《道德真經章句訓頌》

The first chapter of the Dao De Jing (The Way That Can Be Spoken) states: The Dao (Way) that can be spoken is not the eternal, unchanging Dao; the name that can be named is not the eternal, unchanging name. "Non-being" describes the state before heaven and earth took form, while "being" is the source from which all things arise. Maintaining a state of desireless awareness allows one to perceive the mysteries of the Dao, while approaching it with intellectual desire reveals its boundaries. These two states share the same origin but differ in name—both are called "profound." This depth beyond depth is the gateway to all wonders.

Celestial Master Zhang Sicheng (the 39th lineage holder of the Tianshi Dao tradition) explains: What, then, is the Dao? We might tentatively describe it as "principle" (理, the underlying order) and "Qi" (炁, vital energy). Viewed from "non-being," it is principle; viewed from "being," it is Qi. Principle exists in formlessness yet manifests divine function—this is the nature of spontaneity. Qi takes shape yet contains emptiness—this is the destiny of spontaneity. Like a path, to reach any destination, one must follow this way. Where there is principle, there is Qi; where there is Qi, there is form; where there is form, heaven, earth, and the myriad things emerge—this is the Dao that can be spoken, the name that can be named. But the essence of principle as principle, or Qi as Qi—how can this ever be fully expressed? This is the Dao and name beyond being and non-being, eternal and unchanging.

"The beginning of heaven and earth" refers to principle, while "the mother of all things" refers to Qi. Maintaining desirelessness allows one to quietly observe principle in its unmanifest state; maintaining desire enables perception of Qi as it manifests. What we call "profound" or the "gateway to wonders" reflects the dynamic interplay between principle and Qi. Terms like "wonder," "boundary," and "gate" serve as signposts guiding practitioners toward deeper realization.

When all under heaven recognize beauty as beauty, the concept of ugliness arises; when they recognize good as good, the concept of bad emerges. Being and non-being give rise to each other, difficulty and ease complete each other, long and short contrast with each other, high and low complement each other, tones and sounds harmonize with each other, front and back follow each other. Thus the sage (one who has attained the Dao) handles affairs through wuwei (non-action) and teaches through wordless example. All things arise naturally without interference, are nurtured without being possessed, are acted upon without claiming credit, and achieve without dwelling on accomplishment. Precisely because there is no dwelling, the merit never fades.

(This passage explains how all things in the world exist in relative pairs. The sage emulates natural patterns, avoiding deliberate action. Just as all things grow naturally in spring—why seek artificial traces of creation?)

The sage's method of governing the world is this: By not exalting the worthy, people won't compete for fame and profit; by not valuing rare goods, people won't steal; by not displaying objects that arouse desire, people's minds won't become confused. Therefore the sage's governance consists of: purifying people's hearts, satisfying their basic needs, weakening their cravings, and strengthening their bodies. Keeping people constantly in a state of simple desirelessness, so that those who consider themselves clever dare not act recklessly. Governing through wuwei (non-action), nothing remains ungoverned.

(Here using everyday metaphors: eating when hungry, sleeping when tired—illustrating how following nature is the best governance. The world fundamentally has no need for such complexity.)

The Dao (cosmic origin) appears empty, yet its function is inexhaustible. Profound, it seems the ancestor of all things—blunting sharp edges, resolving conflicts, harmonizing radiance, merging with the dust. Serene, it seems both present and absent; I know not whose offspring it might be, appearing to predate heaven and earth.

(Using the image of moonlight illuminating the earth to explain: The Dao is omnipresent, requiring no deliberate pursuit. Like reflections in water, all ultimately return to original truth.)

Heaven and earth show no favoritism—they treat all things as straw dogs (sacrificial items discarded after use); the sage shows no favoritism—treating all people as straw dogs. Isn't the space between heaven and earth like a bellows? Empty yet never collapsing—the more it moves, the more air flows forth. Rather than exhausting energy through excessive speech, better to maintain centered stillness.

(The bellows metaphor illustrates: The seemingly empty Dao actually contains infinite vitality. Excessive action backfires—holding to the center is fundamental.)

All things follow their own patterns of use and abandonment (just as straw dogs are used in rituals and discarded afterward—this cycle is determined by timing, not by human preferences or aversions). Why should I cling to my own intentions? It is like breathing naturally in harmony with the air, sensing the profound within emptiness—how wondrous this resonance of Qi is! There is no need to force explanations with words (to chew one’s tongue), for only then can one truly realize the authentic self. The highest state of unity is mutual forgetting (only by attaining perfect benevolence can one refrain from consciously flaunting virtue; precisely because it is not flaunted, one reaches this state of mutual forgetting). All experiences will eventually fade, and a thousand words are but surface appearances.

Chapter Six speaks of the "Valley Spirit" (referring to the divine function within emptiness) as eternal and indestructible, called the "Mysterious Feminine" (symbolizing the inexhaustible maternal source of life). The gateway of this life-giving origin is the root of Heaven and Earth. It stretches endlessly, seeming both present and absent, yet its function never exhausts itself. Though it appears profound and elusive, principle (Li), Qi, and form mutually transform—emptiness and substance give rise to each other. In truth, Heaven and Earth are originally one, their spiritual resonance boundless—this is both the origin of life and the path of return to the source. Like a hen naturally incubating her eggs ("the hidden hen transforms into a wooden hen"), why should the alchemical cauldron ("earthen crucible") need deliberate sealing? (The valley symbolizes emptiness, and emptiness contains divine principle; the Mysterious Feminine possesses the creative nature of all things, being the root of primordial Qi. It is called a "gate" because its opening and closing encompass Yin and Yang, whose union generates all things in Heaven and Earth. Precisely because its origin is formless, its function is inexhaustible.)

Chapter Seven states that Heaven and Earth are enduring. The reason they can last so long is precisely because they do not exist for themselves. Thus, the sage steps back yet finds himself ahead, remains detached yet is preserved. Is this not because selflessness fulfills the self? How do Heaven and Earth transcend life and death? Their unique longevity comes from grasping the profound mechanism of creation. Those who understand the principles of innate nature (Xing) and life (Ming) can attain long life—let no one say the immortals are unjust. To know how to nurture the spirit (Shen) and align with primordial Qi—this effortless "self-interest" is the highest truth.

Chapter Eight says the highest goodness is like water: water nourishes all things without contention, willingly dwelling in low places that others disdain, thus coming closest to the Dao. It resides in fitting places, its heart deep and still like an abyss, its interactions kind, its words trustworthy, its governance clear, its actions appropriate, its movements timely. Precisely because it does not contend, it is free from blame. Here, the natural law of the soft overcoming the hard is revealed—its wondrous function is limitless. Like a jade-green pool reflecting one’s original face (symbolizing innate nature), there is no need for forced pursuit.

Chapter Nine: Holding to Fullness

This passage speaks to the wisdom of navigating life. Holding a basin filled to the brim, it is better to stop in time; a blade honed too sharp will easily snap. A house overflowing with gold and jewels cannot be kept forever; arrogance in wealth and status only invites misfortune. To know when to withdraw at the height of success—this aligns with the Dao of Heaven. Just as the full moon wanes and the rigid breaks, the ancients grasped these truths through observing the cycles of the seasons. Those who truly appreciate the breeze and moonlight understand the legacy of Yao and Shun—Heaven’s principle abhors excess, while human virtue values humility. Only by harmonizing Heaven and humanity can one live without regret. This teaching resonates deeply with the wisdom in The Old Man at the Yi Bridge Bestows His Book.

Chapter Ten: Carrying the Vital Spirit

This chapter explores the essentials of cultivating the mind and nurturing one’s nature. The human spirit (营魄 yingpo) must remain united with its original purity, as focused and gentle as an infant’s. By clearing distractions and reflecting inward (玄览 xuanlan), one becomes flawless; governing a state requires following nature without forced action. In the opening and closing of the senses (天门 tianmen), maintain balance—knowing all yet never flaunting wisdom. Nurturing all things without possessing them, acting without claiming credit, guiding without controlling—this is the profoundest De (Virtue). Our bodies are temporary unions of the four elements (earth, water, fire, wind), sustained by the spirit. Abiding in stillness and Wuwei (non-action), observing inwardly, the world naturally settles. The key lies in timing movement and stillness—when others parade cleverness, remain obscure and silent; claim no merit, flaunt no sainthood. Let the body and mind function with complete spontaneity—this is the true path of cultivating nature and life (性命双修 xingming shuangxiu). True nature and life reside in the ordinary—neither forced scrutiny nor defiance is needed. (Note: The union of hun (ethereal soul) and po (corporeal soul) forms a person; "holding to oneness" means preserving one’s innate nature. Gentleness, inward reflection, Wuwei, maintaining balance, non-contention, non-possession, non-control—all speak to the root of cultivation: aligning with nature.)

Chapter Eleven: Thirty Spokes

Three metaphors illustrate the wonder of "non-being" (无 wu): Thirty spokes converge at the hub’s emptiness, making the wheel functional; clay is shaped into vessels, their hollowness enabling use; doors and windows are carved for rooms, their emptiness allowing dwelling. Thus, while "being" (有 you) offers utility, it is "non-being" that truly enables function.

