《道德真經三解》Vol. 1

This passage elucidates the core concepts of the opening chapter of the Daode Jing (Classic of the Way and Virtue). The Dao (the Way) that can be spoken of is not the eternal, unchanging Dao; the name that can be named is not the eternal, unchanging name. "Nameless" represents the primordial state of heaven and earth, while "named" signifies the origin of all things. Only by maintaining a state free from desire can one perceive the profound mysteries of the Dao; observing with the intent to know reveals only its boundaries. Though these two approaches differ in name, they stem from the same source—this is the profound "mystery" (xuan), the mystery within mystery, the very origin of all wonders.

From the essence of the Dao, the true Dao transcends thought and action (non-action, wuwei), and this is the eternal Dao. The most refined state returns to unity (the divine mystery leads to oneness), and this is the eternal name. The Dao resembles the emptiness within the Taiji (Supreme Ultimate), while the name represents the grand image (daxiang) of heaven and earth (the collective manifestation of all things in the universe). The emptiness of the Taiji is omnipresent—every concrete thing contains the Dao, yet the Dao within a single thing cannot represent the whole. Similarly, all phenomena in heaven and earth have names, but the name of a single thing cannot exhaust all possibilities.

From the perspective of De (Virtue/Power), it resembles the pure state before the union of male and female (refined and unified, weijing weiyi), maintaining the balanced and centered path (yunzhi juezhong). The true Dao cannot be spoken, and the true name cannot be named. At the beginning of heaven and earth, this was the state of namelessness. When concrete phenomena arise—such as the cohabitation of husband and wife—there emerge describable manifestations, yet these are no longer the eternal Dao. Once all things come into being, they acquire specific names, but these are no longer the eternal names.

When people become attached to certain standards, the concept of "beauty" arises simultaneously with "ugliness"; when certain actions are universally deemed "good," the notion of "not good" inevitably follows. Thus, all things in the world exist in mutual dependence: being (you) and non-being (wu) give rise to each other, difficulty and ease complete each other, long and short contrast with each other, high and low reflect each other, musical notes and sounds harmonize with each other, and front and back follow one another.

Therefore, the sages who embody the Dao (the Way) handle affairs with an attitude of Wuwei (non-action) and teach through wordless example. They allow all things to grow naturally without interference, create without claiming ownership, act without self-importance, and accomplish without dwelling on their achievements. Precisely because they do not cling to merit, their accomplishments never depart from them.

The great Dao (the cosmic origin) itself is formless and shapeless. Before the existence of all things, humans were unknown; before humans, heaven and earth were unknown; before heaven and earth, the Dao was unknown. This eternally present Dao—who could truly despise it? Only when all things flourish do beauty and ugliness, good and evil, emerge from within them. Thus, the affairs of the world operate in this way: without evil, one would not recognize beauty; without the "not good," one would not recognize the good. Once people define standards for beauty and goodness, ugliness and wickedness are inevitably distinguished alongside them.

This law of mutual dependence and transformation has always existed. Therefore, the sages govern through Wuwei (non-action), and the people naturally transform; they teach through silence, and all things flourish of their own accord. They do not deliberately pursue fame or merit, and thus their De (Virtue/Power) endures eternally.

All things in heaven and earth follow their natural course, and the sage emulates this way of nature. Without preaching through words, the people are naturally convinced. Though all beings grow and transform, heaven and earth never claim credit. They nurture all things without possessing them, accomplish without depending on them, and complete their work without dwelling on it. Precisely because of this, the virtue (De) of the sages never fades away.

Yin and Yang, movement and stillness, rely on each other; hardness and softness, substance and function, complement one another—these represent the most perfect state in the world. To recognize beauty as the natural expression of the Dao (the Way) is true wisdom; to pursue beauty as desire, however, becomes evil. When Qian (Heaven) and Kun (Earth) interact, they produce Kan (Water) and Li (Fire); when Kan and Li interact, they return to Heaven and Earth. All under heaven know that harmonious interaction (the balance of Yin and Yang) is the true path—is this not the epitome of perfection? Yet if this harmony is sought as desire, does it not become evil?

