot achieve this, it is because emotional desires still linger in your heart, obscuring your true nature like dust, leaving you trapped in thoughts of life and death all day. To break free, you must remain constantly aware of distracting thoughts—the moment they appear, immediately dissolve them until you reach complete purity."

True purity means not being deceived by external phenomena like sounds and colors, remaining free and unburdened in all situations. Over time, you will naturally come to understand the "True Ruler" (referring to the original mind). When the mind is upright, everything is upright; when the mind is warped, everything is warped. Once your inner self becomes the master, you will not blindly follow what others love nor reject what they despise. When old habits are completely reversed and the disturbances of the six senses (sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch, and thought) are emptied, the original mind naturally settles—what is there left to fear about life and death?

However, beware: if, at a certain stage of practice, you suddenly feel out of control—as if possessed by evil spirits, acting wildly and unrestrained—this is actually a sign of scattered spirit and Qi (vital energy). Mistaking this madness for true joy is a grave error. Real joy does not depend on external stimulation; it is like the spontaneous freedom of ancient practitioners who sang and danced—a true liberation from constraints, not a deliberate act of madness meant to deceive the world.

Someone asked the master about the experience of "opening the treasury of wisdom." The master explained that when practitioners first break free from worldly distractions, it is like suddenly polishing a mirror—wisdom naturally flows forth, and literary inspiration gushes like a spring. Yet one must not cling to this state, for forcefully maintaining it can lead to deviation. Such a state is merely a function of the spirit, not yet the attainment of the Dao itself. The key is to continuously nurture the mind and nature.

Finally, a disciple asked, "Setting aside the past and future, what is the 'present mind'?" The master first looked directly at him and said, "This is not the present," then lowered his head and said, "This is not the present either." The disciple admitted his confusion, and the master revealed, "With your eyes open, you cannot even recognize the present mind—how can you speak of past and future?" This points to the profound meaning of Chan (Zen) Buddhism’s teaching that "the present is all"—the true present mind transcends all conceptual distinctions.

Someone asked: "If we don't dwell on past events or anticipate future ones, how should we act in the present?" Master Panshan replied: "Outward actions may cease, but inner awareness (zhao) must never be extinguished. The crucial point is to realize who is this essence that can stop all activity. Once comprehended, one gains complete mastery—able to stop or move at will."

Another inquired: "How can one stabilize the heart-mind (xinxing)?" The master moved his seat closer, sat upright in silence for a long while, then suddenly countered: "What do you mean by 'stabilizing the heart-mind'?" The questioner was left speechless. A fellow practitioner nearby rose to bow in gratitude, to which the master said: "This is like Zhang getting drunk while Li pays the bill [a metaphor for mistaken identity]." The questioner remained unenlightened.

The master further expounded: Practitioners forgo sleep precisely to cultivate the heart-mind. If thoughts remain undisciplined, what's the use of staying awake all night? Consider gamblers, chess players, or weavers who work through the night—do they attain the Dao? Such people are constantly pulled by profit and desire, their greed agitating the mind like mosquitoes biting skin, hence their sleeplessness. True practitioners differ—sleep itself is a desire; untransformed, it fosters delusions and sinks one into yin energy. Like guarding against thieves by sitting upright until robbers disperse. In focused mind-cultivation, prevent scattering, for the heart-mind has no fixed form: lucid in yang energy, dull in yin energy. When familiar distractions cease and wuwei purity emerges, the innate pearl of nature (xingzhu) shines forth—this is the true meaning of "never sleeping day or night."

The master concluded: Confront this stubborn heart-mind—its accumulated karma from beginningless kalpas piles higher than mountains. Only after myriad deaths and rebirths does one awaken to past mistakes, striving day and night for liberation. This obstinate mind must be utterly transformed, all worldly inverted habits corrected. What use is mimicking others' sleeplessness without refining the mind? Thoughts are feather-sensitive, igniting anger at a touch. Even a century without sleep means nothing if the stubborn mind persists. To remake this mind requires unceasing effort—whether in motion or stillness, completely shattering this obstinacy to reveal the primordial true spirit (yuanben zhenling). Upon merging with heaven and earth, movement is Dao, stillness is Dao, speech and silence are Dao—why seek elsewhere? Such is the liberated Daoist practitioner.

Someone asked: Since ancient times, all practitioners must first establish firm resolve—but what truly constitutes genuine resolve?

The master replied: Genuine resolve manifests in every aspect of daily life. Whether active or still, in any environment, whether walking, standing, sitting, or lying down, every thought remains focused on cultivating the Dao. When encountering demonic obstacles, one does not alter their original intent; when suffering harm, their faith remains unshaken. They maintain this in peaceful circumstances just as in perilous situations. Exhausting this lifetime without turning back, advancing courageously to face life and death—only such a person can be said to possess true resolve. Thus, the scriptures say: Those who persevere in practice are the ones with resolve.

