《道德真經集義(一)》Vol. 2

Chapter 8 speaks of the highest form of goodness being like water. Water excels at nourishing all things without contending with them, willingly settling in low places that people disdain—this nature comes closest to the essence of the Dao (the Way).

Several Daoist scholars have interpreted this principle from different perspectives:

Lin Xiyi views this chapter as using water to symbolize a state of non-attachment. Water nourishes all things yet never claims merit, always flowing downward without shunning the damp places people avoid—such qualities nearly embody the Dao.

Wu Cheng points out that water's goodness manifests in its ability to irrigate, cleanse, and benefit all things while willingly occupying humble, turbid places. The highest goodness of Dao cultivators should be the same.

Lü Dongbin offers an interpretation from the cultivation perspective: Water can be square or round, solid or fluid, completely adapting to its environment. Practitioners should emulate water's nature by balancing firmness and flexibility, responding to circumstances with ease. "One" represents the pivot of the Dao (Dao shu). During Golden Elixir (Jindan) cultivation, the saliva in one's mouth (referred to as golden liquor and jade nectar) acts like spiritual water nourishing the five organs, circulating through the heavens via swallowing techniques. The Yellow Court Scripture (Huangting Jing) states that regularly swallowing this spiritual fluid can avert calamity, for within Qi (vital energy) resides true water, and within water resides true Qi—the oral cavity (known as the Hua Pool) serves as a crucial source in cultivation.

The chapter concludes with seven virtues: dwell like water choosing low places; maintain a heart as still as deep pools; treat others with benevolence; speak with sincerity; govern with skillful administration; handle affairs by utilizing one's strengths; and act with impeccable timing. He Xinshan summarizes that this passage not only praises water's virtues but more importantly teaches people to embody supreme goodness like water, for water's nature reflects the Dao itself.

Water flows across the earth, softening the land through its nourishment. Never stubbornly clinging to one place, human kindness should mirror the natural stillness of deep pool waters. People don't use flowing water as a mirror, but rather still water's surface to reflect their true image - for only thus can original nature be clearly seen. So too should the benevolent heart maintain its fundamental authenticity.

Human virtue should be as selfless as water nurturing all things. Like naturally drawing water from one vessel to fill another, never forcing others to satisfy selfish desires. One's integrity should be as reliable as ocean tides - keeping promises without fail. Governing a state requires water-leveler precision - impartial without personal bias. Adaptability should resemble water's capacity to be square or round, adjusting to circumstances. Action's timing must follow water's rhythm - flowing or pausing in accordance with natural law.

Commentator Li explains: Skillfully choosing dwelling places (referring to water's nature) nourishes all things; profound serenity embraces all existence; benevolent giving fosters growth; truthful speech responds to all needs; enlightened governance transforms society; capable action accomplishes tasks; timely movement harmonizes with creation. Precisely because water contends with nothing, it incurs no resentment.

Commentator Lin observes: These seven virtues describe the De (Virtue/Power) of Dao-realized individuals. Though possessing these qualities, they never presume superiority, thus remaining contention-free and resentment-proof. This illustrates the principle: "When you contend with none, none under heaven can contend with you." Many interpreters mistakenly reduce these seven virtues to mere water characteristics - such forced interpretations deviate from Laozi's original intent.

Commentator He adds: Combining these virtues while maintaining non-contention represents supreme goodness. Who could resent such perfection? Unvirtuous behavior naturally invites resentment; even virtuous actions accompanied by contention still provoke discord. Being both virtuous and non-contentious - what room remains for resentment? This water-like nature comes closest to the Dao itself.

Chapter Nine teaches: Overfilling a vessel leads to spillage - better to stop in moderation. Over-honing a blade makes it brittle - extreme sharpness cannot endure. This warns practitioners to embrace moderation and leave margin - excessive perfectionism yields opposite results.

This passage expounds the Daoist wisdom of "knowing when to stop avoids peril." Master Lin explains that the chapter's essence lies in recognizing that advancement is inferior to timely withdrawal, using the metaphor of "holding a full vessel and whetting a sharp edge": a container filled to the brim must overflow, and maintaining it without spillage proves difficult—it's easier to preserve by not filling it completely. "To desist" (已) means avoiding overfilling. "To whet" (揣) means polishing, and "sharp" (锐) refers to keenness—when tools are honed to extreme sharpness, none escape breaking; maintaining moderate sharpness ensures longevity.