Being and non-being generate each other like the sun and moon shining together; difficulty and ease complete each other like fire and water balancing one another; long and short contrast like the waxing and waning moon; high and low depend on each other like the interplay of Yin and Yang; sound and echo respond in harmony like the call and response of light and shadow. Thus, though the sage acts, it appears as non-action (Wuwei); though he teaches, it seems as if no words are spoken; though all things flourish, it seems as if no explanation is needed. He nurtures without possessing, acts without depending, achieves without claiming—thus the sage perfects the beauty of all under heaven. But if one clings to the self, they inevitably violate the natural way and fall into manipulation—this is evil.

In governing a country, not exalting the worthy prevents the people from competing for fame and profit; not treasuring rare goods keeps them from stealing; not displaying desires keeps their hearts at peace. The sage's method of governance is this: purify the people's minds, satisfy their basic needs, weaken their competitive ambitions, and strengthen their physical health. Keep the people simple and free from desire, so that even the clever dare not act recklessly. Govern through non-action, and nothing will remain ungoverned.

If worthiness is not glorified, why would the people contend? If goods are not overvalued, why would they steal? If desires are not provoked, the people's hearts remain naturally undisturbed. The sage governs through the constant Dao: emptying the mind to embrace all things, acting through non-action yet accomplishing everything, following nature to return to simplicity. Even the cunning, in such an environment, dare not act rashly. Through non-action, the world naturally attains peace.

Laozi here expounds the core concept of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)." He describes a primordial era before Fu Xi drew the trigrams, when people lived in natural simplicity: breathing smoothly when awake, maintaining peaceful Qi during sleep, eating raw food and drinking fresh blood, with all things evolving spontaneously. But when society began esteeming the worthy (Shangxian), it created the gluttonous imagery seen in the Yi Jing's Nourishment hexagram; hoarding wealth (Ju Huo) invoked the bandit warnings of the Yu hexagram. Thus the sage ruler governs by ensuring people see nothing to covet, thereby calming their hearts.

The sage's method of ruling follows the people's thoughts as thoughts, like an empty vessel that can contain; he responds to their needs as needs, like a full vessel that can nourish. Those in high positions must humble themselves before the lowly, thus gaining profound popular support. Weaken competitive ambitions so those with great Virtue (De) may continually refine themselves; strengthen the people's bodies while preserving their simplicity, ensuring even the clever few dare not act recklessly. The sage appears inactive, yet achieves perfect governance.

Regarding "Virtue (De)": The truly virtuous never boast. The sage resembles the source of all things—using upright Qi to soften sharp edges, resolve conflicts, harmonize radiance, and blend with the mundane. This state of lucid profundity has existed since antiquity. From Fu Xi onward, the Supreme Ultimate's (Taiji) harmonious Dao has never changed. It resolves contradictions through alternating Yin-Yang and balancing firmness with flexibility, its six lines circulating endlessly while maintaining essential constancy. This mysterious "harmonious emptiness" (referring to a state of tranquil unity)—I know not its origin, only that it predates the appearance of the Heavenly Sovereign.

Chapter Five states: Heaven and Earth show no favoritism, treating all beings like straw dogs for sacrifice; the sage has no selfishness, viewing the people as straw dogs. The space between Heaven and Earth resembles a great bellows—empty yet never collapsing, producing ever more energy the more it's pumped. This illustrates nature's impartial laws and the generative power of emptiness.

Laozi here teaches the principle of "speaking less and following nature's course." The more one speaks, the more likely one falls into predicaments—better to maintain inner emptiness and stillness. Heaven and earth appear heartless ("not benevolent" means impartial), yet allow all things to grow naturally, treating them equally like straw dogs (sacrificial offerings) used in rituals.

Truly precious things are often undervalued by people. If the common folk neither contend nor steal, there would be no tempting objects to covet. Were people to recognize what is truly valuable, they would compete for reputation of worthiness and steal precious goods, indulging desires without restraint. Once reputation is exhausted and resources plundered, how can society endure? Therefore, the sage governs the world by purifying people's hearts with the eternal stillness of the Dao (the Way) and enriching their lives with the essence of heaven, earth, sun, and moon. Through the mutual nourishment of water and fire (symbolizing the harmony of Yin-Yang), contentious hearts are weakened; through the mutual support of metal and wood (representing the balance of the Five Phases), physical vitality is strengthened. Thus, the people naturally retain their simplicity, free from cunning minds and greed. Even if clever individuals exist, they dare not act recklessly. Deliberate action breeds chaos; only by following nature can peace prevail.