The master continued: Practitioners must indeed establish firm resolve, but they must also avoid rigidity. Excessive attachment leads to inflexibility in handling affairs, while excessive adaptability easily becomes complacency. Hence, those who study the Dao are as numerous as hairs on an ox, yet those who attain it are as rare as unicorn horns. A Dao cultivator must first grasp the fundamental principle—holding firm resolve while understanding flexibility. With single-minded dedication, diligent practice without slackening, and perseverance, none will fail to succeed.

The master illustrated with a metaphor: Cultivating the heart is like forging a golden rooster. Though its form resembles an ordinary rooster, its inner essence remains unmoving. Even standing among a flock, other aggressive roosters dare not approach. One who comprehends the great Dao has a heart like cooled ashes and an appearance like withered wood. No matter how contentious others in the world may be, none dare contend with them. Thus, the scriptures say: Because they do not contend, none in the world can contend with them.

Another asked: If everyone’s original nature is already complete, why is cultivation necessary? The master explained: An unrefined ordinary mind is like silver within ore. Untreated, it remains mere stone—it must be smelted in a blazing furnace to remove impurities and reveal true gold. Practitioners are the same: using resolve as the furnace and wisdom as the fuel, they diligently refine away all deluded and defiled thoughts to reveal the inherently pure, unobstructed true mind. Once true nature is realized, it is no longer false; then, one must carefully protect this eternally luminous jewel.

The master concluded: Since ancient times, those who study the Dao must be strict with themselves, benefit others, and silently accumulate merit. If they lose their original mind and act contrary to the Dao’s principles, they not only disgrace the teachings but also...

When practitioners indulge themselves, they invite calamity. Those who chase bodily pleasures, speak carelessly, and live extravagantly are no different from worldly people. Enjoying the hard-earned offerings of devotees may seem advantageous, but hidden within this pleasure lies bitter fruit that must eventually be repaid. When facing life's critical moments, they'll have no means to respond. Having entered the gate of cultivation, how can one neglect refining their nature and life?

Someone asked: "Since all people seek pleasure, why must Dao cultivators deliberately embrace hardship?" The master replied: Ordinary people don't understand true joy—where the heart finds peace, there is joy. Dragged by desires, they mistake suffering for pleasure while trapped in misery. Constantly scheming and chasing worldly delights, they grow distressed when unsatisfied, their hearts never finding freedom—this is true suffering. Practitioners don't crave mundane pleasures; with the Great Dao in their hearts, they don't perceive hardship as bitter, and without bitterness, they naturally dwell in constant joy. A heart that finds freedom knows true joy. Remember: where there's pleasure, suffering follows; beyond pleasure and pain lies genuine joy.

Another asked: "Why do cultivators willingly endure poverty?" The master said: "If hunger and cold constituted cultivation, wouldn't every beggar become an immortal?" True practitioners take virtue as their heart and purity as their thought, abandoning falsehood and greed, relinquishing deluded attachments—not even clinging to their physical forms. Thus it's said: "Why seek finery for covering the body? Why crave delicacies for filling the belly?" They focus on comprehending life's great matter and refining their nature—not on tormenting the body.

The master further explained: For every measure of skill attained, practitioners develop corresponding pride; with full mastery comes complete arrogance. This sense of superiority and self-awareness becomes a major obstacle—how can one reach the realm of empty clarity? One must ruthlessly subjugate body and mind beneath all things, constantly reflecting on one's innumerable shortcomings to dissolve arrogance. When the heart becomes as vast as the sky, the "self" disappears—only through no-self can one unite with the Dao.

Finally, the master offered an analogy: Practitioners should stabilize their fundamental mind like wooden statues in temple halls—whether receiving no devotees, abundant offerings, or even slander, they remain unmoved amidst external changes, abiding in unwavering stillness.

This passage from the Panshan Records documents crucial dialogues in Daoist cultivation, focusing on how to preserve one's innate spiritual nature without being deluded by external things.

Cultivation is like sweeping the floor—the harder one tries to clean it, the more unsettled one becomes. True purity isn't achieved through forced striving, just as holding a broom doesn't mean fixating on the act of "sweeping." Many renounce worldly life to pursue the great matter of cultivating nature (Xing) and life (Ming), yet over time become entangled in various skills and distracting thoughts, becoming slaves to external things. The truly wise know how to use things without being used by them, just as the skillful aren't bound by technique, nor the eloquent trapped by words.

Regarding doubts about "knowing" (Zhi) and "awakening" (Jue), true knowing is natural awareness without forced seeking, while true awakening is spontaneous realization without deliberate effort. The innate true spirit (Zhenling) of humans was originally obscure—only when awakened does it become "Jue." If one clings to maintaining states of "knowing" or "awakening," it becomes self-bondage, like needling oneself when not ill. Yet to remain completely unaware is to fall into another kind of delusion. The key is penetrating the root: both knowing and awakening are tools—use them when needed, but without attachment.

When discussing the nature of awakening (Juexing), avoid empty theorizing and practice earnestly. Facing obstacles like desires, afflictions, and self-attachment is like standing before a slippery glass well—a moment's inattention leads to irreversible downfall. Recognizing these traps beforehand and retreating with alertness at the brink embodies awakening. It's meaningless to discuss sublime states while already trapped in self-attachment's snare.