The vast azure heavens encompass all things under their expanse. Beneath the seemingly ordinary earth, wherever a well is dug, springs will flow forth. Do not consider the myriad things of heaven and earth as overwhelmingly vast—they all exist within emptiness. And where does this emptiness reside? It fundamentally does not extend beyond our own body and mind. (Emptiness is not absolute nothingness—just as the hollow of a cart allows it to carry objects, the empty space within a vessel enables it to hold contents, and the void within a house permits dwelling. This illustrates the function of heaven and earth's emptiness. When we say "does not extend beyond our body," we refer to the nature of mind—contemplated inwardly, it reveals the realm of the small self.)

Chapter 12: The Five Colors

Dazzling colors blind the eyes, cacophonous music deafens the ears, rich flavors dull the palate, reckless hunting unsettles the spirit, and rare treasures tempt one to misconduct. Therefore, the sage cultivates inner nourishment rather than outward indulgence, abandoning superficiality to embrace authenticity. (The physical form is already a burden—how much more so the desires of eyes, ears, mouth, and belly? The metaphors of emptying the mind and filling the belly precisely illuminate this principle of discernment. This constitutes the foundational practice for all who cultivate the Dao: gathering scattered brilliance to return to simplicity. When can one attain the tranquil ease of being sated, forgetting both inner and outer, with no distinction between self and things?)

Chapter 13: Favor and Disgrace

Both favor and disgrace cause alarm, and valuing the self as if facing great calamity—what does this mean? Favor elevates one's position, disgrace lowers it; receiving either brings agitation, as does losing them. Why say valuing the self is like facing calamity? Because all our worries stem from having this body. Without it, what troubles could remain? Thus, only one who governs the world as carefully as tending their own body may be entrusted with the world; only one who cares for the world as lovingly as cherishing their own body may be relied upon to govern it. (Favor sows the seeds of disgrace, and honor breeds the roots of disaster—why be disturbed by them? This body is but external matter. Those who understand this realize the world is merely a temporary lodging. Alas! These words reveal that having a body is the fundamental source of affliction. What benefit does the world hold for me? If one can forget the self, like Xu You who remained unperturbed amid wind and rain... [Seeking nearby, nothing is more precious than oneself; external things are not worth clinging to. Yet obsession with the body instead separates us from our true nature, making the body itself a source of illness. Though Xu You remained indifferent to ruling the world, wind and rain still moved him—showing he hadn't truly forgotten his form. How far this falls short of Nan Guoziqi's state of forgetting both self and things!])

Chapter 14: The Unseen

(Describing the formless nature of the Dao) What cannot be seen is called "formless" (yi), what cannot be heard is called "soundless" (xi), what cannot be grasped is called "subtle" (wei). These three cannot be fully investigated, thus they merge into one. Above, it is not bright; below, it is not dark. Continuous and unnameable, it returns to nothingness. This is the form of the formless, the image of the imageless—what we call "indistinct" (huanghu). Meeting it, we see no beginning; following it, we see no end. Hold fast to the ancient Dao to master present affairs. To know the primal beginning—this is the guiding thread of the Dao. (The Dao transcends sensory perception yet permeates past and present. This description reveals the Dao's paradoxical existence—both transcendent and immanent—which forms the foundation of spiritual realization.)

This scripture primarily elucidates the characteristics of the Dao (the Way) and methods for cultivating it.

It first describes the essence of the Dao: Looking at it, you cannot see it—this is called "Yi" (subtle); listening for it, you cannot hear it—this is called "Xi" (faint); grasping for it, you cannot touch it—this is called "Wei" (minute). These three characteristics cannot be distinctly discerned, hence they merge into one. Above, it is not bright; below, it is not dark—continuous and unnameable, it ultimately returns to nothingness. This is the formless form, the imageless image, called "huhuang" (indistinct and vague). Meeting it, you cannot see its head; following it, you cannot see its tail. By holding fast to the Dao that has existed since antiquity, one can govern present affairs. To know the origins of the distant past is to grasp the guiding principles of the Dao.

True hearing means hearing no sound; true seeing means seeing no form. Cultivating the Dao requires no deliberate action (Wuwei), just as fire naturally appears without needing to hold firewood. Without a beginning, there is no end—past and present form an unbroken chain. Though external phenomena may transform endlessly, the essence remains constant. Recognizing this essence is to understand the true Dharma.

The ancient masters skilled in cultivating the Dao were profound, subtle, and far-reaching—difficult for ordinary people to comprehend. Precisely because they defy description, we can only approximate their qualities: cautious as if crossing a winter river, alert as if wary of neighbors, dignified as a guest, relaxed as melting ice, simple as uncarved wood, vast as a valley, turbid as muddy water. Who can remain still like turbid water, gradually becoming clear? Who can maintain tranquility yet act with measured movement when the time is right? Those who preserve this Dao do not seek perfection. Precisely because they do not pursue perfection, they retain their original state without forced renewal.

What is within manifests without. Neither internally nor externally clinging to thoughts, nothing remains incomprehensible. Maintain stillness and await; when acting, respond naturally. Seemingly nonexistent yet eternally present, ever-abiding yet never revealed. Neither attached to form nor emptiness, neither pursuing the extraordinary nor rejecting the ordinary.

Attain ultimate emptiness; preserve profound stillness. As the myriad things grow and operate, I observe their cyclical return. Though complex and numerous, all things ultimately return to their source. Returning to the source is called stillness; stillness is called returning to one's nature; returning to one's nature is called the constant principle. Understanding the constant is wisdom; lacking this understanding leads to reckless actions inviting calamity. Understanding the constant brings tolerance; tolerance brings impartiality; impartiality brings completeness; completeness aligns with the Dao of heaven; aligning with heaven's Dao brings longevity—a life free from peril.

Like unimpeded wind passing through, leaves fall and forests empty, year after year unchanged. As was said in ancient times: When Qi (vital energy) returns to the primordial sea (Dantian), life becomes boundless. The nature of Qi is subtle—only a tranquil mind can perceive it. If one can maintain constant purity and stillness, heaven and earth will naturally return to you.

Chapter Seventeen: The Supreme Ruler

When the highest ruler governs, the people merely know of his existence. The next level ruler, they draw near and praise. The next, they fear. The lowest, they despise. When trust is insufficient, distrust naturally arises. The truly wise ruler is cautious with words; when great deeds are accomplished, the people say, "This happened naturally of itself."

Like gentle breezes and harsh frost, human hearts shift with the seasons. The old man who sang while tilling the fields (a recluse from Yao and Shun's era) has been gone a thousand years, yet his song lingers. Though the aura of the Three Sage-Kings (Yao, Shun, and Yu) differed slightly, the cycles of prosperity and decline follow Heaven and Earth's natural order.

Chapter Eighteen: When the Great Dao Declines

Only when the Great Dao is abandoned do we hear of "humanity" and "righteousness." When cleverness emerges, great hypocrisy appears. Only when families are discordant do we praise "filial piety." Only when the state is in chaos do we need "loyal ministers."

Without the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors, the rise of the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties would not have occurred. Without cruel fathers like Gusou (Shun’s unkind father) or tyrants like King Zhou of Shang, people might better perceive the original state of Heaven and Earth. The truly wise comprehend the Dao’s essence from the primal chaos before Heaven and Earth formed—like one who understands the true joy of wine needs no explanation to the sober.

Chapter Nineteen: Reject Sageliness, Abandon Wisdom

Reject the glorification of sageliness and abandon cunning calculation, and the people will benefit a hundredfold. Discard hypocritical teachings of "humanity" and "righteousness," and the people will return to natural filial piety. Eliminate cleverness and profit-seeking, and thieves will vanish. These three principles alone are insufficient for teaching; people’s hearts must also find refuge: preserve simplicity, reduce selfish desires.

Chaos (symbolizing the Dao) originally had no "seven apertures" (artificial distinctions). "Swift" and "Sudden" (symbolizing human interference) tried to carve openings for it, not realizing their kindness bred harm—damaging primordial Qi (vital energy) while the Dao remained unaware. Dualistic thinking disrupts harmony; it is the discriminating mind that becomes the heart’s affliction. When Qi flows as one, withdraw the senses inward in contemplation, and return to the original state.

Chapter Twenty: Abandon Learning, Be Free from Sorrow

Only by abandoning worldly learning can one be free from sorrow. How slight the difference between "yes" and "no"! How vague the line between "good" and "evil"! What the masses fear, I too must fear—this trend is boundless!

The people are jubilant, as if feasting at a grand banquet or enjoying a spring outing. I alone remain serene, like an infant who has not yet smiled, adrift and unattached. All others have surplus; I alone seem lacking. Mine is indeed the mind of a fool! The world is bright and clear; I alone am muddled. The world is sharp-eyed; I alone am dull. My heart is like the ocean, boundless as the ceaseless wind. All others take action; I alone am clumsy and inert. My difference lies in treasuring nourishment from the "Mother" (the Dao).

The state of the Great Dao (referring to the cosmic origin) transcends dualistic opposition, existing as a seamless unity, as pure as an infant wholly absorbed in nursing. Drifting along in serene contentment, where would attachment arise? Those things that appear soft and weak endure the longest, while worldly disturbances ceaselessly emerge. If one constantly calculates external gains and losses along with internal fixations, spiritual cultivation becomes a burden instead. Only by relinquishing deliberate study can one return to original authenticity—how marvelous this is! People pursue learning yet lose their true nature; once true nature is lost, the path back to the source paradoxically requires seeking through cultivation.

Do not fully trust the dreamlike words of those who boast before others, nor imitate fools who vainly whiten their hair in futile effort.