Chapter Four describes the essence of the Dao: though empty (Chong signifies a state of void), its function is inexhaustible and unfathomable, like the origin of all things. It blunts sharp edges, resolves conflicts, tempers radiance, and blends with the mundane—clear yet profound, seemingly present yet absent. I know not whose child it is, as if it existed before heaven and earth formed. Utilizing the Dao's emptiness, one never overflows. Vast and deep like the source of all things, it calms agitation, settles disputes, harmonizes brilliance, embraces impurity, and remains lucid—appearing to exist yet not. Those who attain the Dao—I know not their origin—seem to have appeared even before the Celestial Emperor.

Clear Qi rises to form heaven; turbid Qi descends to form earth; balanced Qi (Chong Qi) gives birth to humanity. Heaven and earth manifest the Dao's function yet never overflow; humans inherit heaven and earth's nature yet never become complacent. Once full, decline approaches. Thus, the sage emulates the Dao's "non-benevolence," treating the people equally like straw dogs. The space between heaven and earth resembles a great bellows (Tuoyue)—empty yet endlessly generative, producing new things the more it moves. Rather than exhausting energy through excessive speech, better to preserve a state of empty stillness and balance. Like using white cogon grass (symbolizing purity) as a ritual mat—though the grass is humble, its proper use grants it significance. Acting cautiously in accordance with this principle ensures no mistakes. Heaven and earth appear unkind, yet nurture great virtue—just as when thunder and wind arise, all things respond naturally.

Heaven and Earth may appear unkind, yet they embody profound benevolence. The sage governs the world by harmonizing magnanimity with authority, creating political harmony. The sage's attitude toward the people mirrors Heaven and Earth's treatment of all things—seemingly non-interfering yet profoundly effective. Like the straw dogs (chugou) used in ancient rituals—ordinary in appearance but sacred in their moment—all beings, though diverse, cannot participate directly in the Dao's operation alongside Heaven and Earth; the people, though varied, cannot join the sage in implementing heavenly principles. Only those like the straw dogs, fulfilling their purpose at the right moment, can truly collaborate with Heaven, Earth, and the sage in great endeavors.

Are Heaven, Earth, and the sage truly unkind to beings and the people? In truth, beings and people unknowingly benefit daily from their grace—is this not the deepest form of benevolence? Between Heaven and Earth, Kun (Earth) is the sack that holds all things, while Qian (Heaven) is the gate that opens and closes. Closing the gate is Kun; opening it is Qian. This opening and closing is transformation; its endless flow is penetration. Thus, emptiness never exhausts itself, and movement generates abundance. Therefore, the sage holds to the Middle Way, avoiding extremes, for extremes lead to change, change to penetration, and penetration to endurance—all within the sage's principle of centrality.

On De (Virtue/Power), it is said: How is Heaven and Earth unkind? Beings arise and perish naturally. How is the sage unkind? The people live and die naturally. Life, death, longevity, and brevity are all self-determined by people and things—how can they blame Heaven, Earth, or the sage for unkindness? To do so would instead diminish their benevolence. If one understands that people and things are like ritual straw dogs, and Heaven and Earth like a bellows (tuoyue), then one may circulate Qi like a smelter, harmonize Yin-Yang like a forge, and wield creation like the movements of sun, moon, and stars—transforming the mundane into the sacred. Thus, Heaven and Earth cannot confine its patterns, nor can the sage constrain the people. What seems unkind is in fact benevolence manifest everywhere. Therefore, maintaining emptiness prevents exhaustion; movement reveals abundance. No need for excessive words—words often lead to hardship. Better to abide in the Middle Way: Heaven, Earth, and I are one; past, present, and I are one; all things and I are one.

Chapter Six speaks of the "valley spirit that never dies": the emptiness of a valley produces echoes (symbolizing the Dao's eternity), and this deathless marvel is the Mysterious Feminine (xuanpin). The gateway of this Mysterious Feminine is the root of Heaven and Earth. Subtle and continuous, seeming absent yet present, its function never depletes.

(Note: The missing character in "furnace □" is preserved as in the original text. "Valley spirit" refers to the Dao's empty yet generative nature, while "Mysterious Feminine" symbolizes the source of all creation.)

This scripture explores the core Daoist concepts of cosmic origins and the path to longevity.