The essence of cultivation lies in maintaining clarity of heart while embracing apparent simplicity—thus all worldly wisdom can serve you. As the Dao De Jing says, "Great wisdom seems foolish." True awakening isn't about superficial cleverness, but preserving inner clarity and natural simplicity.

Someone asked: Among those who have left worldly life, some study the ancient gong'an (Zen koan stories), while others focus on scriptural texts. Some wonder whether the ancient teaching of "illuminating the mind" (contemplating one's original mind) remains valid today.

The master replied: Practitioners should fundamentally cultivate themselves, transforming from ordinary beings into sages. Yet some, after renouncing worldly life, refuse to engage in earnest practice. Instead, they exhaust their energy obsessing over ancient sayings and getting entangled in textual studies like vines choking a tree. When the King of Death comes calling, none of this learning will be of any use. Ironically, those who live in simple ignorance often come closer to the true Dao. If only they would apply this same diligence to their fundamental practice, they wouldn't waste their precious time.

What is this fundamental matter? It's the luminous spirit (innate spiritual nature) that governs our bodies—a gift received from the great Dao. From ancient times to the present, it remains eternally pure and constant. Recognizing this truth is the very proof of transcending the mundane for the sacred. Those who truly believe and practice should immediately devote themselves to realizing this. Your own mind-nature is the most precious gong'an—why count others' treasures? Quickly make it your own, and you'll never again be deceived.

The master continued: If practitioners fail to open the eye of true Dharma (wisdom-eye) and allow their rounded discernment (awakened insight) to emerge—if they merely follow others' paths and speculate about words—they'll never grasp the essence. Like blind men hearing descriptions of the sun and moon's radiance yet never seeing for themselves, they're left with empty imaginings. All this stems from neglecting the work on their own mind-nature.

Another asked: I've heard that Dan-yang Zhenren (Ma Yu, one of the Quanzhen Seven Masters) attained rapid enlightenment by thoroughly penetrating life and death. What's the principle here?

The master instructed: Practitioners should visualize themselves as condemned prisoners being led to execution, each step bringing them closer to death. Cultivating with this life-and-death determination enables complete renunciation. Amidst sensory temptations, they'll become like those who neither see nor hear—able to relinquish even this body, let alone other attachments. Practicing with this mindset yields the swiftest results—this is truly "finding life within death," reaching the state beyond birth and extinction.

Beginners seeking liberation from the cycle of life and death should maintain this awareness: Human life is fleeting—a single breath withheld means the realm of death. We must encourage one another in diligent progress, never procrastinating or growing lax. Regarding this great matter of life-and-death, constant vigilance is essential.

A cultivator fell gravely ill and seemed near death. The master then instructed the assembly: "Those who cultivate the Dao must first perceive all worldly entanglements as illusory, and secondly understand this physical body is merely a heap of dust. If one can remain detached and unconstrained in daily interactions with people and affairs, at life's end one will naturally attain great liberation."

There was once an abbot of Dongshan Monastery who struggled painfully at death's threshold, unable to find liberation. When they sought advice from Master Changchun (Qiu Chuji, patriarch of the Quanzhen lineage), the master said: "His whole life he clung to external phenomena, never truly cultivating his essential nature. Thus he's now bound by illness and cannot be liberated." The message was conveyed: "The body was never truly mine; the original nature is empty void. Abandon false thoughts and completely let go." Hearing this, the abbot experienced sudden enlightenment and exhorted his disciples: "I was deluded by external things and neglected the work of cultivating my nature. Now I urge you all to devote yourselves to practice and penetrate the great matter of life and death." With these words, he peacefully departed.

Another Daoist priest, unable to find liberation at death's door, asked the assembly: "How can I attain liberation?" Someone suggested: "Visualize your master's form." After several days of unsuccessful attempts, another advised: "Contemplate emptiness." Still no liberation came. An elder cultivator visited and, hearing these methods, rebuked: "What did you bring when coming? What are you seeking when going? Settle your mind and wait—when the time comes, liberation comes naturally." The sick man bowed in gratitude and immediately passed on.

Cultivators must understand all external things are merely borrowed temporarily—the real work lies in refining one's essential nature. If one remains detached in daily life, liberation comes naturally at life's end; but if one clings to externals ordinarily, how can liberation come at death's door? Life and death arrive unpredictably—external things cannot help. Reflect deeply on this!

The master gave further instruction to another ailing cultivator: "Those who follow the Dao should eat and drink moderately, maintain regular routines, keep their Shen (spirit) tranquil, and refrain from reckless actions. If illness comes unexpectedly, accept it as heaven's will—it may also stem from personal karma or past-life conditions. The key is recognizing the body as merely a temporary assemblage of the Four Elements (earth, water, fire, wind). Let illness be illness, let death be death, without letting the mind fluctuate with the condition. When the mind doesn't cling to pain, serious illness may lessen and minor ailments naturally heal."

The Ten Books on Cultivating Perfection: Panshan Records passage primarily discusses the mental attitude practitioners should maintain when facing illness and external disturbances, along with fundamental principles of mind cultivation.

