《道德真經疏義(一)》Vol. 3

This chapter primarily discusses the relationship between the hun (ethereal soul) and po (corporeal soul) in relation to form and spirit. Within the hun-po duality, the po belongs to yin (the yin aspect), attaching to physical form with inherent limitations. Thus Laozi uses the term "encampment" to describe the po, indicating its fixed nature. The hun belongs to yang (the yang aspect), moving freely with qi and reaching everywhere, hence the Yijing (Book of Changes) employs "wandering" to characterize the hun, denoting its fluidity.

The sage who attains the Dao understands how to use shen (spirit) to govern physical form and employ hun to regulate po. In this way, the shen can carry the po without being constrained by it—just as a cart naturally bears its load or as the seasons alternate between cold and heat. When the mind can wander freely in celestial freedom (tianyou), penetrating all six channels of perception (eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and mind), it transcends the limitations of heaven, earth, and the myriad things. The shen will never be trapped, much less obstructed by the po.

The essential nature of hun and po: The po arises from physical form—its character component "white" (白) symbolizes yin—and becomes fixed upon entering the body. The hun is governed by qi—its character component "cloud" (云) represents yang—and can freely enter, exit, and gather. Sages use shen to command physical form, preventing the spirit from being burdened by the body; they employ hun to control po, ensuring the ethereal soul isn't constrained by the corporeal soul. Thus, the shen naturally carries the po like a cart transporting goods or the seasons progressing through their cycles.

The explanation of "embracing unity without separation": Heaven's number one generates water, corresponding to jing (essence); earth's number two generates fire, corresponding to shen. Both shen and jing originate from the Dao, while physical form arises from jing. By preserving jing and qi without dissipation, unifying shen and jing into oneness, essence and spirit will never separate. Use jing to consolidate shen, employ shen to direct the body, and utilize the body to preserve shen—when essence and qi remain undiminished, the spirit can endure eternally.

(Note: "Six penetrations" refers to the six sensory channels of perception; "celestial wandering" denotes the mind's state of ultimate freedom; "embracing unity" describes maintaining the integrated state of form and spirit.)

This scripture expounds the core Daoist teaching on the relationship between Jing (essence), Shen (spirit), and physical form.

Just as the sun and moon adhere to the heavens and plants take root in the earth—never to be separated—so too is human life sustained. Human existence arises when vital Jingqi coalesces to form conscious Shen, thereby constituting a complete physical form. This life-force ascends to the celestial realms and descends through the earth, nurturing all things while remaining formless and invisible. It may be called "equal to the Sovereign" (sharing the creative power of the universe).

Yet ordinary people often become enslaved by external matters, losing their innate nature in mundane affairs. Not for a moment do they settle their heart-mind, instead chasing endless desires. Outwardly they dissipate their vital Jing and ethereal Hunpo (soul), while inwardly burdening their Shen. Ultimately they cycle through birth and death like ordinary creatures—is this not delusion?

The approach of Dao-realized sages is completely different. Through "carrying the Hunpo" (sustaining the soul), they connect inner and outer realms, maintaining the Dao of "embracing Oneness" (holding to pure unity), and nurturing their physical form through serene Shen. Such sages possess Shen as immovable as Mount Tai—even submerged in deep waters, they remain undrenched. Who can discern their beginning or end? Thus we say sages most value preserving Jing.

The commentary further explains: The Dao generates "One"—this One is water (celestial water born of heaven), manifesting as Jing in all things. One generates "Two"—this Two is fire (earthly fire), manifesting as Shen in all things. All beings possess Qi, yet Jing and Shen are its source; all follow numerical principles, yet Jing and Shen precede these patterns. This shows Jing and Shen originate from the Great Dao, just as light emerges from darkness.

Heaven and earth contain Jingqi that transforms all creatures; the seasons distribute Jingqi that nourishes living beings. Thus we see physical form originates from Jingqi, and order arises from the formless. Those skilled in preservation never allow their Jing to scatter—by steadfastly maintaining Shen, they unite with the divine. Thus Jing and Shen achieve eternal union. Only with utmost refined Qi can one attune to supreme Shen-nature; preserving unshaken Jing ensures its completeness. Using Shen to govern form and maintaining stillness makes Shen inexhaustible; when form nurtures spirit, both endure eternally. Like the sun and moon adhering to heaven to shine perpetually, or plants rooted in earth to grow vigorously—Jing, Shen, and form remain inseparable.

Human life takes Jing as its foundation. When Jing is complete, Shen naturally arises—this is the process of "gathering Shen through Jing" to form an integrated body-mind. Jing originates from ultimate Yin-water, Shen from ultimate Yang-fire. Though water and fire normally oppose, they harmoniously coexist within the human body.

This passage employs metaphors and contrasts to elucidate the core principles of Daoist cultivation. Just as bronze mirrors and yangsui (ancient fire-starting tools) naturally attract water and fire, when human spirit (shen) connects with all directions, one comprehends how yin-yang interaction gives birth to all things. In truth, the human body shares the same origin with heaven and earth, yet ordinary people mistake the branch for the root—enslaved by external matters, agitated internally, they lose their innate nature.

The text identifies three types of spiritual confusion: first, indulging desires that deplete essence (jing) and qi, causing the ethereal (hun) and corporeal (po) souls to scatter; second, failing to use consciousness to govern the physical form, instead being burdened by it; third, drowning in external objects until one loses individuality by merging with all things. These are precisely the pitfalls practitioners must avoid.