"The mysterious heaven and the receptive earth" refers to the primordial convergence point of Yin-Yang forces between heaven and earth, known as "the root of heaven and earth." This contains the ceaseless generative power that appears empty yet eternally exists, functioning effortlessly without deliberate action. Like a valley that remains hollow yet fosters the growth of all things within it, this eternal vitality is called the "Mysterious Feminine" (Xuanpin) — the maternal source that nurtures all existence.

Practitioners seeking longevity must discover this "Gate of the Mysterious Feminine" — the crucial threshold of cultivation. Like trees growing underground that appear still yet contain vibrant life force, true attainment doesn't come from excessive pursuit of external techniques (such as mere breathing exercises). One must grasp the authentic Jing (primordial essence) within.

Chapter Seven explains the principle behind heaven and earth's enduring existence. Their eternity stems precisely from not striving for their own preservation. The sages emulate this by putting personal gain last, yet thereby taking the lead; by not clinging to self-preservation, they achieve longevity. This isn't because they lack self-interest, but because this very "selflessness" fulfills their being.

The Yijing (Book of Changes) describes how the universe emerges from Taiji (the undifferentiated primal state) to generate the two polarities of Yin-Yang, which then evolve into the four phenomena and eight trigrams (Bagua), thereby determining fortune and accomplishing great works. Heaven and earth endure precisely by following this natural principle of Wuwei (non-action), never striving for their own growth.

This passage elucidates the wisdom of sages (those who have attained the Dao) in worldly affairs: The sage places personal benefit secondary while prioritizing the pursuit of the Dao (the Way), yet thereby gains the support of the multitude. By disregarding personal safety to wholeheartedly safeguard the Dao, they paradoxically preserve themselves. Is this because sages lack self-interest? Precisely because they put the "Dao" first, they ultimately fulfill themselves.

The reason heaven and earth endure eternally is that they do not exist for themselves; the reason sages are eternally remembered is that they do not live for themselves. If heaven and earth operated solely for themselves, they would soon cease; if sages cared only for themselves, they would quickly be forgotten. Therefore, by first nurturing others, the sage preserves themselves; by considering others' survival first, they transcend their own limitations. This appears selfless, yet through putting others first, they ultimately achieve self-fulfillment.

Chapter Eight discusses water's wisdom: The highest virtue resembles water. Water nourishes all things without competing with them, willingly dwelling in low places people disdain—this nature most closely approximates the Dao. It excels at choosing appropriate positions (like water flowing downward), maintains depths as profound as abysses, interacts with others in sincere trustworthiness, governs with skillful administration, handles affairs with flexible adaptability, and acts according to proper timing. Precisely because it does not contend, it remains free of faults.

From the Dao's perspective: Heaven initiates water (1), earth completes it (6) (ancient numerology). The Qian trigram (representing heaven) symbolizes creation; the Kan trigram (representing water) symbolizes hardship. Water possesses Qian's virtue of originating all things, silently benefiting the world without claiming merit; yet like Kan, it willingly occupies low places, becoming the repository where all things return, dwelling where others refuse to go—thus most resembling the Dao. Its chosen position resembles heaven's perilous heights none can climb and earth's hazardous depths none can traverse; its mind resembles deep pools with still waters running profound; walking with virtuous people brings assistance; its words prove trustworthy even in adversity; its governance maintains upright harmony; its affairs handle dangers like princes fortifying states; its actions seize opportunities, understanding hardship's subtle function. Precisely because it contends like water not, though enduring all hardships, who could reproach it? Thus it incurs no resentment.

The "White Tiger's First Classic," "Supreme Treasure," and "Divine Water of the Jade Pool" (all Neidan/internal alchemy terms) mentioned by Master Ziyang (Zhang Boduan, patriarch of Daoist internal alchemy) all employ water's characteristics to symbolize essential cultivation principles.

This scripture expounds the Daoist wisdom of "maintaining fullness while embracing emptiness" (持盈守虚), illustrating the principle of reversal at extremes through three dimensions: scripture, Dao, and De (Virtue).

True practitioners understand that supreme goodness resembles an unfathomable water source—unlike ordinary medicine that merely treats surface symptoms. Though dwelling in low places people despise (symbolized by the Kan trigram's depression), one becomes closest to the Dao, for humility returns us to fundamental roots. To "dwell in benevolent places" (居善地) requires advantageous positioning; to "maintain a mind like deep pools" (心善渊) demands Wuwei (non-action) governance; to "associate with virtuous people" calls for discerning companionship. Words and deeds should honor commitments and timeliness; governing a nation requires enriching the people and stabilizing the country; deploying military force must seize opportune moments. Like the disciplined practice of morning and evening cultivation (朝屯暮蒙 referring to meditation periods), avoiding contention prevents missteps.