When physical ailments arise, if one can preserve inner tranquility and equanimity, the turbid pathogenic qi will naturally dissipate. This resembles repaying karmic debts from past lives or breaking through a barrier in spiritual practice. But those who fail to understand this principle will become agitated when illness strikes—wailing in distress, blaming heaven and others, or complaining about inadequate care. Such mental states only intensify karmic obstacles, turning mild illnesses severe and critical conditions fatal. In truth, life and death follow their destined course, and panic serves no purpose. Remember: the heart-mind (xin) governs the body. When the mind is unsettled, the entire system falls into disorder. As ancient adage warns, "A flustered mind opens hell's gate"—excessive worry invites further misfortune.

Authentic practitioners differ fundamentally from ordinary people even in sickness. When Dan-yang Zhenren (Ma Yu, one of the Quanzhen Seven Masters) fell ill, physicians couldn't discern his pulse. When Master Huzi (Liezi's teacher) sat in meditation, diviners couldn't perceive his truth—because their minds grasped at nothing external, their essential nature remained unshaken by circumstance. Not even the transformations of heaven and earth could alter them, let alone ordinary doctors or fortune-tellers.

Daily practice should emulate heaven and earth's serene stillness, maintaining luminous clarity without obscuration. Though engaged with worldly affairs, the practitioner's true suchness (zhenru) remains pristine and unstained—only thus can one transcend the bondage of life and death. Yet most lack inner sovereignty, dragged by desires and external temptations through the six realms of rebirth without liberation.

Some ask: Since we're told to "blend radiance while sharing the dust" (harmonizing with secular life), why prohibit attachment to things? The answer: Though all phenomena occupy their proper places in heaven and earth, the mind must remain unfettered. Others inquire about future fortunes—the response: Don't seek what's yet to come; grasping the present moment is essential.

This passage emphasizes that spiritual practice fundamentally cultivates the mind. Facing illness and external conditions, maintain your original nature's purity—free from grasping or fixation. This constitutes the root of transcending life and death.

The Ten Books on Cultivating Perfection: Panshan Discourses passage primarily discusses the principle of karmic retribution for good and evil, presented in two sections:

The first section explains the characteristics of karmic retribution. When you generate a virtuous thought—such as intending to burn incense before deities to pray for family safety and longevity—this utilitarian act of goodness may still bring blessings, but it constitutes "visible cultivation with hidden reward" (ming xiu an bao). Though performing good deeds, one remains unaware when the reward will manifest. Conversely, should an evil thought of murder arise, the mere formation of this intention inevitably demands life restitution, exemplifying "hidden transgression with visible retribution" (an zuo ming bao). Secret misdeeds incur unmistakable consequences. The Dao's surveillance is omnipresent—no darkness can conceal wickedness from punishment.

The second section employs dialogue to elucidate heaven and hell. Heaven belongs to the Yang realm, representing goodness and blessings; hell pertains to the Yin domain, symbolizing evil and misfortune. The ancient sages established these concepts as reflections of human conduct. Maintaining a purified mind (qingjing xin) and benefiting others constitutes progress toward heaven; harboring malice and improper behavior signifies descent into hell. Just as hearing of bandits in the mountains, vigilance ensures safety while stubborn advance invites peril. Karmic retribution resembles these mountain brigands—rather than risk wickedness, steadfast virtue proves wiser.

Regarding three-life karma, though not extensively addressed, the preceding arguments demonstrate that retribution follows virtue and vice as shadows trail form—inevitable regardless of temporal distance. The emphasis lies in present-moment vigilance against evil thoughts and persistent good conduct, for the mechanism of retribution operates with the certainty of natural law.

These stories illustrate the principle of karmic retribution. The ancients said that those who truly perceive the nature of karmic obstacles understand they are ultimately illusory, but for those who haven't attained this realization, debts from past lives must inevitably be repaid.

One tale tells of a man who developed a malignant boil on his back. The pain became unbearable, with pus and blood constantly oozing, until he finally hanged himself in a deserted place. Such individuals neither perceive their true nature nor willingly endure the pus-and-blood debts from past lives. Though they take their own lives, they must continue repaying in subsequent rebirths. How do we know this is karmic retribution?

Another story concerns an official (whose name we withhold). This man had a cruel temperament, frequently beating and berating his attendants. One day, his buttocks suddenly began itching. After scratching until the skin broke, the wound grew larger until it became a bloody, festering mess resembling torture marks. He died in excruciating pain. This shows that pus-and-blood debts must be repaid. Indeed, it's not just such extreme cases—daily emotions like joy and anger, slander, beatings, quarrels, and grudges all stem from old karmic ties that must be cheerfully endured in this life. If one bears them patiently and accepts them, the debt is settled. But if one resists and fights back, more debts accumulate, creating an endless cycle of retribution. Such is the law of heaven—worldly conflicts and injuries are nothing but the repayment of karmic debts.