The cultivation of sages (those who have attained the Dao) follows an entirely different path: they consolidate their hun-po souls to commune with the great Dao, maintaining purity and mental tranquility. Without forced seeing or hearing, they simply focus on guarding their internal spirit. Such practice naturally rectifies physical form, making the spirit so powerful it remains unmoved even if Mount Tai collapses, yet so subtle it can penetrate springs without getting wet. This state knows neither beginning nor end, existing in seamless unity.

The passage concludes by invoking Zhuangzi's adage "the sage treasures essential qi" and Emperor Shun's admonition to Yu: "only through refinement and singleness." Both emphasize the importance of focused purity. Like infants who naturally embody concentrated qi in softness—their actions spontaneous and uncontrived, their minds free of judgment—they maintain focused, gentle breath. When ordinary people experience emotional turbulence, their qi becomes disordered. Sages maintain empty receptivity and peaceful concentration, effortlessly returning to infant-like purity.

Mencius spoke of human Qi (vital energy) as something that can become supremely vast and strong, capable of filling heaven and earth when nourished with uprightness and left unharmed. Yet Laozi advocates "concentrating Qi to attain softness" - why is this? Strength serves to uphold righteous action, while softness restores one's fundamental nature. The ancient Daoist arts inherently embraced both aspects with equal profundity.

The "Great Commentary" of the I Ching states: "The Qian hexagram in stillness maintains perfect unity." This unity arises precisely from maintaining quiescence. By "concentration" we mean a mind purified of distractions. Yang Xiong's "Canon of Supreme Mystery" declares: "Softness suffices to pacify all things," achieved through harmonious alignment. True "softness" implies gentle compliance rather than forceful imposition.

Human life progresses through four great phases. In infancy, before desires and calculations form, infants rest without conscious stillness - unaware they are doing so; they move without deliberate intention - unconcerned about destinations. Following innate nature spontaneously, they harbor no cunning designs nor distinctions between right/wrong, beautiful/ugly. Thus an infant's Qi remains purely concentrated, achieving harmonious non-resistance.

Will commands Qi as its marshal. Singular focus of will suffices to mobilize Qi's mechanisms. Mencius observed that stumbling and rushing are Qi's operations that conversely affect the spirit. This reveals that Qi concentration fundamentally requires unwavering mental focus. When mind remains undistracted, external phenomena cannot disturb the spirit, and Qi naturally concentrates. Should mental focus prove insufficient, Qi becomes disordered like stumbling and rushing, while the mind grows increasingly willful and ungovernable - akin to how violent men meet untimely ends.

Sages dwell in the world with emptiness like valleys, viewing adversities as drifting empty boats or falling roof tiles. Thus they maintain softness without forceful exertion of Qi or willfulness - how does this differ from an infant's state?

Mencius' "supremely vast and strong" Qi matches heaven's Dao through vastness and righteousness through strength - describing Qi's functional aspect. Laozi's "attaining softness" addresses Qi's essential nature in restoring fundamental being. Guan Yinzi's discourse on undifferentiated Qi and Liezi's balanced Qi simply emphasize different dimensions. Herein lies the omnipresent wisdom of ancient Daoist practice.

This passage explains how Daoist practitioners can attain a state of inner purity and natural spontaneity in their actions.

"Cleansing the profound mirror of the mind to be without blemish" describes how sages purify their consciousness to eliminate distracting thoughts, deeply contemplating the mysterious principles without leaving traces. Like the ancient pursuit of the state of "not yet having things" (the primordial emptiness), one must reach a level where even the concept of "not yet having things" no longer exists to achieve true purity. In this way, one maintains their original nature unburdened by attachments, neither becoming arrogant when succeeding nor regretful when failing, naturally remaining flawless.

"Loving the people and governing the state through non-action (Wuwei)" discusses the Dao of governance. While treating citizens with benevolence and ruling with wisdom may bring temporary improvement, these remain forms of "deliberate action." The true sage benefits all generations without consciously seeking fame for loving the people; their achievements cover the world yet seem unrelated to themselves. This is the realm of Wuwei, where governing the world appears effortless.

"The opening and closing of the celestial gate (sensory portals) can be like the feminine" draws from the Daodejing principle of "knowing the masculine while maintaining the feminine." When the gates of perception fluctuate, one should maintain feminine receptivity like still water. Just as mountain streams gather water by staying low, the sage understands strength but abides in gentleness. Thus when responding to the transformations of all things, one reflects reality as naturally as a mirror without retaining traces, achieving the state of "non-action yet nothing left undone."

The sage emulates the operating principles of the celestial Dao (the Way), following the natural rhythms of expansion and contraction, opening and closing, never violating seasonal patterns. They understand the interplay of firmness and yielding, knowing when to conceal and when to reveal, adapting flexibly to circumstances yet never rushing ahead of others—always flowing with the multitude. Never placing themselves above the myriad things, they remain humble and lowly. Thus, all under heaven delight in honoring them without weariness, precisely because they maintain the yielding gentleness of the feminine.

The Daode Jing states: "Knowing the masculine yet cleaving to the feminine, becoming the valley of the world." The masculine triumphs through hardness, while the feminine preserves gentle compliance. Understanding the principle of masculine strength yet choosing feminine yielding means not suppressing others through force but maintaining a harmonious nature, thus becoming the valley where all things converge. The valley occupies the lowest position yet gathers streams from all directions. The sage anticipates change, acting in accordance with the celestial Dao, thereby embodying its operational patterns. Whether gathering or expanding, opening or closing, all follow the shifts of circumstance—thus their advances and retreats are always timely.