Chapter 21 discusses "The Form of Great Virtue (De)": The highest level of virtue completely aligns with the Great Dao. This Dao is elusive and intangible, yet within its vagueness there are forms, within its chaos there lies substance. Profound and mysterious, it contains the purest subtle essence (Jing), which is utterly authentic and embodies the principles of heaven and earth's operation. From ancient times to the present, its essence has never changed—through it, we comprehend the origin of all things. How do I understand the source of all phenomena? Through realizing this very principle.

From emptiness emerges the ethereal void, from which consciousness (Shen) arises; Shen transforms into primordial Qi, and Qi condenses into subtle essence. The void and Qi intermingle, appearing formless yet truly present. Through tranquil contemplation, one can perceive the wondrous flow of creation within. The supreme medicines of cultivation (the Three Superior Medicines) are precisely Shen, Qi, and Jing, which spontaneously generate from emptiness. All things in the world arise this way—those who don’t understand this, even if they call themselves immortals, merely possess empty titles.

Chapter 22 explains "Yield to Become Whole": To bend is to become whole; to yield is to become straight; low places are naturally filled; the worn-out is renewed; taking less brings more, while grasping much brings confusion. Thus, the sage upholds the Dao as the standard for all under heaven. By not showing off, one becomes evident; by not asserting oneself, one becomes distinguished; by not boasting, one achieves merit; by not exalting oneself, one endures. Precisely because they do not contend, no one in the world can contend with them. The ancients said, "Yield to become whole"—were these empty words? Truly, they guide one back to authenticity.

Within yielding lies sincerity; with sincerity comes wholeness. When sincerity reaches its ultimate, nothing remains unfulfilled. Scholars of the Confucian school—who says their doctrines differ? For millennia, they have deliberated on rites. The Wuji (undifferentiated state of the cosmos) and Taiji (primordial chaos), the nameless and the named—only sincerity and pure oneness transcend being and non-being as the ultimate reality. Yielding and wholeness, bending and straightening, emptiness and fullness, decay and renewal, less and more—these seemingly contradictory phenomena are in fact mutually causal. What appears dim grows brighter, while what seems radiant fades. Diminishing brings increase; humility brings nobility. This is returning to authenticity! Those endless debates are but dregs.

Chapter 23 states "Few Words Accord with Nature": A fierce wind cannot last a morning; a torrential rain cannot last a day. Who creates these phenomena? Heaven and earth. Even heaven and earth cannot sustain violent winds and rains—how much less can human presumptuous words endure?

This scripture primarily discusses the principles that Dao cultivators should follow and the essence of the Dao (the Way).

First, it states that even heaven and earth cannot maintain a fixed state forever—how much less can humans? Therefore, those who seek the Dao must unite with it, and those who pursue De (Virtue/Power) must unite with it. Those who lose the Dao and De will unite with "loss." Those who unite with the Dao are joyfully embraced by it; those who unite with De are joyfully embraced by it; those who unite with loss are joyfully embraced by it. When sincerity is lacking, distrust arises.

True principles are naturally substantial, just as the movements of heaven and earth follow constant laws. All things ultimately return to the same principle. Even violent changes like storms and tempests share the same essence. The sincere can reach everywhere, but speech must be timely—otherwise, it becomes untrustworthy, and what is untrustworthy lacks sincerity. Without sincerity, nothing endures. The violent changes between heaven and earth cannot last long—this is the natural order.

Standing on tiptoe leads to instability; taking overly large strides prevents going far. Those who display themselves fail to shine; those who assert themselves fail to stand out; those who boast achieve no merit; those who are arrogant cannot endure. From the perspective of the Dao, such behaviors are like leftover food or useless tumors—even objects would detest them. Thus, those who embody the Dao do not act this way.

Those who pursue excessive heights never know contentment; those who rush forward impatiently lack composure. Those obsessed with possession cannot transform; those fixated on form become trapped by external things. The Dao requires continuous reduction—even the "self" must be diminished. What else is there to pursue? Even sages like Yao and Shun are but remnants of the Dao, and heaven and earth are merely a tumor of it.

There exists something perfectly whole, formed before heaven and earth. Silent and empty, it stands alone, unchanging, cycling endlessly without exhaustion—it may be called the mother of heaven and earth. I do not know its name, so I reluctantly call it "Dao," and further describe it as "great." "Great" means ceaseless movement; ceaseless movement means far-reaching; far-reaching means returning to the source. Thus, the Dao is great, heaven is great, earth is great, and the ruler is also great. Within the cosmos, there are four great things, and the ruler is one of them. Humans emulate earth; earth emulates heaven; heaven emulates the Dao; the Dao emulates what is so of itself.

The Dao is a mysterious existence—primordial and unformed, permeating both heaven and earth, continuously evolving and generating all things. We cannot precisely describe it, only reluctantly call it "Dao" (the Way). Who can return to this original state? Only those with spiritual awareness. This spirituality is innate and should not be fixated on external forms. To ascend the summit of Mount Kunlun (symbolizing the highest state of realization), the true Kunlun is right before us—it is simply a matter of whether others can perceive it.

Chapter 26 discusses "steadiness and lightness": Steadiness is the root of lightness, and stillness governs agitation. Thus, even when sages travel all day, they remain grounded. Even amid bustling surroundings, they transcend worldly attachments. Yet some rulers govern recklessly—lightness leads to losing subjects, and impatience leads to losing control. The greatness of the earth lies in its weight and stillness. It does not rely on rushing about or deliberate observation. Governing the world should emulate the earth. Like willow catkins drifting freely in the spring breeze—seemingly unbound, yet rootless—they only bring confusion between heaven and earth.

Chapter 27 speaks of "natural non-action" (Wuwei): Those skilled in walking leave no trace; those skilled in speech invite no blame; those skilled in calculation need no tools; those skilled in closing require no latch yet cannot be opened; those skilled in binding use no cords yet cannot be undone. Therefore, sages always excel at saving others, so none are abandoned; they always excel at utilizing things, so nothing is wasted. This is called "inheriting the light" (carrying forward luminous wisdom). The virtuous serve as teachers for the unvirtuous, while the unvirtuous serve as mirrors for the virtuous. To disrespect the teacher and neglect the mirror—even the wise will fall into delusion. This is the subtle truth. Without forced effort, there are no openings to exploit; by widely bestowing virtue (De), all may benefit together. Sages follow the people without partiality, while self-praise only leads to confusion. The great Dao has no form, and sages act without intention—like spring flowers blooming naturally, or the ocean receiving countless rivers.

Chapter 28 explores "knowing strength but preserving gentleness": Knowing the masculine (Yang) yet abiding in the feminine (Yin), one becomes the valley of the world. Thus, eternal virtue (De) never fades, returning to the purity of an infant. Knowing brightness yet abiding in darkness, one becomes the model for the world. Thus, eternal virtue never errs, returning to the boundless origin. Knowing honor yet abiding in humility, one becomes the riverbed of the world. Thus, eternal virtue remains whole, returning to unadorned simplicity. When simplicity disperses, it becomes useful tools; when sages employ these, they become true administrators. Therefore, the perfect system does not sever nature’s unity.

This passage from the "Commentary and Exaltation on the Chapters of the True Scripture of Dao and De" primarily discusses the essence of the Dao and the wisdom of living, presented through several conceptual layers:

The Dao itself is as pure and natural as an infant, and as unadorned as uncarved wood (Da Pu, the Great Simplicity). Those who truly understand the Dao know how to maintain softness within strength, and humility amidst prominence. The Dao originally has no fixed form—we reluctantly call it "Great Simplicity." When it disperses, it forms heaven, earth, and all things. Turning inward, within the human body also exists this pristine, uncontaminated state of original truth, akin to an infant's purity.

Those who have truly mastered the Dao understand: knowing the masculine yet dwelling in the feminine, comprehending brightness yet abiding in obscurity, recognizing glory yet embracing humility. Dao is the substance, while De is its function. Understanding this principle allows one to grasp the laws governing creation.

Those who attempt to forcibly control the world are destined to fail, for the world is a sacred vessel (shen qi) that cannot be manipulated. All things follow their natural patterns: some advance while others follow, some bring warmth while others bring cold, some are strong while others are weak. Therefore, the sage avoids extremes, extravagance, and excess. True action is non-action (Wuwei), true attainment comes without striving, just as the movements of heaven and earth leave no trace.

Those who use the Dao to assist rulers do not rely on military might, for violence invites retribution. Where armies march, fields turn barren; after great wars, years of famine follow. The truly wise achieve their purpose and know when to stop—they do not boast, do not grow arrogant, do not force their strength. When things reach their zenith, they begin to decline—this is contrary to the Dao, and what contradicts the Dao perishes prematurely. True De nourishes life, and true martial virtue lies in laying down arms. A single evil thought can harm the righteous Qi between heaven and earth, while good deeds bring blessings, for the heavens are ever watchful of one's conduct.

Chapter 31 discusses weapons of war: Fine weapons are inauspicious tools, detested even by objects themselves, thus those who follow the Dao do not employ them. Gentlemen normally honor the left side, but in warfare they honor the right, for weapons are inherently inauspicious instruments unworthy of noble men—used only when absolutely necessary. One should maintain detachment when wielding arms, for even victory is no cause for pride. To glorify conquest is to delight in killing. Those who delight in killing can never fulfill their aspirations under heaven.