When the Eternal Spring Master (Qiu Chuji, patriarch of the Quanzhen Daoist tradition) resided at the Eternal Spring Temple, an incident occurred: troops were marching north, and everyone had gone into hiding. A lifelong Daoist official came to beg the master for help, saying his wife had been abducted and that he wished to sell his property to ransom her so she could become a nun. The master refused, and as they spoke, the army moved on. Later, the official asked why he had been denied. The master explained, "Your wife and her abductor have a three-year karmic debt to settle. After three years, she will naturally return to take monastic vows." Sure enough, three years later, the woman was released and came to the temple to become a nun. Only then did the official believe and gratefully bow to the master.

In conclusion: The Great Dao (Dao) itself cannot be expressed in words—it can only be revealed through good and evil. By doing good, one attains supreme enlightenment, reaching heaven without hell; by committing evil, one sinks into boundless suffering, descending to hell without heaven. The difference between these two paths lies entirely in delusion and awakening—with awakening comes immediate liberation.

The Ten Books on Cultivating Perfection: Panshan Sayings discusses the key for practitioners to transcend the cycle of karma and rebirth. The main points are as follows:

Someone asked how to understand misfortune and fortune. The master replied: Just as wood accumulates to form a forest, stones pile up to make a mountain, and water gathers to become an ocean, accumulating good deeds creates blessings while accumulating evil deeds invites calamity. The roots of fortune and misfortune both stem from human thoughts—it is the accumulation of thoughts that produces results. How could one not be cautious?

When asked how to escape the causality of sin and merit, the master said: The causality of sin and merit is like a shell formed by Yin-Yang. If even a trace of selfishness, wicked thoughts, greed, or malice lingers in the heart, it belongs to the Yin shell; a trace of good thoughts belongs to the Yang shell. Those within the Yin shell will suffer retribution, while those in the Yang shell will receive rewards. But if one cultivates the mind to be as empty as the void—free from distinctions of good and evil, without the slightest attachment, and fully self-determined—then the causality of fortune and misfortune can no longer bind them. Such a person has transcended the shell of Yin-Yang.

Yet worldly people spend their days chasing fame and profit, scheming against others, their minds filled with the dark karmic forces of ignorance. They are entirely trapped in the Yin shell, unable even to ascend to the Yang path, let alone break free from the shell of Yin-Yang. How can they escape the karma they themselves have created? In the end, they can only bow their heads and close their eyes, submitting to the judgment of Yama.

When asked about rebirth in the next life, the master explained: In this life, people shape the mold for their next existence according to their own nature. Those who do good create a virtuous mold; those who commit evil make a wicked one. When this life ends and the Shen (spirit) departs the body, the karmic shell is like molten iron poured by the Creator into the mold one has fashioned—whether reborn as a human or reduced to an animal, it is all self-inflicted. Would the Creator deliberately turn someone into a beast? The six realms of rebirth are all determined by the shell one forges in this lifetime—there is no escape. For example, the cruel become snakes, the miserly become dogs, the lustful and violent become pigs, the greedy and tyrannical....

This passage discusses the principles of spiritual cultivation and conduct in human affairs. All things between heaven and earth manifest in diverse forms. The ancients said: "Those who merge with metal and stone become metal and stone; those who merge with water and fire become water and fire." These words are indeed trustworthy. Once human form is lost (referring to moral degeneration or missed cultivation opportunities), one may fall into endless kalpas of suffering—how can we not contemplate this deeply?

The master enlightens his disciples: All human actions in this world bear corresponding consequences. For instance: those who cultivate the Dao attain the Dao; those who perform good deeds receive blessings; those who commit evil suffer misfortune. Those who love others are loved in return; those who are trustworthy gain others' trust; those who benefit others receive benefits, while those who harm others face harm. The arrogant will be humbled, while the humble gain respect. Those who disrespect others will be disrespected; those who honor others will be honored. Those who strive to be first will encounter competition; those who act aggressively will meet opposition. Thus we see: planting orchids yields fragrance, sowing grains brings harvest—such is the principle of karmic retribution. If one harbors selfish intentions and employs deceitful means to win people's hearts, the true Dao is lost.

The master teaches: When Dao practitioners lack spiritual clarity, they should journey thousands of miles to seek teachers and inquire about the Dao. When master and disciple resonate perfectly (like needle and mustard seed fitting together), when the mind becomes lucid without doubts—whether dwelling in solitary retreat (圜堵 refers to a cultivator's meditation chamber), residing in mountain forests, begging alms in marketplaces, or staying in temples—they can peacefully maintain their practice without wavering. These are true superior practitioners. Another type of renunciant, however, remains spiritually confused yet lazy in study, arrogant while self-righteous, pretending to be enlightened while lacking virtue. Such individuals neither achieve cultivation nor proper humanity, yet still accept material support without considering whether their virtue can bear it. For them, neither solitary retreat nor alms-begging is appropriate—utterly useless at life's critical junctures because they refuse fundamental effort, ending in lifelong failure.

The master recalls: During my mountain seclusion years, I remained secluded over a decade seeking only inner purity without benefiting others. Sitting alone undisturbed, detached from external realms—how could this verify the true state of one's nature? It amounted to wasted time. Just as heaven failing to nourish creation would halt the seasons, or earth ceasing to foster growth would wither all vegetation—what merit exists in self-benefit without benefiting others? Thus Master Changchun (Qiu Chuji) declared: True cultivation must manifest in actions that benefit others, for this accords with the Dao of heaven and earth.