They comprehend both softness and strength, perceive both the subtle and the manifest, integrating all into daily application, so that firmness and yielding, concealment and revelation, are perfectly balanced. Understanding that holding back ultimately leads to advancement, they never rush ahead but always follow; knowing that preserving gentleness leads to true strength, they never dominate but remain humble. For this reason, people never tire of them, and all under heaven delight in upholding them—this is the manifestation of the feminine Dao.

True wisdom appears dull and unknowing precisely because it does not deliberately seek knowledge yet thereby knows all things. As Xunzi said: "Use simplicity to preserve wisdom and insight." "Acumen" enables skillful planning, "clarity" grants discernment, "sageliness" means penetrating all things, and "wisdom" signifies omniscience—these four qualities may be called "illuminating the four directions." Yet those who attain the Dao, though thoroughly penetrating, seem muddled; though brilliantly evident, appear obscure. This is using simplicity to preserve wisdom. Just as Xi Yong of old could identify thieves yet met an untimely end, while Yan Hui, seeming foolish, was praised by Confucius for elucidating profound meaning. Thus, true understanding lies in maintaining a state of apparent unknowing—is this not the supreme attainment of fullness without overflow?

The Dao gives birth to and nourishes the myriad things, yet does not claim possession; acts yet takes no credit; guides yet does not dominate—this is the most profound De (Virtue/Power). The sage merges with the great Dao, participating in heaven and earth's transformations, thus cooperating with the divine and nurturing all beings.

This passage elucidates the profound connotation of "Xuan De" (mysterious virtue). Laozi posits that truly profound virtue manifests as: nurturing all things without claiming possession (producing without possessing), acting without self-importance (acting without relying), and guiding all beings without domination (leading without controlling). This virtue is profoundly mysterious and runs counter to ordinary understanding.

When the Dao of Heaven (natural law) manifests in the northern direction, it becomes distinct from all things, and "Xuan" (mysterious darkness) is precisely the color of Heaven. The sage embodies this Heavenly Dao as virtue, and only the term "Xuan" can describe such a state. Sages achieve unity with the divine, comprehending the Dao of transformation because they are one with the Great Dao. Such individuals align with the virtue of Heaven and Earth, becoming the reliance of all things—even the celestial deities resonate with them, and all beings find nourishment through them.

The sage's approach to all things is: allowing natural growth (following their nature) and providing abundant nourishment (fulfilling their sustenance). Though all things are in constant motion and change, the sage regards them equally as "straw dogs" (sacrificial offerings symbolizing impartiality), without partiality; though teaching people toward goodness, they claim no merit; though governing all beings, they avoid forced control or artificial shaping. This virtue is subtle and unfathomable, transcending concrete phenomena, hence described as "so profound it reverses ordinary understanding."

The Book of Changes states "Heaven is Xuan, Earth is yellow"—"Xuan" being Heaven's color; spring is called "azure Heaven," while "Xuan" represents the Heavenly Dao manifesting in winter's northern direction. When sages transform the lofty Heavenly Dao into concrete virtue, this virtue is called "Xuan De."

The Dao of heaven is profound and subtle, beyond complete description in words. Just as thirty spokes converge at the hub of a wheel, what truly functions is the empty space at its center. When clay is kneaded to form a vessel, what proves useful is the hollow interior. When doors and windows are carved to build a house, what becomes habitable is the empty space within.

Emperor Huizong of Song explains: The tangible form and intangible void are in fact unified—this wondrous unity of opposites constitutes the highest mystery. All things manifest dual states of "being" (you) and "non-being" (wu)—"being" as concrete form, "non-being" as functional space. Like the movement of Yin-Yang and the cycle of creation and dissolution: the wheel's hollow enables movement, the vessel's void allows containment, the house's emptiness permits dwelling. These marvelous functions all originate from the fundamental "non-being," ever-changing yet never burdensome. As a mirror holds no image yet reflects all things, so too is the mind of one who attains the Dao.

At a deeper level: Concrete existence constitutes visible "being," while the unfathomable essence is "non-being." Though "being" and "non-being" appear distinct, "being" provides form while "non-being" enables function—this is the law governing Yin-Yang's operation and all existence. Wheels, vessels, and houses are tangible "being," yet their true efficacy lies in their "non-being." This wondrous function springs from fundamental emptiness, infinitely transforming yet leaving no trace. Like a mirror reflecting without attachment, the sage's mind responds to all things—neither deliberately pursuing "being" nor clinging to "non-being," simply responding naturally without harm.

Thus we say: Concrete objects provide convenience, but their emptiness constitutes the true functional essence. Emperor Huizong further explains: Concrete objects are substantial, while emptiness is insubstantial. Substantial things possess form, sound, color and other concrete attributes, while the insubstantial void enables movement, containment and response. Heaven and earth's principles manifest through concrete objects, hence we cannot deny "being's" existence; yet objects' marvelous functions depend on "non-being's" principle, so "being" ultimately returns to "non-being." As bent wood channels water, hard metal withstands forging, and level earth permits cultivation—these all belong to "being's" aspect, through which humanity gains benefit.

Behind the operation of heaven and earth, the cycle of seasons, and the growth of all things, it is actually the "Non-being" (the void nature of the Dao) that functions. Though ordinary people cannot perceive its form, its efficacy is inexhaustible. Through the mutual transformation between "Being" (concrete existence) and "Non-being," Laozi reveals the mystery of these three phenomena.