Chapter Nine explicitly states: Carrying a brimming bowl risks spills—better to stop at the right moment; over-sharpened blades break more easily. No one can guard rooms overflowing with gold and jade; arrogance during prosperity invites calamity. Withdrawing at the peak of achievement aligns with heavenly principles.

The Dao of heaven diminishes the full to supplement the humble; the Dao of earth transforms the lofty to flow toward the low. Spirits harm the proud but bless the modest; human hearts likewise reject complacency and favor humility. Like the moon (which wanes after reaching fullness on the 14th-16th days), all things follow cycles of flourishing and decline. Practitioners must recognize: Jing (essence) and Qi condense to form matter, while wandering Shen (spirit) disperses as transformation (referring to life-death cycles). When the moon is full (金玉满堂 symbolizing zenith), rather than forcing perfection, retreat after success and conceal brilliance. Forcing advancement resembles over-sharpened swords (亢龙有悔 warning from the Qian hexagram's top line)—who can blame the downfall of those who cling to heights with arrogance?

Chapter Ten of the Three Interpretations of the Dao De Jing, titled "Carrying the Vital Spirit," primarily discusses how practitioners can attain unity with the Dao.

"Ying-Po" refers to the integration of human spirit (Shen) and physical form. A cultivator must embrace these two aspects as closely as one would cradle an infant, ensuring they never separate. By regulating the breath (Zhuan Qi), one achieves a state of infant-like softness, while purifying the mind (Dichu Xuanlan) maintains pristine clarity. In governing a nation, one should follow natural rhythms, avoiding forceful intervention (Wuwei).

The "Celestial Gate" (Tianmen) mentioned here corresponds to the Baihui acupoint at the crown of the head. During cultivation, one must maintain balanced harmony, neither excessively favoring Yin's softness nor Yang's vigor. Though wisdom may illuminate all directions (Mingbai Sida), one must remain in a state of desireless simplicity. The Dao gives birth to all things (Sheng Zhi), while Virtue (De) nurtures them (Xu Zhi)—yet the Dao claims no possession, acts without self-importance, and guides without domination. This is the profoundest expression of Mysterious Virtue (Xuande).

The text later employs celestial imagery: though the sun and moon appear separate (symbolized by the Li and Kan trigrams), they reunite every fifty-nine days. The Yang line at Kan's center embodies Qian Heaven's vigorous Qi, while Li's Yin line reflects Kun Earth's receptive softness. The moon's waxing and waning mirror an infant's natural purity. Heaven and Earth generate all things through Li and Kan, just as the Dao creates without claiming and Virtue nurtures without pride—this is Xuande manifest.

Finally, it explains how Qian and Kun intersect to produce Kan and Li, which in turn cycle back to their origins. Kan, outwardly Yin but inwardly Yang, belongs to Kun yet becomes the "Middle Son" by receiving Qian's central Yang. Li, outwardly Yang but inwardly Yin, belongs to Qian yet becomes the "Middle Daughter" by receiving Kun's central Yin. This dynamic interplay of Yin-Yang, eternally revolving, embodies the Dao's fundamental rhythm.

This scripture elucidates the dialectical relationship between "being" (you) and "non-being" (wu) through two levels of discourse. First, it employs everyday objects as metaphors: thirty spokes converge at the hollow hub of a wheel, enabling its rotation; clay is kneaded into vessels precisely because their emptiness allows containment; doors and windows are carved into houses, creating inhabitable space. This demonstrates that while tangible objects ("being") provide form, it is their void ("non-being") that truly enables function.

The text then deepens its explanation using celestial phenomena: the North Star (Polaris) appears motionless yet governs the movement of the twenty-eight lunar mansions, much like a hub driving its spokes; the earth resembles a pottery vessel bearing all things, while rivers and seas gather tributaries by occupying the lowest positions; heaven and earth form a cosmic dwelling, with the sun and moon as its windows, nurturing the ceaseless growth of all beings. These examples reveal that seemingly empty "non-being" is the essential force behind functionality.

The passage concludes by distilling Daoist wisdom: the most abundant things appear empty (da ying ruo chong), yet their efficacy never diminishes. This encapsulates the core Daoist principle of "mutual generation of being and non-being" (you wu xiang sheng)—where form and void interdepend, and the seemingly insubstantial Dao remains the fundamental source that gives birth to all existence.