Someone asked how practitioners can maintain constant clarity without confusion.

The master replied: Beginners who have not yet mastered cultivation lack awareness of external phenomena. When encountering situations or objects, they plunge headfirst into them, chasing novelty until exhaustion. This failure to recognize their original mind is true confusion—like being reborn into another's body unconsciously, only awakening when karmic retribution is exhausted. Yet over-reliance on rational thought also obscures the mind with its own constructs.

True practitioners must examine themselves throughout the twelve daily hours (traditional Chinese timekeeping), remaining unstained by emotions and effortlessly transcending external circumstances—this is genuine clarity. The difference between ordinary people and sages lies solely in illumination versus obscurity: illumination makes a sage, confusion makes a mortal. Ordinary beings cling to attachments, indulge in delusions, chase external phenomena, pursue fleeting pleasures while accumulating eons of suffering, never awakening through self-reflection.

Practitioners must maintain fundamental purity of their original mind, act with conscientious awareness, and swiftly transcend material temptations. Engaging with others without distorted thoughts, they become clear and luminous like empty space—neither clinging to emptiness nor form, neither fixating on dharma appearances nor personal views. Continuously absorbing the light of collective wisdom, they achieve internal-external harmony, naturally attaining sagehood.

Cultivation first requires understanding fundamental principles, then mastering teaching methods. Without fundamentals, one stumbles like a blind walker; without teaching methods, one sits in darkness with open eyes, prone to prejudice. Both are needed to respond perfectly to worldly affairs. Lacking both is like sitting blindfolded in darkness—eternally lost.

If a practitioner's Mysterious Pass (note: the crucial energy point in cultivation) remains blocked or the mind unclear, this indicates insufficient virtue accumulation (De). At such times, one should diligently practice through active methods—receiving fellow practitioners with humility, performing good deeds consistently, and eliminating selfish thoughts. With sustained effort, breakthroughs will naturally come—far better than achieving neither.

This passage discusses the path of action (youwei) and non-action (wuwei) in spiritual cultivation, as well as how to distinguish genuine practice from superficial observance.

Practitioners often fall into two extremes: either remaining completely passive in daily life, or excessively pursuing external merits. Master Changchun (Qiu Chuji, patriarch of the Quanzhen tradition) taught that true cultivation lies in relinquishing worldly affairs while tempering one's mind amidst worldly toils. Someone asked: Does a doctor saving over a hundred lives count as spiritual merit? The answer reveals that saving all people in the world cannot compare to transcending life and death, because worldly blessings are finite, while attaining the deathless state through cultivation brings immeasurable blessings. Another question concerned a craftsman's sincerity in repairing a temple hall without payment. The response pointed out that such active merit will eventually exhaust itself, unlike the eternal blessings of serene meditation in wuwei.

Regarding the distinction between "gong" (inner merit) and "xing" (outer practice): maintaining silence and concealing one's light constitutes "gong" as internal cultivation, while expounding teachings and benefiting beings represents "xing" as external application. These two aspects must complement each other.

Concerning sectarian debates about orthodoxy, the text clarifies two levels of practice: fundamental cultivation that refines one's nature to become pure as heaven and earth, luminous as sun and moon, and naturally flowing as the four seasons; versus superficial practice limited to scripture recitation and formal sitting while focusing on external appearances. The latter resembles the "branches and leaves" of religious institutions—though capable of attracting followers, they remain unrelated to genuine cultivation. If one's mind still contends over self/other distinctions and fame/wealth, how can such a person differ from ordinary people or attain the Dao? Authentic Daoist practice manifests as upright, luminous practice that transcends duality.

The discerning should recognize: true cultivation emphasizes comprehending the supreme principles of heaven and earth while returning to one's fundamental nature. There's no need to seek more profound doctrines—this natural state of wuwei itself constitutes the true path. Those who merely perform superficial practices will ultimately remain estranged from the great Dao.

Before the formation of heaven and earth, in the primordial antiquity, there existed a source that transcends the concepts of "being" and "non-being." Throughout history, sages and Daoist practitioners attained the Dao (the Way) by realizing this fundamental source. All sacred scriptures, including the Buddhist and Daoist canons, ultimately expound this essential truth.

This source is the key that connects heaven and earth. Whether ascending to celestial realms or descending into earthly existence, whether manifesting as myriad phenomena or dissolving into emptiness—all operate according to its inherent principles. Those who truly comprehend this truth remain unswayed by external circumstances, undisturbed by distracting thoughts, and undeceived by sensory perceptions. To embody this state is to dwell in the daily realm of immortals, follow the cultivation path of sages, and attain the ultimate goal of Daoist practice.

Someone once asked: "Daoist practitioners often speak of eliminating desires and emotions—what remains after they are removed?" The master replied: "When desires and emotions are completely purified, that very state is one's original true nature."

Regarding how to achieve clarity and stillness, the master said: "When the mind does not chase external objects, it is called 'settled mind.' When the mind remains unaffected by external things, it is called 'empty mind.' A mind both settled and empty embodies clarity and stillness—this is the Dao."