Auspicious affairs honor the left, inauspicious affairs honor the right. The lieutenant general stands on the left, the commander-in-chief on the right—this treats warfare with funeral rites. When many are slain, mourn with grief; after victory, handle matters with mourning rituals. The ideal state is maintaining readiness without deploying troops, achieving triumph without battle. Those who rashly shift positions deserve no praise, and warriors preening over merits require grave warning. Alas! The Golden Register's Nine True Precepts admonish us to practice compassion and refrain from killing—this is the true talismanic mandate. Rulers should not boast of conferring titles and honors, for know this: a general's fame is built upon ten thousand bleached bones.

Chapter 32 describes the nature of Dao: The Dao remains eternally nameless and unadorned. Though seemingly insignificant, nothing under heaven dares subordinate it. If lords and kings could preserve it, all things would naturally submit. When heaven and earth's Yin-Yang energies harmonize, sweet dew descends—distributed evenly without human intervention. When the myriad things first took form, names arose; but having names, one must know when to stop. Knowing when to stop avoids danger. The Dao's movement through the world resembles countless streams returning to rivers and seas.

What is minute yet honored lies in cosmic principle (Li); what responds unfailingly lies in primordial Qi; what disperses yet becomes named lies in form; what clings unyieldingly lies in concrete objects. Ah! Emerging from vessels yet returning to emptiness, it contains all things as the primordial source.

Chapter 33 concerns self-knowledge: Understanding others is wisdom; knowing yourself is true enlightenment. Conquering others requires strength; mastering yourself is true power. Knowing contentment is wealth; persevering in practice shows determination. Not losing fundamental integrity ensures endurance; the spirit enduring beyond bodily death is true longevity.

Self-awareness and self-mastery demand profound cultivation—be steadfast, vigorous, and purely centered. The body's nine orifices and hundred bones are illusory; transcending past and present constitutes true emptiness. Ah! Maintain clarity in stillness, preserve your nature in tranquility—thus you remain unswayed by fate.

Chapter 34 describes the Dao's attributes: How vast and flowing is the great Dao—it moves left and right! All things depend on it for life without refusal, it accomplishes without claiming merit. Nourishing all yet claiming no ownership, it may be called "small"; all things returning to it without domination, it may be called "great." Precisely because it never claims greatness, it achieves true greatness.

The Dao (the cosmic fundamental principle) is like water—omnipresent yet never imposing. All beings rely on it for growth, yet it never claims credit. It accomplishes all things without asserting dominance, nourishes all without seeking control, remaining eternally desireless. Precisely because it appears insignificant and nameless, it embraces all things; precisely because it does not force its will, it achieves true greatness. Thus, the sage never exalts himself, yet ultimately attains genuine greatness.

Because the Dao is unbound by any constraints, its workings remain unfathomable. Those who understand this principle realize: what seems vast is actually small, and only those who do not inflate themselves can truly grasp it. Ah! All beings in heaven and earth are confined by form—the large cannot become small, nor the small become large.

Chapter 35 speaks of upholding the essence of the Dao. By holding fast to its essence, all under heaven will naturally turn to it without harm, attaining peace and harmony. Yet worldly pleasures are fleeting like passing guests, while the Dao manifests as bland and flavorless—unclear to the eye, indistinct to the ear, inexhaustible in use. The truly profound vision has no fixed form; true joy makes no sound; true nourishment has no taste; true function knows no end—all things naturally return, settle, grow, and fulfill themselves. Ah! Even if one plays dragon flutes and beats crocodile drums, feasting atop purple camel humps in jade cauldrons, the transient pleasures of countless ants are but momentary gatherings—how can they compare to washing away the dust of three lifetimes (past, present, future) and offering you a cup of ever-flowing clear water?

Chapter 36 explains the principle of reversal at the extreme. To contract something, first expand it; to weaken it, first strengthen it; to abolish it, first raise it; to take it, first give it—this is the subtle radiance. The soft and weak will ultimately overcome the hard and strong, just as fish cannot leave the deep abyss, and the vital methods of governance must not be lightly revealed.

The mutual generation and overcoming of opposites is an inevitable law; the key to self-preservation lies in applying the way of softness. Fish swim in the depths yet forget the abyss; the people dwell in peace yet forget profit—seeming forgetfulness that is not forgetfulness, this is the way of governance. Ah! Humans exist between principle (Li) and Qi (vital energy), like fish in water unaware of it. Life and death unfold in accordance with natural law—by yielding softly to preserve the primordial Qi, the truest Dao resides within. All beings in heaven and earth ultimately return to this source.

Chapter 37 of the Daode Jing discusses the essential nature of the Dao. The Dao appears to do nothing, yet accomplishes everything. If rulers can follow its principles, all things will naturally transform and develop. When desires begin to stir, one should stabilize them with the Dao's innate simplicity. This simplicity is a state of desirelessness—maintaining this clarity and wuwei (non-action), the world will naturally return to its proper course.

The movement of heaven and earth occurs spontaneously, yet all things manifest in distinct forms. By grasping this natural pattern and understanding the characteristics of all beings, one can return to the formless, imageless source. This state is silent and soundless, yet it maintains the clarity and tranquility of heaven and earth. Like observing water's surface—ripples disperse only to be stirred again by wind, but with patient waiting for calmness, one naturally perceives its essence. The chapter's core teaching is: what appears as action is actually non-action; achieving without claiming credit; not contending for superiority; maintaining softness, stillness, and returning to original purity; harmonizing with nature; and continually reducing desires—these constitute fundamental cultivation methods.

Chapter 38 examines different levels of De (Virtue/Power). The highest De (shangde) doesn't consciously display virtue, thus embodying true De. Lower De (xiade) clings to not losing virtue, thereby missing its essence. Shangde practices wuwei and attains naturally; xiade acts deliberately with ulterior motives. Benevolence arises spontaneously without seeking reward; righteousness acts purposefully with objectives; while ritual represents the most superficial norms—when unreciprocated, it may resort to coercion.

Thus society's decline begins with losing the Dao, followed sequentially by the loss of De, benevolence, and righteousness, until only hollow ritual remains. Ritual signals the thinning of loyalty and trust, marking chaos's beginning. Those claiming foresight merely grasp the Dao's superficial husk—this constitutes folly's origin. Therefore, the truly noble choose to stand upon substantial simplicity rather than shallow ornamentation, rejecting the latter to embrace the former.

This scripture primarily expounds on the importance of the Dao (the fundamental cosmic principle) and the varying degrees of people's comprehension of it.

The first section critiques the later generations' excessive focus on superficial forms: the Dao of sovereign rulers has declined, various doctrines have become muddled, and concepts like benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom proliferate endlessly—yet all remain empty theorizing. Practitioners seeking longevity become entangled in external pursuits, alchemical methods grow chaotic, and primordial Qi dissipates. These are all cases of neglecting the root while chasing the branches. Like watching a puppet show, the more elaborate the performance, the farther one strays from the essence.

The second section explains the significance of "attaining Oneness" (grasping the unity of the Dao): Heaven attains clarity through the Dao, Earth attains stability, spirits attain efficacy, river valleys attain fullness, all beings attain growth, and rulers attain peace under heaven. The contrary leads to collapse. Therefore, nobility must take humility as its foundation, just as rulers call themselves "the solitary, the undeserving, the unworthy." True Virtue (De) should resemble the plainness of stone rather than the ornamentation of jade.

The third section discusses natural laws: Heaven operates through its firmness, Earth sustains through its solidity, spirits manifest through their mutability, and river valleys benefit through their emptiness. Though myriad things appear chaotic, they follow natural order. Rulers should maintain humility and self-restraint. Forcibly altering intrinsic nature (like transforming stone into jade) violates the Dao.

The fourth section describes the Dao's operational patterns: The Dao's movement cycles perpetually, and softness constitutes its function. All things emerge from "being," yet "being" originates from "non-being." Motion and stillness, substance and function, being and non-being continuously transform—like awakening to realize one was dreaming. Non-being contains divine wonder, wonder manifests innate nature, emptiness generates primordial Qi, and Qi sustains life. These elements constantly interact.

Finally, it describes three types of people comprehending the Dao: Those of superior capacity practice diligently upon hearing it; those of middling capacity believe halfheartedly; those of inferior capacity laugh upon hearing it—indeed, if they didn't laugh, it wouldn't be profound enough. The Dao appears paradoxical yet contains truth: Advancing seems like retreating, smoothness seems rugged, sublime Virtue appears insufficient, true fullness looks empty, perfect whiteness seems stained, the greatest square has no corners, monumental achievements require gradual accumulation, celestial music lies beyond hearing, and the grandest form has no shape—such is the Dao's subtlety and magnificence.

Those who truly comprehend the Dao (the Way) often laugh heartily upon hearing it, for if it doesn't provoke laughter, it isn't the genuine Dao. Thus the ancients said: The luminous Dao appears dim; the advancing Dao seems to retreat; the level path looks rugged. The highest De (Virtue) resembles a valley in its emptiness; the purest whiteness appears sullied; abundant virtue always seems insufficient; vigorous virtue appears indolent; the most upright quality seems pliant.

The most square lacks corners; the most precious vessel takes longest to complete; the loudest sound goes unheard; the grandest form has no shape. The Dao remains subtle and nameless, yet only it excels in nourishing and perfecting all things. The wise become wiser upon encountering it, while the confused grow more perplexed. Though human knowledge varies, the Dao's essence and function permeate everything. It claims no worthiness, monopolizes nothing, possesses nothing, and competes with none. Precisely because it gives of itself and moves from being to non-being, it generates effects surpassing heaven and earth, enduring beyond their span.

The Dao is fundamentally empty, merging with nature itself. Whether you believe or doubt, you cannot fully grasp it. Don't use worldly standards to rank people—better to forget distinctions before hearing the Dao's laughter.