Master Wu elaborates further: "Holding" (持) means carrying, while "to desist" (已) means to cease. The Dao's essential teaching lies in avoiding excess, for what overflows easily spills. Just as a blade shouldn't be overly sharp—as extreme keenness makes it prone to breakage—so too can nothing maintain perfect fullness when pushed to its limits.

Master Liu employs everyday analogies: water brimming must overflow, warning against complacency; an over-sharpened blade dulls quickly, teaching us to know when enough is enough. Like a house overflowing with gold and jade that none can safeguard, or pride during wealth that invites misfortune. True alignment with the Dao (天之道) means withdrawing after achieving merit—this constitutes nature's way.

Master Lin particularly emphasizes: a hall filled with gold and jade cannot endure, and those in high positions who grow arrogant invite calamity. To preserve one's accomplishments and reputation requires timely retirement. "Achieving merit and fulfilling one's name" means acting within one's capacity—those insatiable by nature will never know contentment.

Master Wu adds: worldly people often can't maintain their amassed treasures precisely because wealth breeds arrogance. Withdrawing after success aligns with cosmic patterns, like the seasons yielding after completing their cycles. Master Li concludes this teaches the rejection of complacency and cultivation of humility. Master Lü cites the Yijing (易经): "Understanding advance, retreat, survival and demise without losing proper measure—only sages attain this." Lu Xisheng ultimately clarifies: trembling while holding a full vessel proves inferior to setting it down early; anxiety in high office pales against timely retirement.

(Note: "Holding fullness and whetting sharpness" refers to the dialectical relationship between maintaining plenitude and honing edges; "the Dao of heaven" denotes natural law; "calamity" (咎) signifies disaster)

This passage discusses two main themes: the first part explores wisdom for navigating worldly affairs, while the second elucidates essential cultivation techniques.

Regarding worldly wisdom, the text mentions the legendary immortal Chisongzi traveling by small boat among the clouds as an example of understanding the principle of "maintaining fullness." Liu's commentary explains: excessive wealth becomes a burden—one must guard against greed; prosperity easily leads to indulgence—one must abandon arrogance; the pinnacle of success is most precarious—one must know when to stop. Laozi's original intent was to teach people how to avoid misfortune, not complete withdrawal from society. Even amidst wealth and fame, one can still cultivate the Dao and attain realization.

Chapter Ten focuses on cultivation methods. "Carrying the hun and po souls while embracing the One" refers to unifying the spiritual and corporeal souls without separation. "Concentrating qi to achieve softness" means focusing one's vital energy to attain a state of infant-like pliability. He's commentary explains: guarding the One means guarding your origin, and in turn your origin will guard you. The scripture states that those with profound virtue resemble newborn infants—though their sinews are weak, their grip is strong. "Concentrating qi" means preserving pure energy, while "achieving softness" means reaching a harmonious, unmoving state—this constitutes the childlike mind maintained by sages.

Lin uses the metaphor of a vehicle carrying cargo to explain the concept of "carrying." Infants, being free from distracting thoughts, achieve remarkable concentration and softness of qi. By emulating an infant's focused qi and pliable state, one can realize "embracing the One." Lü further elaborates: the hun soul (yang) prefers tranquility, while the po soul (yin) is easily disturbed by external influences. The po soul tempts people toward sensory indulgence, superficial pursuits, and lethargic dissipation, depleting one's vital essence (jing) and energy (qi). Therefore, sages use spirit (shen) to command qi and employ physical form to control the po soul, modeling themselves after the earth's stable, substantial nature. Even when the yin po attempts to disturb the mind, they maintain composure. Achieving "undivided embrace of the One" resembles a mirror maintaining clarity—remaining perfectly focused, still, and unchanging, thereby attaining complete spiritual vitality and abundant energy.

This passage elucidates the essential techniques for cultivating Neidan (internal alchemy) and harmonizing body-mind. The so-called "embracing the One" refers to maintaining focused awareness without distraction—when the Shen (spirit) is tranquil, the Qi (vital energy) naturally attunes itself. Those who attain the Dao excel at regulating body and mind through dedicated, sincere practice.

During cultivation, one must maintain a state of empty stillness ("xu xi"), with breath deep and continuous ("breathing through the heels"). Nourish Qi like a spiritual tortoise—slow and profound—and nurture Shen like an infant—pure and free from distractions. An infant's nature embodies pristine simplicity and Wuwei (non-action), precisely the state practitioners seek in "concentrating Qi to achieve pliancy."