This scripture primarily discusses two aspects: the path of cultivation, and the principles of self-cultivation and moral refinement.

The first part uses metaphors to illustrate the essentials of cultivation. Just as thirty spokes converge to support a wheel hub through the interplay of solid and void at its center; or like crafting pottery where the empty space makes it functional; or building a house where windows and doors create inhabitable space—all demonstrate how "non-being" holds greater significance than "being." The same principle applies to cultivation: one must understand the practice of "embracing the origin and guarding the One" (focusing on preserving primordial Qi), progressing through the "ten-month fetal completion" (the culminating stage of Neidan practice) until both spirit and form attain subtle perfection, ultimately merging with the Dao.

The second part criticizes the harms of excessive sensory indulgence. Overexposure to dazzling colors dulls vision; constant exposure to enchanting music deafens the ears; gourmet delicacies spoil one's palate; unrestrained hunting deranges the spirit; while coveting rare treasures corrupts one's character. Therefore, the sage (one who has attained the Dao) seeks only basic sustenance, avoiding sensory excesses—rejecting illusory external temptations to pursue inner authenticity.

The text also introduces the "three thefts" theory: Heaven-Earth steals the essence of all things, all things steal humanity's primordial Qi, and humans in turn plunder nature's resources. Only when these three maintain balance can Heaven, Earth and humanity achieve harmony. Imbalance occurs when indulgence in sensual pleasures damages body and mind. Thus, genuine Dao cultivators value only the yellow of simplicity (symbolizing centrality), listen solely to the zheng mode's proper tones (symbolizing harmony), and savor only sweet flavors (symbolizing moderation)—rejecting all dazzling superficialities that lead one astray.

This scripture conveys two key teachings: the principle of contentment bringing constant joy, and the wisdom regarding favor, disgrace, gain and loss.

The first half employs vivid analogies to illustrate how unrestrained pursuit, like chasing rabbits, only agitates the mind. Forcing oneself to obtain rare treasures like the Black Dragon's pearl may lead to destruction if unsuccessful. In truth, simple tea and wine surpass fine tea, coarse clothing is better than having none, and an unattractive wife is preferable to loneliness—these are genuine considerations for survival rather than mere outward appearances.

The latter half focuses on the philosophy of "favor and disgrace both alarm." Whether receiving favor or suffering disgrace, both unsettle the heart because favor itself implies dependence on another's grace. People experience great troubles precisely because they fixate too much on personal gain and loss. If one can let go of the self and instead cherish the world as one cherishes oneself, they become fit to shoulder the world's burdens. Governing the world with the same care one has for oneself makes the world worthy of entrustment.

The text references the Yijing (Book of Changes), citing "the soaring dragon in the heavens" (the 95th line) and "the dragon at the peak has regrets" (the top line) to explain that sages remain vigilant even when favored by heaven (like the flying dragon at the 95th line), while arrogance invites disaster (like the overreaching dragon at the top line). The truly wise do not hoard noble status for themselves but prioritize the world, thereby avoiding calamity. This is the deeper meaning of "favor and disgrace both alarm"—only by not clinging to personal gain or loss can one truly bear the weight of the world.

This scripture conveys three main teachings:

The first section discusses the wisdom of "knowing the masculine but guarding the feminine." While understanding the principles of strength, one maintains a posture of gentleness, receiving gains with cautious vigilance like being startled. Acting with arrogance when facing challenges brings the greatest disgrace. True nobility lies in remaining humble when obtaining things, while forcing matters when losing them only invites disaster. Clinging to action brings misfortune, whereas following nature yields true honor. The sage understands that only when the people are prosperous can one be truly valued. Acting in accordance with the people's benefit is called valuing oneself; acting according to their needs is called cherishing oneself. Therefore, the sage dares not claim the world as personal possession, yet can be entrusted with it; dares not force matters upon the world, yet can be relied upon by it. This is the nobility and care that comes from "no-self" (non-attachment to ego).