"Being" (manifest existence) is constrained by form and substance, appearing as concrete shapes and sounds; "Non-being" (the void of Dao) remains unbound, capable of functioning limitlessly. From the perspective of Dao, the metaphysical (abstract essence) cannot be separated from the manifestation of "Being," while the physical (concrete things) also contains the essence of "Non-being." Among the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water), water and fire manifest their functions, metal and wood form vessels, while earth and grain nourish all things—everything between heaven and earth relies on these operations.

The rotation of heaven and earth, the cycle of seasons, and the growth of all things seem to be driven by some mechanism, yet no concrete ruler can be found. In truth, "Non-being" is the mysterious "Being," and "Being" is the actual "Non-being"—the two generate each other in cyclical fashion. Just as a cart moves, a vessel contains, and a house holds space, the principles governing all things under heaven can be understood through such analogies. Through these three examples, Laozi uses the small to illuminate the great Dao.

The "Chapter on Five Colors" points out: indulging in colorful sights dulls vision, while drowning in music weakens hearing. Those who truly comprehend the Dao do not rely on physical senses but observe the formless realm with their spirit (Shen) and listen to soundless vibrations with their vital energy (Qi). When the mind reaches a state of clarity, one can discern right from wrong and comprehend the ultimate principles of the world. (Note: "Huizong" refers to Emperor Huizong of Song, Zhao Ji, whose commentary on the Daode Jing is cited here.)

People are often deluded by external things—their eyes become addicted to colorful sights, their ears drown in alluring sounds, gradually diminishing their originally clear faculties of sight and hearing. How is this any different from being blind or deaf?

The Shuyi commentary explains: The Li trigram (the fire trigram among the Eight Trigrams) symbolizes the eyes. The eyes consist of two parts, just as fire emits light to illuminate the external world. Our innate nature endows us with the power of vision—clear sight allows us to discern things and resolve worldly complexities, so that no amount of dazzling colors can disturb this clarity. The Kan trigram (the water trigram among the Eight Trigrams) symbolizes the ears. The ears contain a single aperture, just as water reflects what lies within. Our innate nature grants us the capacity for hearing—acute listening enables us to comprehend things and penetrate the principles of the world, so that no clamor of sounds can disrupt this wisdom.

Those who awaken to the Dao understand this truth. They attain the state of "seeing what cannot be seen"—observing formless things with their spirit (Shen), and reach the realm of "hearing what cannot be heard"—listening to the soundless world through their vital energy (Qi). Without using their physical eyes, they perceive all things; without relying on their ears, they hear all sounds. What they see and hear is the true essence of reality. Ordinary people, however, remain confined to sensory perception, obsessed with external sights and sounds: they chase visual pleasures and indulge in beauty, yet fail to recognize what true beauty is; they pursue auditory delights and become infatuated with melodies, yet remain deaf to the grandest harmonies of heaven and earth. They pride themselves on sharp hearing and keen sight, but in truth, their faculties are deteriorating—how is this any different from deafness or blindness? Yet human deafness and blindness are self-inflicted—how can they be blamed on sounds and colors?

Excessive pursuit of rich flavors dulls the palate, while obsession with hunting and revelry drives the spirit (Shen) to madness. As Emperor Huizong of Song noted in his commentary: The Great Dao, when spoken, is bland and flavorless, yet worldly people crave intense tastes, unaware that such richness acts like poison to the senses. Though the human body is small, the mind can perceive the vastness of heaven and earth. With a single thought, the sage can weave the patterns of all things; in stillness, they reflect the cosmos. But ordinary people lose themselves in hunting and amusement, abandoning their original mind (benxin) and losing self-control—is this not the greatest tragedy?

This commentary reveals the profound meaning of "true flavor" (the essential taste of Dao) through comparing the dietary preferences of different creatures. Humans relish beef and mutton, deer graze on grass, centipedes consume snakes, and owls delight in mice—who can determine what constitutes the world's genuine delicacy? In truth, the authentic flavor is Dao itself, which is plain and seemingly tasteless. While people crave intense flavors, they fail to recognize that the "flavor beyond flavors" transcending specific tastes is the fundamental essence.

Excessive pursuit of gourmet pleasures harms the body—while gratifying momentary cravings, it damages one's foundational vitality. This explains why "the five flavors make people's mouths go astray"—here "astray" signifies deviation, as overindulgence in tastes leads to losing perception of true flavor. Though the human form is small, the mind can encompass the vast creativity of heaven and earth. The sage maintains an authentic heart-mind (xin), capable of ordering all things when active and reflecting cosmic patterns when still, riding the transformations of the six qi to roam boundlessly. Why would such a one indulge in hunting pursuits?

Those who fail to understand that self-mastery constitutes true strength become obsessed with galloping hunts, their spirit (shen) agitated and unstable, thereby losing their original heart-mind—a truly pitiable state.

Regarding "rare goods make people's conduct falter": Material goods were originally meant to nourish life, but excessive craving for rare treasures causes aberrant behavior. Sages disregard rare objects precisely to encourage people to abide in their fundamental nature. Coveting treasures drives individuals to desperate acts—how could virtue (de) be preserved this way? Tang of Shang avoided hoarding wealth, and Confucius criticized Zigong for commercial pursuits, both demonstrating how possessions obstruct virtue.

Ancient sage-kings facilitated balanced exchange between regions so all benefited. Goods exist to sustain life, yet when rare objects—neither edible nor wearable—are prized as treasures, people resort to reckless plunder, making it impossible to maintain their original simplicity.