The commentator surnamed Li explains "carrying the corporeal soul" (yingpo) as resembling goods transported in a carriage. The po (yin soul) tends toward agitation, restlessness, and rigidity; excessive yin energy disrupts yang. Only through focused unity, gentle Wuwei practice can one subdue the yin-po and clarify spiritual awareness. When the po is pacified, the heart-mind stabilizes naturally, like returning home with a carriage full of treasures.

Regarding "cleansing the mysterious mirror" cultivation: Eliminate mental clutter until the mind becomes a flawless mirror. Master Guan Yinzi (a Daoist figure) held that understanding the emptiness of both mind and phenomena prevents attachment to mystical theories. The commentator surnamed Lü states: externally undisturbed by the po, internally unperturbed by Qi—only by washing away thoughts and severing desires can one reach the state of "mysterious observation" (xuanlan). True xuanlan transcends physical sight, eliminating all delusions to achieve luminous clarity.

Finally, the parallel between governing a nation and self-cultivation: The Yellow Emperor's classics reveal that statecraft mirrors Qi cultivation. Sages analogize the body to a nation—the heart as ruler, Jing (essence) and Qi as citizens. Just as stable citizens bring peace, harmonized vital energies ensure health. When the heart practices Wuwei, Qi naturally flows in harmony.

This passage explores the parallels between self-cultivation and state governance, while elucidating the meaning of "Celestial Gate" (Tianmen) and the profound implications of "being without the feminine."

Regarding self-cultivation, just as governing a nation requires caring for the people to stabilize the country, nurturing one's body and mind demands cherishing one's vital essence (Jing) and energy (Qi). Those truly versed in life cultivation liken the heart to a ruler, blood to ministers, and Qi to the common people. One must unify their innate nature, nourish primordial Qi to permeate all meridians, treasure and regulate it while following natural rhythms. Governing a state and cultivating oneself follow the same principle—both require maintaining inner steadfastness, whereby the Dao's operation naturally becomes clear and unimpeded.

The "Celestial Gate" (Tianmen) carries multiple interpretations in Daoism: Zhuangzi regarded it as the mysterious gateway between form and formlessness; some view it as the natural movement of heaven and earth; others associate it with the "Qian" hexagram in the Book of Changes (Yijing), representing the portal of opening and closing transformations. Concerning the phrase "can you be without the feminine?" (能无雌乎), most versions read "can you be feminine," but the Ni edition argues for "can you be without the feminine." While Laozi advocates overcoming hardness with softness, excessive emphasis on yin to the complete exclusion of yang would resemble a gate that only closes but cannot open—contrary to the essential nature of Tianmen's dynamic interplay. Thus "being without the feminine" truly means harmonizing yin with yang, avoiding complete submersion in passive receptivity.

"Understanding radiates in all directions, yet can you remain without knowledge?" speaks of supreme wisdom's highest state. True enlightenment means penetrating all phenomena while maintaining serene emptiness—appearing unknowing yet embodying great wisdom. Like innate clarity illuminating the four directions, one perceives all things yet returns to simplicity, possessing profound wisdom while appearing humbly vacant. This "knowledge without knowing" constitutes genuine wisdom.

This scripture primarily expounds the core Daoist concepts of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)" and "the utility of emptiness."

Regarding the passage on "apparent foolishness," it conveys that the sage appears simple yet is truly wise—though capable of shining like the sun, moon, and stars, they return to obscurity. They benefit the people naturally in daily life without the people realizing the source. Lin Xiyi (Master Lin) explains that while sages comprehend all things, they conceal their wisdom, regarding "knowing nothing" as the highest state—only thus can they preserve the root of the Dao (the Way). Li Xizhai (Master Li) adds that sages restrain their brilliance and intellect to coexist harmoniously with all beings.

The discussion of "profound virtue (Xuande)" in various commentaries emphasizes its natural and effortless quality: The Dao nurtures all things without claiming possession, acts without boasting merit, and guides without domination—this constitutes the most profound De (Virtue). He Xinshan (Master He) observes that sages emulate heaven and earth, treating creation and non-creation, action and non-action, leadership and non-leadership as equal, thereby achieving ultimate stillness. Wu Cheng (Master Wu) further clarifies that though appearing to act, they remain free of intention—like officials governing people without a dominating mind, embodying truly mysterious virtue. Lin Xiyi concludes that while the Creator sustains all beings, they never claim credit—this is genuine Xuande.