Chapter 42 describes "the Dao begets all things": The Dao produces the primordial One; the One generates the two Qi (vital energy) of Yin-Yang; their interaction creates the Three (harmonious energy), which generates all beings. All things carry Yin on their backs and embrace Yang in their fronts, their interplay creating harmony. People detest titles like "orphan," "widow," and "destitute," yet rulers use them for themselves. Thus things may gain through loss and lose through gain. What others teach me, I teach in turn: the violent die untimely deaths—this shall be my fundamental teaching.

The Taiji (Supreme Ultimate) generates the two polarities (Yin-Yang), which form the three realms (heaven-earth-humanity), which complete all creation. Humility preserves; emptiness fills—thus life is safeguarded. Spirit relies on Shen (spirit); vitality depends on Qi; through empty receptivity, one equals heaven and earth.

Chapter 43 explains "the soft overcomes the hard": The world's softest penetrates the hardest; the formless enters the seamless. Thus the benefits of Wuwei (non-action) and wordless teaching have no equal under heaven.

Qi fills all between heaven and earth—it condenses metal and stone or dissolves them, leaving no trace or crevice. All things grow spontaneously without self-awareness. Like rope sawing wood or drops piercing stone, silent contemplation merges with nature's marvels.

Chapter 44 discusses "knowing contentment and limits": Which is dearer—fame or life? Which matters more—life or wealth? Which harms worse—gain or loss? Excessive love incurs great cost; hoarding brings heavy loss. Knowing sufficiency prevents disgrace; recognizing limits avoids danger—thus endurance is achieved.

Excessive fame invites slander, and great wealth attracts thieves. The cycle of gain and loss never ends, while the mortal flesh inevitably decays, never to be restored after death. Alas! Why do people toil ceaselessly without turning inward? Know that the physical body itself is a burden—what need is there to pursue external possessions? Only by comprehending the formless Dao (referring to the truth beyond physicality) and transcending bodily constraints can one attain true freedom.

The most perfect thing appears flawed, yet its function never fails; the fullest vessel seems empty, yet its utility is inexhaustible. The straightest appears bent, the most skillful seems clumsy, and the most eloquent appears tongue-tied. Movement overcomes cold, while stillness dispels heat—serene non-action (Wuwei) is the proper way of heaven and earth. The mysteries of heavenly Dao, earthly Dao, and human Dao all lie in maintaining humility. Cold and heat alternate naturally, and all things ultimately return to emptiness. Ah! The greatness of the primordial Qi that generated heaven and earth resides precisely in its capacity to remain void.

When the nation is well-governed, warhorses retire to plow fields; when governance fails, warhorses breed in wastelands. The greatest crime is indulging desires, the greatest calamity is insatiability, and the gravest fault is boundless greed. Thus, only those who understand contentment can attain eternal fulfillment. Warhorses become less valuable than manure, while oxen bring forth farming songs wherever they tread, filling every home with abundance. Remember—never covet greatness or excess! Human desires sprout from ignorance of moderation. When misfortune brings disaster, fear arises too late—like a Western Region warhorse turned to bleached bones, how could edicts from distant Luntai (referring to Emperor Wu of Han's conquest campaigns) ever reverse this?

Without leaving home, one can know the world; without peering through windows, one can perceive heavenly Dao. The farther one travels, the less one truly knows. Therefore, sages understand without traveling, comprehend without seeing, and accomplish without striving. Though one may traverse the world and observe all things, phenomena are endless in their complexity. By maintaining inner stillness, one naturally perceives the finest details. Ah! The rise and fall of order and chaos, the transformations of Yin-Yang—all are contained within the human body. By harmonizing with Qi to nurture spirit (Shen) and cultivating one's true nature through devoted practice (referring to innate essence), when one's true nature is perfected, it merges with the Dao to attain eternal transcendence.

Pursuing scholarly knowledge leads to daily increase, while cultivating the Dao requires daily decrease. Decrease continuously until reaching non-action (Wuwei). Achieving non-action enables accomplishing all things. Thus, governing the world requires following its natural course—forced interference will only lead to failure.

True cultivation follows nature's course, requiring neither forced questions nor debates. Neither deliberately subtract nor artificially add—only those who truly understand the Dao of "increase" can comprehend the meaning of "decrease." Continuously diminish selfish desires until they are completely purified, and all the world's virtuous deeds will naturally become nourishment one joyfully receives.

Those who find Daoist practice laborious and taxing have already fallen into demonic obstacles. What difference is there between cultivating immortality and studying the Dharma? Who can understand that true practice is inherently effortless—the more one deliberately pursues it, the more vexations arise?

The sage (one who has attained the Dao) holds no fixed ideas, taking the people's hearts as his own. To the kind I am kind; to the unkind I am also kind—thus attaining true kindness. To the trustworthy I am trusting; to the untrustworthy I am also trusting—thus attaining true trust. Dwelling in the world, the sage remains reverently cautious for all under heaven. He returns his heart to a state of primordial chaos, while the people fix their eyes and ears upon him. Yet he nurtures them all like children.

Only by clinging to no concepts can one walk with the Dao; only by erasing distinctions can one embody De (Virtue). All people are my kin; all things share my being. Return the heart to an infant's purity, where neither humans nor things are constrained—embracing all, the myriad beings flourish naturally. This is the true state of heaven and earth!

From birth to death, three in ten enjoy longevity, three in ten die prematurely, and three in ten could live long but hasten their own demise. Why is this so? Because they excessively pursue longevity. I have heard that those truly skilled at nurturing life encounter no rhinos or tigers when traveling on land, nor need armor or weapons when entering battlefields. Rhinos find no place for their horns, tigers no place for their claws, weapons no place for their sharp edges. Why? Because such a person never enters death's perilous domain.

Life and death follow natural laws, all subject to the immutable ratio of "three parts life, six parts death" (referring to three parts vital energy versus six parts mortal qi). Excessive pursuit of longevity paradoxically hastens demise—just as the earth itself carries three parts death qi, which combine with humanity's inherent three parts to complete the fatal sixfold measure.

True transcendence lies in attaining the state of "One" (the undifferentiated primal unity before Yin-Yang division) where "there is neither death nor life." This "One" is simultaneously Kunyuan (earth's primordial source) and Qianshi (heaven's originating principle), preserving our original spirit (Shen) and gathering our innate Qi (vital energy). When both spirit and Qi return to emptiness, when self and objects are both forgotten—what then could cause harm or burden?

Observe how Yin and Yang energies perpetually interexist. Though the life-death ratio seems immutable, those who can observe heaven-earth beyond mere Qi (transcending form and energy) resemble dreamers unaware they dream. All creation is Qi condensed—its aggregation forms physical bodies, its smooth flow sustains life. What we call "nourishing life" is simply aligning with Qi's natural movement. Those who over-cultivate ironically damage Qi to death. Fortune and calamity both stem from reckless activity—among four possible outcomes of action, only one brings auspicious results. Thus Dao-realized individuals value stillness over movement, for stillness brings stability, stability enables endurance, endurance facilitates return to the origin, ultimately awakening to the "One" that transcends life-death.

True stillness isn't counting breaths or rigidly seeking emptiness through sitting. How could stubborn pursuit of vacuity possibly transcend form-energy to observe heaven-earth? In reality, Yang qi often wanes while Yin qi prevails—Yin routinely suppresses Yang, making success difficult and failure easy, as sunny days are few compared to cloudy ones. This "three-life six-death" proportion stands as proof. Originally it shouldn't be so—human actions create this imbalance. Heaven-earth's Qi constantly interacts with ours—how could life-nourishers not act with caution?

The "Dao Gives Life" chapter states: Dao generates all things, De (Virtue) nurtures them, matter gives them form, and circumstances enable their development. Thus all things honor Dao and cherish De. This reverence isn't imposed externally—it's nature's own way. Dao oversees birth, nourishment, growth, cultivation, formation, maturation, protection, and shelter—producing all yet possessing nothing, acting yet claiming no merit, guiding yet never controlling. This is the profoundest "Mysterious De."

This scripture expounds on the essential nature of Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue/Power) and their manifestations throughout heaven and earth.

That which is formless yet most revered, capable of generating all things, is the Dao; that which is nameless yet most precious, able to nurture all beings, is De. The myriad things of this world appear in diverse forms, great and small intermingled, constantly transforming through the ages in cycles of growth and decline—all these are manifestations of Dao and De's operation. Though omnipresent, they leave no trace—this is the supreme truth.

The Dao gives birth to all things, De nourishes them, yet neither acts with deliberate intent. The true mystery lies in their traceless functioning. Rather than clinging to distinctions between noble and common, one should transcend such dualities, seeing tiles and gold as equal.

Chapter Fifty-Two reveals: All things under heaven have their origin, like a mother. Recognizing this origin allows understanding of all things; understanding all things while returning to the origin ensures lifelong security. Closing the gates of sensory desire prevents exhaustion; indulging them leads to distress. Perceiving the subtle is called wisdom; maintaining softness is called strength. Using wisdom's light to illuminate one's inner being invites no calamity—this is following the constant Dao.

Before heaven and earth formed, prior to the differentiation of Yin-Yang, that primal state of original unity is called "One Origin." It is both father and mother, the source of all creation. Comprehending this principle maintains spiritual purity, with clarity both internal and external, transparent as the bright sky at noon. Without forced action, one naturally unites with the Dao. Understanding the interplay of hidden and manifest, soft and strong, application and withdrawal, transformation and constancy, one attains the perfection of the Yellow Emperor ascending at Dinghu or the sage rulers Yao and Shun governing the world. This is the fundamental method of cultivation.