This passage explains how sages do not pursue rare treasures but value practical things, aiming to help people remain content with their lot and avoid contention. Thus, the sage would cast gold into deep mountains and throw pearls to the bottom of lakes, placing no value on hard-to-obtain objects and ensuring people's daily needs are simply met. In such circumstances, who would still engage in actions that harm others?

Zhong Hui, a virtuous minister of the Shang dynasty, praised King Tang of Shang for "not hoarding wealth," illustrating how truly great men act not for personal gain. Confucius told his disciple Zigong, "You refuse to accept your fate and instead engage in trade," using this example to show that chasing profit is not the conduct of a noble person. Zhuangzi advocated smashing fine jade and destroying pearls to honor those free from material greed.

Therefore, the sage emphasizes inner cultivation ("for the belly" signifies inner fulfillment) over external extravagance ("for the eyes" signifies sensory indulgence), hence rejecting the latter in favor of the former. Emperor Huizong of Song commented: In the Bagua (Eight Trigrams), the Kun trigram symbolizes the belly, representing magnanimous virtue that bears all things; the Li trigram symbolizes the eyes, representing outward observation. What embraces can contain everything, but the eyes observing external things always have limitations. The sage takes the world as their standard, thus choosing an all-encompassing mind over micromanaging every detail.

Further elaboration clarifies: The Kun trigram's magnanimous virtue is like the belly's capacity to digest food; the Li trigram, yang outside and yin within, resembles the eyes that perceive the external world. One who embraces does not pick and hoard, hence containing all; though the eyes see afar, they cannot see their own lashes, so limitations remain. The sage dissolves judgments and preferences, taking the world as their measure, thus choosing inclusive breadth over meddling in every affair. Zhuangzi said, "No disaster is greater than harboring cunning and viewing things with prejudice," for innate nature is De (Virtue), while artificial scheming brings calamity. Therefore, the sage does not pursue external sensory pleasures.

Chapter 13 ("Favor and Disgrace") states: Both favor and disgrace alarm the heart, and great calamity is regarded as seriously as one's own body. This means ordinary people are easily swayed by external judgments, while sages transcend such influences.

In his commentary on the Dao De Jing, Emperor Huizong of the Song Dynasty observed: "Being favored (referring to excessive praise from others) actually places one in an inferior position, while true nobility belongs to those who dwell in higher realms. When one becomes complacent due to receiving favor, it invites disgrace; regarding high status as a burden—this is the greatest misfortune."

Those who make wealth their life's aim cannot relinquish their emoluments; those pursuing fame cannot abandon empty honors; those obsessed with power are least willing to share authority. They tremble with anxiety when gaining and wallow in grief when losing—this explains why both favor and disgrace can equally unsettle the mind.

The human body alternately suffers from ailments (indicating yin-yang imbalance) and indulges in comfort; the heart is at times oppressed by fear, at others overwhelmed by euphoria—these fluctuating afflictions illustrate why "the greatest misfortune clings to us like our own body."

The commentary further elaborates: Though being favored seems glorious, its essence remains a subordinate position; true nobility should transcend, yet when perceived as burden, it breeds arrogance. The avaricious are trapped by profit, the fame-seekers shackled by vanity, the power-hungry lament lost influence. They acquire with trepidation and lose with sorrow—this is the root cause of being "startled by both favor and disgrace."

(Note: "Three-banner rank" refers to high official positions, "ten-thousand-bell emolument" denotes extravagant salaries, while "chong" represents the Daoist ideal of empty stillness. This passage contrasts worldly pursuits with Daoist principles, revealing how excessive attachment to external things invites misfortune.)

This passage expounds the Daoist profound insight regarding fame, gain, and the fluctuations of favor and disgrace. Using the dragon's transformations as a metaphor: when soaring freely through the heavens, the dragon can coalesce into form, yet when dispersing, it transforms into clouds—this state of effortless metamorphosis lies beyond human control. Just as a dragon raised in captivity to pull carriages loses its innate nature, bringing disgrace upon itself.

The truly wise (those adept at being scholars) understand that even the honor of holding the highest official positions (the "three banners") cannot compare to preserving one's moral integrity; nor can the wealth of "ten thousand measures" match the richness of maintaining one's fundamental nature. Those who comprehend the method of preserving favor can perceive impending crisis even when enjoying privilege; those who grasp the principle of safeguarding blessings remain humble amidst prosperity. Only such individuals can retain wealth and honor enduringly without suffering disgrace.

Conversely, those who crave power and position, who pursue wealth by any means—knowing only advancement without retreat, ignorant of the principles of waxing and waning—resemble Zhao Meng of the Spring and Autumn period (a powerful Jin state minister). Though temporarily illustrious, they ultimately meet with contempt. Thus, receiving favor from others is inherently a lowly condition.

Emperor Huizong of Song's commentary notes: official positions and titles (carriages and crowns) are not intrinsic to life's essence, being merely external objects obtained by chance. The perfected person neither rejoices in gaining them nor grieves their loss. Like Liuxia Hui (the virtuous Lu state official) who bore no resentment after three dismissals, or Zheng Kaofu (Confucius' ancestor) who grew more humble with each promotion—this constitutes the proper attitude.

The passage ultimately emphasizes: true nobility resides within. External glory and wealth are like passing guests—when they come, don't refuse; when they depart, don't cling. Foolish people fail to understand that poverty and prosperity alternate like the four seasons. Both gain and loss disturb their hearts—this is the meaning behind "favor and disgrace seem alarming."