When questioned about the true meaning of the Golden Elixir (Jindan, a Neidan/internal alchemy term symbolizing spiritual accomplishment), the master explained: "A person's innate true nature is the Golden Elixir. It possesses the qualities of gold—sharp, firm, luminous, and dynamic—and the characteristics of an elixir—perfected through cultivation, indestructible and eternal. The substance of the Golden Elixir is like empty space: completely transparent, untainted by the slightest dust, radiating light everywhere. As the patriarchs said: 'The original true nature is the Golden Elixir; using the illusory physical body as the furnace and cauldron, one refines it into reality. Unstained by external dust, free from deluded thoughts, one naturally ascends to immortal realms.' Ordinary people mistakenly believe the Golden Elixir requires tangible substances or desires for cultivation—such heretical views lead to unfortunate rebirths."

The master concluded with this teaching: "In daily life, do not let thoughts scatter or consciousness wander outward. Maintain relaxation without indulgence, discipline without rigidity. Illuminate the mind to perceive true nature, transcending both cleverness and emptiness. Remain constantly aware, yet unattached to awareness itself. Understand the essence of movement and stillness, coming and going; relinquish all attachments—this is the mark of a carefree being. Yet these principles must be personally realized, for words can never fully convey them."

Someone asked Elder Gao (an aged Daoist practitioner): "I'm getting on in years and can't learn much anymore. I earnestly beg the Master to point out the most profound and mysterious truth." The master replied: "Just lay down this very mind that seeks the supreme mystery—that's it."

Another inquired: "What is the mysterious truth?" The master countered: "Who taught you to ask that?" The disciple bowed and said: "This question arose from my own thinking." The master said: "Since it came from your own mind, you already understand." The questioner laughed and bowed in gratitude.

Yet another asked: "Some say 'knowing the One, all things are complete,' and also speak of 'embracing the Origin and guarding the One.' What exactly is this 'One'?" The master explained: "It refers to the primordial, undifferentiated nature before any conceptual splitting. The moment you think about guarding this 'One,' you've already fallen into conceptualization and lost unity. For when a thought arises, duality appears; from duality comes trinity, and from trinity the myriad things—how then can it be guarded? Better to relinquish even the notion of 'One.' Thus our ancestors taught that 'embracing the Origin and guarding the One' is cultivation practice—through sustained practice, even the concept of 'One' dissolves, and from this 'nothingness' your original face appears. As the scriptures say, 'knowing emptiness without clinging to emptiness, knowing form without clinging to form'—this is true awakening."

The master further instructed: "Practitioners should constantly maintain mental clarity, examining at every moment the source of their life-energy, remaining lucid and free from confusion, merging with the formless void—this is the true mind-state of cultivation. Accumulating this daily will naturally yield spiritual efficacy. Rather than pursuing external achievements, better to cease wandering thoughts and thoroughly investigate your true self. Spending days entangled in worldly affairs squanders precious time no differently than ordinary people."

He continued: "When practitioners can instantly lay down worldly distractions, eliminate mundane thoughts, and in solitude manifest their original true nature, they recover the primordial master within. Then they naturally wander in carefree joy, with all states transparently clear. Having reached this realm, one should conceal one's light and nurture it carefully. The more effort invested, the greater the harvest. But deliberate display and boasting will unconsciously dissipate your spiritual radiance."

Someone asked: "What constitutes good and evil?" The master answered: "All benevolent thoughts are good; all resentful thoughts are evil. Good unknown to others is great good; evil unknown to others is great evil. Only when neither good nor evil thoughts arise can one access higher realms."

Someone asked: "Is reaching the state of purity and non-action (Wuwei) the same as attaining complete enlightenment?" The master replied: "While this may seem correct from an ontological perspective, it is not so. When one truly reaches the ultimate state, all words and concepts cease—it transcends both cognition and discrimination. This profound realm lies beyond all linguistic expression; only by attaining this level can one resonate with the Dao. The Dao itself is neither confined to movement nor stillness, yet never departs from either—how could it be limited by concepts like 'non-action' or 'purity'?"

The master further expounded: "Those cultivating the Dao should maintain their simple, unadulterated nature, silently communing with the Dao through quiet practice. Continuously eliminate selfish desires and distracting thoughts, reduce attachments, and nurture your original authenticity. Approach external matters without selfishness, act with integrity, and be willing to humble yourself to accommodate others. Cultivate benevolent virtue (De), removing even the slightest fault while accumulating the most minute good deeds. Ultimately transcend all dualities of right and wrong, forgetting even the concepts of 'mind' and 'dharma'—then you'll naturally comprehend higher mysteries."

He continued: "Dao cultivators should dwell in a state unburdened by worldly affairs and untainted by mundane toil, contemplating within the realm where heaven and earth interconnect. Fully understanding this principle enables one to neither violate celestial patterns in the primordial realm nor oppose natural rhythms in worldly affairs. Even heaven and earth cannot contradict this state—how much less could humans or spirits?"