Chapter Fifty-Three warns: Were I to steadfastly know and practice the Great Dao, my greatest fear would be straying from its path. The Great Dao is inherently level, yet people prefer shortcuts. When courts become corrupt, fields lie fallow, and granaries stand empty, while officials wear embroidered robes, gird swords, gorge on delicacies, and hoard wealth—these are the ways of bandit chiefs, utterly contrary to the true Dao.

This scripture contrasts two approaches to life, revealing the Daoist core principle of "guarding the root and seeking authenticity." The first half critiques common misguided practices: clinging to trivial matters without discernment, ostensibly pursuing the right path while actually going astray, preoccupied with managing superficial details while losing sight of fundamentals. It's like someone unknowingly stealing their family's most precious treasure yet boasting about their ability to build bridges across seas—such apparent competence proves ultimately futile, like spring blossoms that may be beautiful but bear no fruit.

The latter half employs the metaphor of "what is well planted cannot be uprooted" to illustrate true cultivation must take root in fundamentals. Things skillfully established won't easily collapse; things properly embraced won't slip away. Beginning with personal cultivation, one's De (Virtue/Power) grows increasingly genuine. Extended to family, De becomes abundant; expanded to community, it endures; implemented in governance, it becomes plentiful; universalized to the world, it becomes vast. Understanding worldly affairs requires this progression from self to cosmos—this is the method of comprehending universal principles.

The text then uses the analogy "one whose embrace of De is profound resembles a newborn infant" to describe the state of those with deep virtue: pure as an infant, they remain unharmed by poisonous insects, untouched by fierce beasts, and unassailed by birds of prey. Though physically tender, their grip is firm; though ignorant of sexual matters, they exhibit natural vitality—this demonstrates abundant Jing (essence). Crying all day without hoarseness shows perfect harmony. Understanding harmony is called "constancy"; comprehending constancy is called "illumination." Excessive pursuit of growth invites misfortune, while forcibly driving Qi (vital energy) with cunning constitutes coercion. When things become excessively strong, they age prematurely—this contradicts the Dao, and what contradicts Dao soon perishes.

(Note: The character "䘒" here means "erect," referring to male genital arousal; "祥" in this context denotes an omen of misfortune—a specialized usage in classical Chinese.)

This scripture primarily discusses the methods of harmonizing Yin-Yang and nurturing the Yang Shen (阳神, luminous spirit) in Daoist cultivation, as well as the profound state of "those who know don't speak" (知者不言).

Regarding cultivation: The five lines represent pure Yang Qi (阳气, vital energy). When the six periods (symbolizing Yin energy) emerge, one must maintain the independent operation of Qian Yuan (乾元, the primal Yang source), remaining formless like an infant to avoid harm. The key lies in deeply storing Jing (精, essence) and maintaining equilibrium, allowing vital energies to harmonize naturally. The principle of longevity resides in mastering the "fire timing" (火候, the regulation of Yin-Yang during practice) without forceful intervention. Yang De (阳德, Yang virtue/power) corresponds to the five lines of the Qian hexagram—though Yin exists, one must keep Yang robust. Thus, practitioners become like chubby infants with complete vital essence, unharmed by external influences.

The text further explains numerical principles in cultivation: From "Heaven generates Water" (天一生水) to "Five generates Earth" (五生土), this represents Yang accumulation, while the number six belongs to Earth and forms Yin. Viewed holistically, six is a Yin number, yet when analyzed separately, it contains Yang. Practitioners must avoid Yin interference (as seen in the Gou hexagram with one Yin below or the Li hexagram with two Yins centered), preserving pure Yang's solitary function to attain the state of "self-illuminating divine light" (神光自照)—a luminous awareness perceiving all things, from the finest hair to the vastness beyond heaven and earth.

The "knowers don't speak" section clarifies: True knowers of the Dao don't engage in idle talk, while idle speakers lack genuine knowledge. One must shut sensory desires (塞兑闭门, block openings and close gates), blunt sharp edges (挫锐, subdue锋芒), resolve disturbances (解纷, untangle knots), and blend with worldly radiance (和光同尘, harmonize light and merge with dust) to reach the state of "mysterious unity" (玄同)—transcending distinctions between closeness/distance, benefit/harm, and nobility/meanness. The text cites examples: Master Ziqi of Nan Guo leaning silently on his armrest, Yan Hui's great wisdom appearing foolish, and Mahakasyapa's enlightenment through a smile—all illustrating how true awakenings surpass worldly discrimination. These sages withdraw their divine light (inner illumination), remaining sober while others revel, ultimately attaining freedom to ride divine dragons (metaphor for Daoist liberation).

The governance section emphasizes "ruling the state with rectitude" (以正治国)—administering through the tranquil Dao of Wuwei (无为, non-action), rejecting cunning schemes and artificial wisdom.

Governing a state requires following the Dao (the Way), waging war demands strategic ingenuity, yet attaining harmony under heaven relies on Wuwei (non-action). Why is this so? Observe reality and you'll understand: the more prohibitions a state imposes, the poorer its people become; the more weapons among the populace, the greater the chaos; the more cunning tricks people devise, the stranger phenomena emerge; the more elaborate the laws, the more thieves multiply. Thus the sage declares: When I refrain from forced action, people transform naturally; when I maintain stillness, people rectify themselves; when I avoid disturbing them, they prosper of their own accord; when I harbor no desires, they return to simplicity.

Just as simply folding one's hands can civilize the people—this is the proper Dao of governance. Displaying shields and axes (ancient weapons) to pacify the Miao tribes—this exemplifies military ingenuity. The key to universal peace lies in humility, while selfishness breeds disorder. Since ancient times, rulers and subjects have shared this truth—excess desires create conflict, while tranquil minds naturally embody Wuwei (non-action). When the Dao is lost, punishments arise; when ingenuity is abused, deception flourishes. Who can transcend this cycle? Like standing beyond heaven and earth, observing lunar transformations with perfect clarity.

(Chapter on Dull Governance) Lenient governance nurtures honest folk; harsh policies produce cunning citizens. Fortune and misfortune intertwine—who discerns their patterns? Righteousness becomes wickedness, goodness turns to evil—the people's confusion runs deep. Therefore the sage is square yet never cuts, incorruptible yet not severe, straightforward yet unrestrained, luminous yet never glaring.

Customs range from rustic to decadent, edicts from tolerant to strict. Fortune and misfortune don't emerge from void—human hearts remain ultimately unfathomable. Worldly affairs shift like dreams, yet those who attain the Dao grasp the primal Qi (vital energy), storing "being" within "nothingness" like hibernating insects. This mysterious function never fades—seeing through illusory appearances reveals we create our own fortunes and misfortunes. Just as bodily discomfort gives warning signs, we must carefully observe human affairs, recognize heavenly Dao's perfect sincerity, and remain vigilant when desires first stir.

(Chapter on Governing People and Serving Heaven) In ruling people and serving heaven, nothing surpasses "restraint" (frugality). Understanding restraint means early return to the Dao—early return accumulates profound De (Virtue/Power). Profound De makes one invincible; invincibility leads to unfathomable depth, thus preserving the state. Grasping governance's foundation ensures lasting stability. This is the great Dao of deep roots and enduring vision—the path of long life and perpetual clarity.

Governing the self and governing others follow the same principles. Withdrawing the mind inward for self-preservation aligns with the laws of heaven; extending outward manifests as methods for human affairs. Maintaining inner fullness while appearing outwardly tranquil, without excessive expenditure of one's energy—this embodies the wisdom of "restraint" (frugality and conservation). Through this, one can return to original nature and accumulate De (Virtue). Though seemingly practicing Wuwei (non-action), one may reach the state of "limitlessness" (the ultimate condition of the Dao).

Thus, those who govern a nation with benevolent rule do so as naturally as a mother nurturing her child. Having attained the root of the Dao, there is no need to deliberately seek external validation. Xingming (the essence of life) is like the root of a plant, requiring continuous nourishment and cultivation. Let the two energies of Yin-Yang intertwine like silk threads, transforming and nurturing all things in unfathomable ways. Only then can one perceive the ultimate principles of heaven and earth's operation and attain a state of carefree wandering.

The Penglai immortal realm does not lie at the center of the sea; true cultivation lies in grasping the pivotal moments of movement and stillness. The feminine (Yin energy) should not be disturbed by wind during the Yin hours (3–5 AM), just as an oyster nurturing a pearl requires quiet rest under moonlight. Though the goal of Daoist cultivation is the same, the methods of entry vary. What is discussed here is the need to examine the subtle mechanisms of movement and stillness, understand the principles of Yin-Yang interaction, and maintain stillness while awaiting natural transformation. This is the essential method for accumulating cultivation merits and completing the three thousand virtuous deeds.

Governing a great nation is like cooking small fish—the heat must be precisely balanced. When the Dao is used to govern the world, even ghosts and spirits will not cause mischief. It is not that ghosts and spirits lose their power, but that they do not harm humans; nor is it that divine beings cease to manifest, but that sages coexist harmoniously with all things. When neither side harms the other, their De (Virtue) can intermingle.