When in poverty and hardship, if one can remain content and joyful; or when wealthy and prominent, if one can avoid arrogance and complacency—both states are truly rare. Ordinary minds are constantly calculating gains and losses, their inner being clogged with such thoughts. Those undisturbed by these concerns are exceedingly few. Liu Xiahui (a virtuous scholar of Lu during the Spring and Autumn period) was dismissed from office three times yet never left his country, while Zheng Kaofu (an ancestor of Confucius) became increasingly humble with each promotion—how could such men be disturbed by thoughts of gain or loss?

Why does it say "regard great troubles as you regard your body"? Emperor Huizong of Song explains: Those who wield power, control rewards and punishments, and act with arbitrary authority are feared by all as if they were deities, revered like the Lord on High—this may be called supreme honor. Yet the sage does not become ensnared by such honor, thus maintaining it long without calamity. Consider the human body: if one can release attachment to limbs, abandon sensory desires, transcend physical constraints, and free oneself from mental calculations to merge with the Dao, then any circumstance becomes a state of effortless ease. Ordinary people trade their innate nature for external things, thus becoming burdened by material concerns; they let physical form enslave their spirit, thus losing their original heart—this is indeed the greatest affliction.

Further elaboration: Clinging to honor inevitably invites disaster; only by not claiming honor as one's own can one truly preserve it. Just as excessive concern for the body restricts every movement, realizing the body isn't truly "ours" allows its true preservation. Today's power-wielders who monopolize rewards and punishments, acting with unchecked authority, may be worshiped as divine by the world, yet this "matchless honor" is precisely what sages reject. The sage maintains emptiness and stillness, steering perfection without claiming honor, thus remaining in high station without calamity. Like one who has a body yet releases limb attachments, possesses senses yet transcends them, escapes form without being bound by it, and abandons cunning without scheming—only thus can one commune with the Dao, reaching the formless realm where all circumstances bring unhindered freedom. How could such a person consider the body an affliction?

Mediocre individuals cannot exhaust their innate nature to forget power, becoming altered by external burdens; they cannot fully employ their spirit to transcend form, becoming enslaved by physical constraints—trading innate nature for externals, burdening spirit with form—this is the greatest affliction.

Laozi said, "The reason I have great troubles is because I have this body." When I reach the state of no-body, what troubles could remain? Emperor Huizong annotates: Human life consists of a hundred bones, nine orifices, and six organs. To stubbornly insist "this is me" is delusion. Those who embody the Dao understand these are merely temporary aggregations.

Confucius once said: "Hearing the Dao in the morning, one could die content in the evening." Mencius declared: "Neither short life nor long years would alter my resolve." Yan Hui (Confucius' disciple) attained the state of "sitting in forgetfulness" (zuowang - meditative self-oblivion). Life and death are indeed the great matters of human existence, yet they cannot shake the mind of one who has awakened to the Dao—how much less could trivial matters like gain and loss, fortune and misfortune? The ancient Dao-realized sages would not allow profit to harm their bodies, nor would they permit physical form to constrain their spirit. Observing the relationship between all things and themselves, they realized nothing in creation could truly be possessed—thus understanding that even their own bodies did not truly belong to them. Such persons could wander with the Creator and befriend those who transcended life and death, dwelling beyond beginnings and endings—what worries could remain?

Ordinary people consider favor and flattery as honors, but Dao-realized beings regard them as shameful. Common folk take pride in high status, while awakened minds perceive it as misfortune. For external things fundamentally cannot be relied upon—this is the principle of nature. If one can hold all things with the mindset of "non-being" (wu), then neither favor will feel humiliating nor high position bring distress. Just as Yi Yin (virtuous minister of Shang dynasty) never boasted of imperial favor, and Emperor Yao found no delight in his throne—both understood this truth.

The Commentary explains: Within the human body resides the "True Sovereign" (zhenjun - the authentic self governing spirit) that can look down upon the whole world, and the "True Governor" (zhenzai - the original substance ruling body and mind) capable of mastering all things. Though the physical form—with its hundred bones, nine orifices and six organs—appears complete, which part truly constitutes the "self"? To seek identity solely within the physical form, taking the body as true self and external objects as possessions—this is delusion. Only those who comprehend the Great Dao understand: physical form is inherently impermanent, and even when the body perishes, the indestructible true self remains. Therefore Confucius said "hearing the Dao in morning makes evening death acceptable," Mencius spoke of "unchanging resolve regardless of lifespan," and Yan Hui attained the state of "forgetting both self and objects." If even life and death cannot affect the Dao-awakened, how much less could trivial matters of gain and loss? There is no other mystery here—it is simply knowing that within the form dwells the eternal True Sovereign and Governor, thus physical changes cause no disturbance.

The ancient Perfected Ones (zhiren - Dao-realized beings) never allowed profit to burden their bodies—unlike ordinary people who forget their true nature when seeing advantage. They never let form constrain their spirit—attaining the state of responding to things naturally without deliberate effort. Looking inward at the mind, they saw thoughts as empty; observing outward forms, they perceived physicality as illusory; gazing distantly at all things, they recognized the emptiness of phenomena. When realizing that nothing in creation can be forcibly separated or possessed, they understood even their bodies were not their own. Those who can see the formless form ascend to wander with the Creator and descend to befriend Dao-realized beings who transcend life and death.

What matters are truly worth worrying about? If one comprehends this principle, they will neither feel humbled by favor nor burdened by high position. Should we consider worldly honor as disgrace, or regard what others pursue as happiness as our own affliction?

Consider the sages of antiquity: Yi Yin (renowned minister of Shang Dynasty) never clung to favor or profit to maintain his achievements, yet mastered the secret of preserving grace; Emperor Yao never treated his throne as pleasure, yet grasped the method of maintaining nobility. This is true wisdom.