Another asked: "Are seeing objects, hearing sounds, eating, breathing, moving limbs, and thinking—are these our original nature?" The master explained: "Dao-nature (original nature) is not identical to these phenomena, yet never separate from them. Speech and action are all functional manifestations of nature, not its essence. The essence itself is neither movement nor stillness, neither speech nor silence. The ancients said: 'To comprehend the root of the great Dao, never depart from movement, stillness, speech, or silence.' Mistaking these functions for the essence is like confusing servants for the master. The master commands servants—how could servants govern the master? All actions, speech, sight, hearing, even prolonged stillness—these are merely servants, not the master. The master is like an elder seated high in the hall, never directly revealed, yet whoever naturally wields these functions assumes the master's role."

Concluding, the master said: "Our lineage's transmission is profoundly subtle—it cannot be deliberately sought nor accidentally obtained. Realization comes through unconscious awakening, attainment through non-seeking. Some worldly people try to grasp the Dao through visual observation, verbal description, imitating dignified manners, or clinging to ritual forms—none attain the complete Dao. They don't realize the Dao leaves no traces; seeking it through forms is already deviation. If you trace where these forms originate, you'll find the true Dao resides neither in sensory phenomena nor in deliberate posturing or ceremonial displays, but in an ineffable inner realm beyond expression."

This passage speaks of a Daoist practitioner's realization of the Dao and essential cultivation methods.

True wisdom isn't acquired through superficial knowledge, but by becoming one with heaven and earth, sages and spirits, and all creation. How could those attached to surface appearances comprehend this supreme state? The master teaches that the profound secret of authentic transmission lies in acting in harmony with heaven's will—how could it be confined to fixed forms? Though ancient cultivation methods varied, their spiritual origin never changed. The human mind manifests different functions in different parts: eyes see, ears hear, the mouth speaks, the heart thinks, hands grasp, and feet walk—their operations differ, yet the mind's essence remains one.

Someone asked: "Since all things have different forms, how can we perceive their unity?" The master replied: "Heaven is Dao, earth is Dao, all things are Dao. Though appearances differ, their essence knows no distinction." Wuwei (non-action) is the way of heaven; youwei (deliberate action) is the way of humans. Like carrying a load on a shoulder pole—balance both ends and it's stable; remove one end and it tilts. Abandon both ends, and even the pole disappears, returning to original simplicity.

The Dao permeates everything—all phenomena manifest true Dao, but the key lies in how one applies it. Sadly, human minds obscured by worldly attachments chase after trivialities, drifting with the current. Few attain true awakening; most remain stubbornly deluded. Some study intensely yet neglect truth-seeking, fabricating miraculous experiences like adding a head atop one's head—such inverted fantasies fail to recognize the body's limitations, time's swift passage, and how everything vanishes when one's last breath departs.

Practitioners should follow circumstances naturally, discern what to embrace or discard, and maintain humility and integrity. Understanding the root of movement and stillness, restraining sensory desires, severing delusional thoughts, and preserving the heart of true constancy—only then can one achieve immutable permanence.

When asked how to protect one's cultivation of nature and life (xingming shuangxiu), the master said: "Those entangled in worldly affairs may handle surface matters competently, yet still fail to perceive their true nature."

The essence of cultivation lies in maintaining mastery over one's own mind, refusing to be constantly led astray by external circumstances. When events arise, do not let them disturb your inner stillness, nor should your mind cling to external matters. Just as you would protect your eyes—closing them to avoid even the finest speck of dust—so must you persistently guard your mind. Only through such enduring practice will genuine progress manifest. But if your heart yields to external entanglements, you forfeit sovereignty over yourself.

A disciple once asked, "What is the true eternal Dao?" The master replied, "Do not rush to inquire about 'true constancy.' Instead, observe your mental states throughout the twelve double-hours of the day (Note: ancient timekeeping divided the day into twelve periods). When thoughts arise, discern their nature—promptly eliminate unwholesome ones, while skillfully nurturing wholesome ones. How to distinguish them? Idle fantasies during quiet moments or needless anticipatory worries are deluded thoughts; wholesome thoughts manifest when engaging with present responsibilities—serving others, benefiting beings, honoring elders, or bringing peace to people through selfless actions. Maintain serene composure in stillness, uphold proper mental orientation in activity, neither indulging nor constraining. Remain wakeful day and night, responding adaptively while preserving unshaken tranquility. This ordinary, uncontrived state is the true eternal Dao."

Another inquired, "Does thoughtless detachment and passive acceptance align with the Dao?" The master responded, "Consciously pursuing 'non-attachment' is itself attachment; the very notion of 'non-grasping' becomes a form of grasping. Seeking stillness traps you in conceptual nets, while complete passivity risks falling into erroneous views. So-called 'non-grasping detachment' resembles medicine—clinging to remedies after healing only creates new afflictions. Only when discriminative thinking is utterly relinquished do you truly arrive home (Note: 'arriving home' metaphorically denotes enlightenment). At that point, questions about the path naturally cease."

(Note: This passage expounds the Pan Mountain School's mind-cultivation essentials, emphasizing "ordinary mind as the Dao" while rejecting forced pursuit of extraordinary states. The term "root consciousness" refers to the sixth consciousness—the discriminating mind.)