"Cooking small fish" speaks of balancing water and fire to harmonize Yin-Yang; "ghosts losing their power" refers to employing soft Yin force while concealing Yang strength; "divine beings not harming humans" means that Yang force, though used, does not reveal its sharpness. Sages, too, do not harm all things—they maintain cosmic harmony through adjustment and support. Know that pure Yang cannot exist alone, nor can pure Yin sustain growth; the generation of all things requires the union of Yin and Yang. Excessive rigidity leads to breakage; the way of endurance lies in inner softness and outer firmness. By emulating the operations of heaven and earth, humans attain spiritual clarity. Adjusting all things to harmony, heaven and earth naturally become clear. Returning to the "One" (the origin of the Dao), one can embrace all things. Beneath an outwardly withered appearance lies inner strength and radiance, enduring without end, ultimately returning to the Supreme Clarity (the highest heavenly realm).

A great nation should position itself humbly like the lower reaches of a river, becoming the convergence point of the world. Just as the feminine often overcomes the masculine through stillness, victory comes through humility. Thus, when a great nation treats smaller nations with humility, it wins their allegiance.

These passages from The True Scripture of Dao and De with Chapter Explanations and Verses discuss the wisdom of governing a state and cultivating the Dao:

A small state that humbly approaches a large one can win its respect. When a great power lowers its stance, it seeks to embrace more people; when a small state remains modest, it aims to serve others better. Both sides gain what they need, so the mightier one should maintain greater humility. A large state treats smaller ones with benevolent virtue (De), while small states serve great powers with wisdom. The benevolent follow the Dao of heaven to benefit all beings, while the wise revere heaven's way to preserve themselves. Universal beneficence wins the hearts of all under heaven, while self-preservation ensures a nation's stability—whether large or small, harmony is achieved through humility. Like rivers flowing ceaselessly while the ocean remains calm though it contains all streams, balance naturally emerges where yin and yang intertwine.

The Dao is the most profound mystery of all things. To the virtuous, it is a treasure; to the unvirtuous, it remains a refuge. Noble words earn respect, and good deeds transform others. Even if the Son of Heaven appoints the Three Dukes (Grand Preceptor, Grand Mentor, and Grand Guardian) to the highest positions, or parades with jade discs and chariots, none compare to sitting quietly to contemplate the great Dao. The ancients valued the Dao precisely because by not seeking gain, one attains; by not avoiding faults, one is liberated. Though formless, the Dao embraces all things. Recognizing its worth makes it a treasure; relying on it unknowingly makes it protection. Good and evil, beauty and ugliness, nobility and baseness exist only in relation—why cling to distinctions? Rather than appointing sages with official titles, turn inward: in a single thought, one may awaken to the gate of all wonders. The Dao cannot be spoken of, nor should it be grasped. Even if the Three Dukes sit discoursing on it, they pale before silently observing the moon in the heavens—the primal state before distinctions of good and evil arise.

The wisdom of non-action (Wuwei) lies in this: act through non-action, handle affairs through non-interference, savor through flavorlessness. The great arises from the small; abundance begins with scarcity. Resolve resentment through virtue. Tackle difficulties by starting with what is easy; accomplish great deeds by beginning with the subtle. All under heaven's hard tasks must commence with simplicity; great undertakings accumulate from details. Thus, the sage never craves grand achievements yet attains greatness.

This passage expounds the wisdom of governance and self-cultivation. By not deliberately pursuing "greatness," one can achieve true greatness. Those who make promises lightly often break them, and those who view tasks as overly simple will encounter more difficulties. Therefore, sages always begin with the difficult aspects, ultimately facing no real obstacles.

The true state of being is: having intention without fixation, having form without attachment, allowing everything to follow its natural course, free from deliberate calculations of virtue (De). To tackle difficult problems, start with the easy aspects; to accomplish great deeds, begin with small steps. The key lies in grasping the essentials and reducing attachments. Just as four galloping horses cannot retrieve spoken words, one must be especially cautious when making promises.

All things develop according to their patterns: where the sun rises, shadows appear; where the tongue exists, taste arises. Greatness and smallness, difficulty and ease, all exist in relation to one another. The movements of heaven and earth are ever-changing—how could there be absolutely stable days? When one reaches the state of "forgetting the self," why would they still calculate gains and losses?

Stability is easier to maintain; before events occur, they are easier to plan for. Fragility is easier to resolve; subtlety is easier to disperse. Address matters before they arise, and govern chaos before it forms. A towering tree grows from a tender sprout; a nine-story terrace is built from piled earth; a thousand-mile journey begins with a single step.

Forcing things leads to failure; clinging leads to loss. Sages do not force, so they do not fail; they do not cling, so they do not lose. People often fail when they are close to success. If one remains as cautious at the end as at the beginning, failure can be avoided. The pursuits of sages differ from ordinary people: they do not crave what others desire, do not value rare objects, study what others neglect, correct the faults of the masses, and follow the natural tendencies of all things without interference.

Only by perceiving the early signs of things can one accomplish great deeds; only by detecting subtle changes can one eliminate disasters. Gains and losses can be discerned before their signs appear, but the intellect cannot fully grasp the subtleties of transformation. Therefore, constant caution and discernment are necessary to align with the natural order (Dao).

In ancient times, those skilled in practicing the Dao (Way) did not teach the people cleverness or cunning but guided them to preserve their simplicity. When the people are difficult to govern, it is because they possess too much cleverness. Governing with cleverness brings calamity to the state; governing without it brings blessings. Understanding this distinction means grasping the principle, and mastering this principle is called "profound virtue" (Xuande, or "mysterious De"). Profound virtue is unfathomably deep, contrary to worldly ways, yet ultimately leads to the greatest harmony.

This passage expounds the Daoist wisdom of humility, Wuwei (non-action), and the "Three Treasures."

The first section reveals that excessive cunning ultimately harms both self and others, whereas true wisdom lies in returning to simplicity. Just as the Qin Dynasty's attempts to deceive the people with clever stratagems backfired when the masses saw through them, a true ruler should emulate Emperor Wen of Han who understood the wisdom of "genuine simplicity."

The second section employs the metaphor of rivers and seas to illustrate why the ocean becomes king of all waterways—by excelling at maintaining the lowest position. Similarly, the sage who wishes to lead must speak with humility; to guide from the front, they must place personal interests last. Thus the people feel no burden, and the world naturally elevates them. Because they contend with none, none in the world can contend with them. Like the sea that gathers all waters though positioned lowest, or the sage who attracts universal support through humility, this paradoxical phenomenon reveals the profound mystery of the Dao.

The third section presents the "Three Treasures" of the Dao: first compassion, second frugality, and third daring not to take precedence. Through compassion one gains courage, through frugality one attains abundance, through yielding one becomes leader of all things. To abandon compassion for bravery, discard frugality for expansion, or reject yielding to compete for first place leads to ruin. With compassion in battle comes victory, in defense comes security—when heaven wishes to save someone, it protects them through compassion.

These principles collectively demonstrate how seemingly weak, humble, and non-contending qualities contain the greatest power. Like the ocean that accommodates all rivers from the lowest position, or the Milky Way suspended high yet still allowing reverse currents, the Dao's operations often contradict conventional understanding.

The Dao (the Way), though vast and formless as the cosmic origin, appears diminished when confined by rigid rules. Only by upholding the "Three Treasures" (compassion, frugality, and not presuming to lead the world) can one govern effectively. Nourish the people with kindness, enrich them through moderation, and maintain peace by avoiding contention. Stability ensures enduring development; abundant resources foster mutual aid, while courage must be directed toward righteous causes.

Abandoning these fundamental principles in pursuit of alternatives invites calamity. The Way of Heaven shows no favoritism, yet it supports those who act virtuously. Ah! These Three Treasures are innate to all—the true test lies in practice: Without compassion, how can one nurture vital Qi (energy)? Without frugality, how to accumulate Jing (essence)? Through contention, how preserve the Shen (spirit)? Only by guarding the spirit within, harmonizing essence and energy—neither indulging desires nor forcing suppression—can one authentically realize the true self.

The adept cultivator does not flaunt prowess; the skilled warrior remains unprovoked; the true victor avoids contention; the wise leader humbly serves. This embodies the De (Virtue) of non-contention and the power of employing others, aligning with Heaven’s timeless principles. By refraining from aggression, the scholar preserves wholeness; by conquering anger, the soldier maintains clarity; by transcending rivalry, success becomes complete; through humility, one reaps blessings. To attain the ancient ideal of union with celestial Virtue—sustaining inner equilibrium—is no simple feat. Yet when Yin and Yang harmonize like fire and water in balance, or the dragon and tiger submit (Neidan terms for energy integration), humanity and Heaven unite as the Golden Elixir (ultimate attainment).

As military strategy teaches: "Prefer defense to offense; retreat a foot rather than advance an inch." This is deploying formations without visible arrangement, overcoming opponents without confrontation, achieving victory without weapons. No disaster exceeds underestimating the foe—such negligence risks losing one’s foundation. Thus, when armies clash, victory favors the side holding compassion.

True mastery lies in responsive non-aggression, advancing by yielding to guard the root. "No formation" reflects unshaken intent; "no confrontation" means prevailing by adapting. Those who rely on force forfeit compassion’s power—only the merciful prevail. Ah! Among the eighty-one chapters of the Daode Jing, three address warfare, revealing how martial mysteries mirror longevity’s path: All existence shares one origin; triumph and defeat distill to Yin-Yang equilibrium.

My teaching is plain, yet people chase complexity. Those who know the Dao don’t flaunt it; showmen lack true understanding. Sages wear coarse cloth yet harbor jade-like virtue within. Ah! The profoundest truth is often the simplest—how lamentable that seekers stray outward! Recognizing all things as kin, one discovers the rarest treasure lies within the heart.