Thus it is said: Only those who value themselves more than the world can be entrusted with it; only those who truly cherish their own lives can be given governance over all under heaven.

Emperor Huizong of Song comments: The world resembles a vast vessel—without the Dao, it cannot function; it resembles a magical implement—without the Dao, it cannot be safeguarded. The sage (one who has attained the Dao) unites with the Dao, thus containing the world within. All people gladly support such a person without wearying. Those of lesser attainment, who know to treasure themselves without self-abasement and avoid being enslaved by external things, may temporarily be entrusted with the world; those who understand self-love without self-harm and remain untroubled by externals may briefly be delegated governance. Therefore, the essence of the Dao serves to cultivate the self, its remainder to govern the state, and its dregs to administer the world. How lamentable that worldly gentlemen instead harm their bodies and abandon life to chase external things!

Further explanation: The six directions (heaven and earth, four quarters) are boundless, hence the world is called a vast vessel. What transcends the vessel itself is required to operate it—this transcendent element is the Dao. The Dao resides in the immeasurable and operates without fixed direction, hence the world is called a magical implement. What connects with the magical is needed to safeguard it—this connective element is the Dao.

The sage unites with the Dao, thus dwelling in the world without losing original nature, containing all things without altering virtue. Whether east, west, south or north, none fail to submit joyfully; all people gladly support without wearying. Those of lesser attainment understand the impermanence of all things, thus holding the world lightly. They know: one joint surpasses a kingdom in importance, two arms outweigh the world, yet the whole body surpasses both arms. Valuing self without self-harm, cherishing life without self-abasement—such persons may temporarily be entrusted with the world.

How unlike those who maim life and injure nature, treating their bodies as sacrificial offerings! Chaotically driven by externals, exhaustively troubled by material things, they fundamentally lack understanding of preserving body and spirit. Zhuangzi said, "Use the essence of the Dao to cultivate self, its remainder to govern the state, and its dregs to manage worldly affairs"—this is precisely the meaning. Worldly gentlemen fail to recognize the body as life's foundation, instead mutilating themselves...

This scripture explains the Daoist approach to comprehending the Dao (the Way). The Dao transcends the realm of ordinary sensory perception and requires special methods of realization.

Regarding vision: Although eyes can discern shapes and forms, the Dao is perfectly even and undifferentiated, like the state of primordial chaos before even Qi (vital energy) had formed. Thus it is described as "yi" (smooth and featureless). What eyes perceive are things with form and color, while the Dao is formless and invisible to ordinary sight.

Concerning hearing: Though ears can distinguish sounds, the Dao is utterly silent, like the stillness after a great wind has ceased - hence described as "xi" (rare and faint). What ears hear are phenomena producing sound, while the Dao itself is soundless.

Finally regarding touch: Hands grasp physical objects with form, but the Dao is so refined as to be formless, like how the greatest image has no concrete shape. Before Qi condenses into material substance, this subtle state already exists, thus described as "wei" (minute).

Through this negation of ordinary perception, the text reveals that the Dao cannot be known through conventional senses. It transcends the realms of form, color and sound, requiring deeper spiritual realization to apprehend.

This passage explores the profound nature of the Dao. Laozi describes it as "so subtle that it becomes formless" - meaning the Dao is exquisitely refined to the point of having no physical form. While we can grasp things with form, the formless Dao eludes capture. As the scripture states, "The greatest form has no shape" - what could be vaster than the Dao in this world? Precisely because it lacks form, the Dao's greatness knows no bounds.

Emperor Huizong of Song comments: In the stage of "Great Simplicity" (Taiyi, the undifferentiated primordial state in Daoism before heaven and earth separated), how could there be distinctions of high and low? The greatest sound is actually inaudible - who could discern its clarity or turbidity? The greatest form is actually invisible - who could judge its size? Here, eyes cannot see, ears cannot hear, and physical strength cannot reach - yet the complete Dao resides here. Though we exhaustively search, we cannot find it; though we thoroughly probe, we cannot grasp it. This is because Qi (vital energy), form, and substance remain merged as one, not yet separated.

Further explanation: As Liezi states, "That which manifests colors has never appeared" - true color is actually "colorless," so how could shades exist? The greatest sound is actually "soundless," so how could clarity be distinguished? The greatest form is actually "formless," so how could size be measured? Even if Li Zhu (legendary figure with extraordinary eyesight) polished his vision in broad daylight, he couldn't perceive its form - eyes are useless here. Even if Shi Kuang (renowned musician of the Spring and Autumn period) listened intently all night, he couldn't hear its sound - ears are useless here. Even if the wisest person searched, they ultimately couldn't find it - physical form is powerless here.

Visually imperceptible, we call it "Yi" (smooth and traceless); aurally inaudible, we call it "Xi" (silent and soundless); tactilely ungraspable, we call it "Wei" (subtle and imperceptible). These three names differ but refer to the same Dao. What Liezi calls "undifferentiated chaos" describes this state where Qi, form, and substance remain merged as one. Since they're already unified, how can we possibly describe it?

Emperor Huizong further comments: On the metaphysical level (transcending concrete forms), the transformations of Yin-Yang are unfathomably profound - this is the supreme "Shen" (spirit), thus it doesn't appear conspicuously bright ("Jiao" meaning bright). On the physical level...

Yin and Yang exist in opposition yet unity, and this dynamic principle constitutes the most profound Dao. Thus, the Dao never fully obscures itself in darkness ("昧" signifies obscure unknowability). As the Yijing states: Comprehending this divine mystery depends entirely on one's cultivation.