The second section describes the mysterious characteristics of the Dao (the Way). What cannot be seen when looked at is called "Yi" (formless); what cannot be heard when listened to is called "Xi" (soundless); what cannot be grasped when touched is called "Wei" (intangible). These three qualities cannot be fully investigated, so they are collectively called "the One." Above it is not bright, below it is not dark—continuous and unbroken, beyond description, ultimately returning to emptiness. This is the form of no-form, the image of no-image, called "Huhuang" (indistinct and unfathomable). Meeting it, one cannot see its beginning; following it, one cannot see its end. By holding to the ancient Dao to manage present affairs, one can understand the origin of all things—this is the guiding principle of the Dao.

The third section explains cultivation methods. One achieves life's fulfillment through exhaustive investigation of principles and perfection of inner nature. Maintaining precepts accumulates Jing (essence); with sufficient essence, one can thoroughly investigate principles. From precepts comes Ding (meditative stability), preserving Qi (vital energy); with sufficient Qi, one perfects inner nature. From Ding arises Hui (wisdom), preserving Shen (spirit); with perfected Shen, one attains life's highest state. Precepts, meditation, and wisdom ultimately merge into one—this is the fundamental law of Daoist cultivation.

This passage describes the mysterious state of the Dao (the cosmic origin). The Dao transcends the realm of sensory perception—it cannot be seen when looked at, heard when listened to, or grasped when touched. This state is called "huhuang" (indistinct and elusive). The Dao is neither bright nor dark, neither shaped nor formed. Like an unbroken thread, it defies verbal description and ultimately returns to the state of emptiness.

To comprehend the principles of the Dao, one must follow the ancient laws to respond to present circumstances. Understanding the fundamental origin of all things means grasping the guiding framework of the Dao. As Master Ziyang (a Daoist immortal) said: The Dao appears nonexistent yet is profoundly effective; it seems useful yet remains invisible. It meets us in the indistinct chaos and transforms in the profound mystery. These three states merge into one, beyond questioning—only through cultivation to a certain level can one naturally realize it.

The true adepts of ancient times were subtle, profound, and penetratingly wise, their depth beyond ordinary comprehension. Precisely because they are indescribable, we can only approximate their qualities: they acted cautiously, as if crossing a river in winter; vigilantly, as if wary of neighboring states; solemnly, as if guests; freely, as melting ice; simply, as uncarved wood; open, as valleys; and turbid, as muddy water. Who can remain still like muddy water until it gradually clarifies? Who can stay settled until growth emerges naturally? Those who preserve this Dao do not seek fullness—precisely because they are not full, they retain the ancient without striving for novelty.

The natural laws of heaven and earth operate similarly: heaven does not speak, yet the four seasons proceed in order; earth does not speak, yet the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) harmoniously function. All this illustrates the spontaneous, effortless (wuwei) nature of the Dao.

A genuine Daoist adept needs no verbose explanations, yet naturally handles all affairs with ease. The ancient accomplished practitioners (known as "exemplary scholars") attained a state so subtle and profound that it resonated with the triune principles of heaven, earth, and humanity—a depth incomprehensible to ordinary minds. Precisely because this state defies description, we reluctantly resort to metaphors:

They move with the caution of crossing a winter river, each step measured; remain vigilant as if wary of surrounding neighbors, preferring retreat to rash advance; carry themselves with the decorum of guests, never overshadowing their hosts. Their inner clarity resembles melting ice (symbolizing enlightened awareness), their primal nature remains unhewn like raw timber (Jia-Geng representing balanced yin-yang), their expansive mind mirrors an open valley (Wu-Ji denoting the central Dantian). Though outwardly appearing turbid (lead-mercury symbolizing the yin-yang energies in Neidan practice), they maintain inner purity.

Who can maintain stillness within this seeming turbidity? Gradually, crystalline clarity emerges (echoing the supreme virtue of water-like goodness). Who can sustain cultivation through prolonged stability? Through accumulated practice, natural growth occurs (referencing the ten-month Neidan refinement cycle). Those upholding this Daoist path never seek excessive fullness, for overflow leads to dissipation of Jing, Qi, and Shen. Precisely by avoiding perfection, they preserve ancient wisdom without contrived novelty.

This passage extols the profundity of Laozi's teachings, comparing sages to elusive celestial dragons. The writer humbly admits inability to fully comprehend this realm of "riding clouds and wind" (alluding to the ultimate state of Daoist realization). The enumerated virtues—"subtlety" (formless Dao), "marvel" (unfathomable yin-yang transformations), "mystery" (cosmic creation), and "penetration" (ceaseless cyclical movement)—all describe the ineffable qualities of Daoist attainment.