The truth I speak is actually easy to comprehend and simple to practice, yet people in the world find it difficult to truly understand, and even harder to put into action. This is because my teachings have fundamental principles, and my actions follow core guidelines. Precisely because people don't grasp these foundations, they fail to understand me. Those who truly comprehend me are few—and this is precisely what makes my teachings valuable. Therefore, the sage appears outwardly plain (wearing coarse cloth) yet inwardly holds wisdom as precious as jade.

What is called "easy to know and easy to practice" is the essence of the Dao. Because it is the Dao, it possesses fundamental principles and core guidelines. Just as jade is both precious and can serve as treasure. The myriad phenomena of the world, in their complexity, are all manifestations of the Dao—what thing can exist apart from it? Every person inherently carries this inner jade, whose subtlety lies in being beyond words, often unnoticed even by oneself.

Chapter 71 speaks of the wisdom of "knowing and not knowing." To know that one does not know is supreme wisdom; to not know yet think one knows is a flaw. The reason sages are free from this flaw is because they regard such "pretending to know what one doesn't" as a true defect. Recognizing the harm of "forcing knowledge where there is none" allows one to avoid this harm. Those born understanding this principle are called sages—how could they have such flaws? Ordinary people often fall into this error, while sages maintain what appears as simple-mindedness, embodying great wisdom that seems like folly. As Confucians say, "having as if not having, fullness as if emptiness," or as Buddhists warn against claiming realization where none exists. In truth, the fundamental principles of Confucianism, Buddhism and Daoism interconnect—why insist on their differences?

Chapter 72 states: When the people no longer fear authority, greater chaos will arise. Do not constrain the people's living space, nor exploit their means of sustenance. Only by not oppressing the people will they not resent their rulers. Therefore, the sage has self-knowledge but does not display it, understands self-worth but does not exalt himself. Thus we must discard erroneous methods and adopt correct principles.

When rulers are benevolent, the people's love arises without fear. Love grounded in non-fear constitutes true authority. Like heaven encompassing all things, let the people dwell in peace; like earth nurturing life, let them thrive in contentment. When superiors and subordinates do not resent each other, mutual resonance occurs. To know oneself without ostentation, to value oneself without arrogance—this is the ability to conceal brilliance and the virtue of humility. Discard what doesn't accord with the Dao, adopt only what aligns with its principles. Whether governing people or cultivating oneself, this truth applies. Cultivate robust yang qi within while outwardly following nature's course, and one's mind will expand while body finds peace. Those who truly understand this principle and practice it will naturally enjoy health and longevity.

This scripture expounds profound truths concerning life and death, the Dao of Heaven (Tiandao), and the Dao of humanity (Rendao).

The first section states that excessive boldness and rigidity often invite fatal consequences, while knowing when to yield preserves one's life. Both approaches have their merits and flaws, yet the Dao of Heaven follows its own immutable patterns. Even sages find it difficult to fully comprehend the mysteries of the celestial Dao. The Dao of Heaven is characterized by: prevailing without contention, responding without words, arriving without summons, appearing open yet skillfully arranged. Like a vast, formless net, it seems sparse yet lets nothing slip through.

The second section reveals that indulging desires leads toward death, while maintaining mental clarity embodies the principle of survival. The alternation of cold and heat follows natural law; likewise, wise contemplation should align with this cosmic rhythm rather than clinging to rigid views. The Great Dao (Da Dao) embraces all things without constraint—even the smallest particle cannot escape its scope.

The third section addresses rulers who intimidate people with the threat of death. When people no longer fear death, what purpose does such intimidation serve? The true execution of life and death belongs to the Dao of Heaven. Those who presume to kill in Heaven's stead are like unskilled laborers replacing master carpenters—they inevitably injure themselves. Harming others ultimately rebounds upon the perpetrator, with karmic consequences extending to their descendants.

The final section examines the roots of people's suffering. Famine stems from excessive taxation; unruliness arises from excessive interference; contempt for death springs from obsessive pleasure-seeking. Those truly versed in the art of living do not cling excessively to life itself—this surpasses deliberate longevity-seeking. Heavy taxation empties people's bellies; political machinations deprive them of peace; insatiable greed ultimately destroys the greedy. Only through serene non-action (Wuwei) can the proper path be maintained.

These teachings embody the Daoist core principles of aligning with nature and embracing tranquil non-action, critiquing rulers' excessive governance while advocating for people's natural way of life.

These chapters of the "Verse Commentary on the True Scripture of Dao and De" elucidate the principle of softness overcoming hardness and the balancing laws of heavenly Dao.

Regarding the way of life, Laozi employs vivid analogies: the living human body remains supple but turns rigid after death; plants are tender when growing yet become brittle when withered. Thus hardness belongs to the state of death, while softness embodies vitality. Just as overly rigid trees become vulnerable to felling, and excessively aggressive armies often fail to triumph. Gentle Qi nourishes life, whereas harsh Qi brings destruction. Within the transformations of Yin-Yang, seemingly weak appearances often conceal formidable strength—this paradoxical conversion reveals the profound mystery of creation.

The operation of heavenly Dao resembles drawing a bow: when the arrow points too high, lower it; when too low, raise it; reduce excess force and supplement insufficiency. Yet human society often acts contrary—depriving the deficient to serve the abundant. Only those who attain Dao understand using surplus to nourish the world. Sages accomplish deeds without claiming merit, and precisely because they refrain from flaunting wisdom, they embody true sagely virtue.

Nothing under heaven is softer than water, yet dripping water pierces stone—nothing alters this nature of water. Though all know the principle that softness overcomes hardness, few truly practice it. Therefore the sage declares: only those who endure a nation's humiliation deserve to be its rulers. Here water's nature illustrates governance—demonstrating that tolerance and pliability constitute genuine strength.

These chapters of the Daode Jing (Classic of the Way and Virtue) expound profound principles for governing a state and cultivating the self.

The passage about "bearing the nation's misfortunes" conveys that a true ruler must be capable of embracing the calamities of the country. Though seemingly paradoxical, this contains deep truth: Virtue (De) is most valuable when sustained over time, and softness can ultimately overcome hardness. Just as the vastness of the ocean comes from its position as the lowest point that receives all rivers, everyone understands water's softness overcoming hardness, yet few can persistently embody it. By continually accumulating good Virtue, one eventually aligns with the Dao of Heaven and Earth.

Chapter 79 discusses the resolution of resentment. Forcing reconciliation of deep grudges inevitably leaves remnants—this is not the proper method. Thus, the sage is like one who holds a debt contract yet does not press for repayment. Those with Virtue uphold the spirit of agreement, while the virtueless only cling to disputes. The Way of Heaven shows no favoritism, yet it always supports the good. Neither should resentment be created nor forcibly reconciled, as this leads to a vicious cycle. True Virtue does not calculate repayment.

Chapter 80 depicts an ideal state of small communities with few people: even if advanced tools exist, they remain unused; the people value life and have no desire to travel far. Though they possess chariots, boats, and weapons, these find no use, as they return to the simplicity of knotting cords to record events. Content with their food and clothing, they live peacefully and joyfully. Neighboring states are close enough to hear each other's roosters and dogs, yet the people grow old and die without visiting one another. This seemingly impractical state actually best accords with the natural Dao, where all things find their proper place. What the sage yearns for is precisely this return to pristine simplicity.

The final chapter observes: True words are not ornate; ornate words are not true. The good are not artful debaters; artful debaters are not good. Those who truly understand do not flaunt knowledge; those who flaunt knowledge do not truly understand. The sage does not hoard wealth—the more they give to others, the richer they become. Such is the Way of Heaven: it benefits all without harming. Such too is the way of the sage: they give without contention.

Those who know little do not flaunt their knowledge, while those who boast of broad learning do not truly understand. The sage (one who attains the Dao) does not deliberately accumulate possessions—the more they assist others, the more abundant they become; the more they give to others, the richer they grow. The way of heaven nourishes all things without harming them, while the sage's principle is to act without contention.

Eloquent words pale before simple sincerity; those skilled in argument often provoke disputes, while the truly virtuous harbor no malice in their hearts. By focusing on a single fundamental truth, one grasps the essence; pursuing too much leads only to superficiality. The sage does not hoard external possessions but maintains inner emptiness to master all things. Assisting others enriches oneself—this is the profound mystery of following creation's flow; giving to others brings personal abundance, like an inexhaustible spring.

The benefits of heaven's way never cause harm, and the sage's actions never provoke contention. Whether in the way of heaven or humanity, the essence remains unified. All things are perfectly arranged, and every need is fulfilled. How magnificent is the great Dao! It permeates all things from beginning to end. Yet remember: words cannot fully express the Dao, nor is the Dao equivalent to language. How can those who rely on debate and erudition ever truly comprehend it?

The most profound truths cannot be transmitted through words. Humanity follows the patterns of heaven and earth, heaven and earth follow the Dao, but what does the Dao follow? It follows ziran (spontaneity)—the natural state of things as they truly are (here "ziran" refers to the inherent nature of existence, not the modern concept of "nature").

This passage elucidates the core teachings of the Daode Jing: true wisdom lies in returning to simplicity and authenticity, acting without forced pursuit or contention, and aligning with the natural order. Through "benefiting others" one achieves "self-benefit," finding true abundance in giving. It simultaneously reveals the limitations of language, emphasizing that comprehending the Dao requires transcending the surface of words.