In essence, the formless dimension is called "Dao," while "Shen" (the numinous function of Dao) manifests this profundity. Shen truly belongs to the formless realm: Yin only recognizes Shen within Yin, unaware it also resides in Yang; Yang only perceives Shen within Yang, oblivious to its presence in Yin. Shen's operation between Yin and Yang is unfathomable—it moves with lightning speed yet never appears hurried, seemingly absent yet undeniably present. This embodies the Dao's characteristic of "not displaying radiance above" (上不皦).

The manifest dimension is called "vessels" (concrete phenomena), wherein the Dao takes residence—thus the Dao also exists in form. The Dao does not favor Yang exclusively, nor does it rely solely on Yang for generation; neither does it prioritize Yin alone or depend on Yin for completion. The Dao is the unity of Yin and Yang, capable of both condensation and dispersion, manifesting even within emptiness. This is the Dao's characteristic of "not sinking into darkness below" (下不昧). "皦" denotes brightness, so "not 皦" implies hidden unknowability; "昧" signifies obscurity, so "not 昧" allows clear discernment. Yet without suitable practitioners, the Dao does not reveal itself—hence comprehending this divine mystery truly depends on the individual.

The Dao resembles formless cords ("绳绳" describing continuous connection) that cannot be captured in language, ultimately returning to voidness. Emperor Huizong of Song comments: The Dao's essence follows orderly alternations like day and night, yet the mystery of its light-dark transformations defies measurement—how could form or sound ever depict it? Thus it ultimately returns to emptiness.

The Dao's movement resembles cords rectifying objects to maintain uprightness—"绳绳" signifies never transgressing normative boundaries. Its operation proceeds with flawless rhythm, like the unerring alternation of day and night or light and dark, hence "绳绳." Profoundly mysterious, formless and nameless, the secrets of its luminous transformations elude comprehension, rendering it unnameable. Viewed thus, when the Dao returns to its source, it sheds all attachments—not only transcending the state of "having substance," but reaching beyond even the concept of "non-substance." How could form or sound possibly describe this? This is the return to voidness.

This is called the formless form, the imageless image—termed "huanghu" (a state of elusive presence). Emperor Huizong annotates: Within the haze of huanghu there seems to exist substance; within the mist of huhuang there appears to emerge form—just as the Supreme Void (cosmic origin) embraces all manifestations.

This passage describes the profound and mysterious nature of the Dao (the cosmic origin and universal principle). Though formless and shapeless, the Dao gives birth to all things. Just as we cannot see the sun and moon directly yet can use bronze mirrors to kindle fire or concave mirrors to gather water, the Dao—though elusive—truly exists and functions.

The Dao is neither pure being nor pure non-being. It appears to lack concrete form yet contains all forms; it seems devoid of specific images yet encompasses all phenomena. Like the vast void that generates myriad things without leaving traces, or like human nature—invisible and formless—that responds to all situations, this state is called "huanghu" (a hazy, indistinct condition between presence and absence).

The Dao has neither beginning nor end. Tracing forward, we cannot find its source; following backward, we see no conclusion. It is whole and complete, without start or finish. This is what Zhuangzi meant by "having no head or tail."

Those who truly understand the Dao grasp the eternal natural laws ("the ancient Dao") to address present circumstances ("what exists today"). Fixating on one aspect of Yin-Yang—whether valuing only movement and change while neglecting stillness, or pursuing only stillness while denying movement; or either extreme selfishness that abandons compassion, or excessive self-sacrifice that forsakes principles—none of these reflect the true ancient Dao. The ancient Dao is unified and whole. Only those who know the origin of all things have grasped the essence of the Dao ("the guiding principle of the Dao").

This scripture elucidates the essential nature and operational principles of the Dao (the Way). The Dao, as the cosmic origin and governing principle, neither reduces to mere Yin-Yang polarity nor exists independently of it. Those who fail to comprehend the Dao either become attached to dualistic distinctions—clinging to life while being constrained by physical form, thus bewildered by the Dao's dynamic transformations—or pursue quiescence to the point of self-oblivion, stagnating through excessive fixation on the Dao's static aspect.

The text critiques two extremes: the Mohist school (Moism) overemphasized universal love at the expense of Daoist principles, blinding them to particularities; while the Yang Zhu faction (Yangism) pursued self-interest to the exclusion of benevolence, becoming licentious and lawless. Both represent partial understandings inconsistent with the ancient, authentic Dao.

The true Dao neither discards the myriad phenomena nor clings to distinctions of being and non-being. It abides in a "huanghu" state (indeterminate, neither wholly existent nor wholly void). Mastering this principle enables one to adapt to all transformations and face the future with equanimity. Flexibility maximizes benefit, while inspiration fully reveals divine wonder—nothing in governance remains beyond its capacity.

This Dao existed prior to antiquity, eternally present before heaven and earth manifested. As the fundamental law governing all phenomena, nothing exists independent of it. This essential characteristic of the Dao remains immutable. Only those who investigate the origin of things and comprehend their beginnings can grasp the Dao's guiding principles (gangji)—hence this is called "the Dao's guiding framework."

The text emphasizes that the ancient, authentic Dao neither negates phenomena nor fails to encompass all. Transcending the dichotomy of being and non-being, it dwells in an ineffable, subtle state. Applying this standard to examine affairs and resolve dilemmas enables responsiveness to infinite change. Such wisdom fully actualizes benefit while manifesting the Dao's profundity, rendering all governance attainable.