Chapter Eleven employs three metaphors—the wheel, pottery, and house—to illustrate how "being and non-being generate each other": Thirty spokes converge at the hollow hub (gǔ) to make a functional wheel; kneaded clay (shānzhí) forms empty vessels to hold objects; doors and windows carved from walls create inhabitable space. Li Xizhai explains this parallels how all phenomena return to the mind to connect with the divine: just as an empty axle enables rotation, an empty mind adapts effortlessly. The substantial provides utility, while the void enables function.

This scripture employs three everyday metaphors—the wheel, vessel, and house—to illustrate the Daoist dialectic between "being" (you) and "non-being" (wu).

The spokes (straight wooden rods supporting the rim) and hub (central wooden cylinder) of a wheel must contain hollow spaces to rotate; pottery requires emptiness within to hold objects; a dwelling needs doors and windows—void spaces—to be inhabitable. The utility of these tangible objects ("being") relies precisely on their hollow portions ("non-being") to function.

Master Wu explains: Just as the human body requires substantial Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy) to sustain life (demonstrating the function of "being"), the mind must maintain emptiness and stillness to generate vitality (manifesting the role of "non-being"). Master Lin adds that these three metaphors vividly reveal the wondrous function of "non-being"—while physical objects provide form, it is their emptiness that fulfills purpose.

Master Lü further elaborates: Practitioners should use the tangible body ("being") to cultivate the formless Shen (spirit, "non-being"). Like how a wheel hub moves thirty spokes through its small central void—not by its solid substance but through its emptiness—a vessel loses purpose without hollowness, and a house becomes inaccessible without doors and windows. Similarly, our physical forms resemble these tangible objects (wheel, vessel, house), while the Dao and mind correspond to their emptiness. Only this union of substance and void creates complete functionality.

Master He concludes: The physical form ("being") cannot function autonomously—it requires the spirit ("non-being") to animate it. Just as unfired clay vessels quickly crumble, and though pottery is shaped from earth, it must remain hollow to be useful. The essence of Daoist practice lies in cultivating the formless spirit through the tangible body, mastering the interdependent relationship between "being" and "non-being."

This passage primarily discusses how sensory desires affect the human mind and how Daoist practitioners can transcend these disturbances.

Chapter 12 of the Dao De Jing states: The five colors blind the eyes, the five tones deafen the ears, the five flavors dull the palate, racing and hunting madden the mind, and rare treasures hinder virtuous conduct. The commentator Li explains that the previous chapter discussed the function of emptiness - when one maintains emptiness in function, one won't be deluded by sensory pleasures. External phenomena like colors, sounds, and flavors are all dust that clouds the senses, ordinary people become blinded by them, while only those who attain the Dao remain clear-headed. If one refrains from looking at, listening to, speaking of, or doing anything contrary to ritual propriety, then the six sensory thieves can be transformed into six channels of wisdom.

Commentator Lin elaborates specifically: "Eyes being blinded" means vision is confused, "ears being deafened" indicates hearing is disturbed, "palate being dulled" signifies loss of normal taste, "mind being maddened" refers to mental agitation, and "virtuous conduct being hindered" means moral damage. These five conditions all result from pursuing external things while losing one's inherent nature.

Commentator Lü further explains: Looking at colors, listening to music, and tasting flavors all damage one's innate nature. In infancy, one doesn't understand sensory pleasures, but once emotions and desires arise, people chase after dark colors and embroidered finery like blind men who can't see the true "color beyond colors." Those who truly possess "penetrating vision" don't look outward but perceive the singular truth within. The eyes of those who attain the Dao (zhiren) resemble the sun and moon of Taiyi (the supreme deity), capable of inward reflection within emptiness, with spiritual light penetrating darkness to perceive illumination alone - how could they be blinded by the five colors?

Regarding the five tones (the pentatonic scale: gong, shang, jiao, zhi, yu), the decadent music of Zheng and Wei regions makes people indulge in pleasures, lose their true nature, and damage their spiritual hearing. Those who cannot "listen inwardly" are like deaf men who can't hear the true "sound beyond sounds." The ears of sages who truly possess "inward listening" resemble the auditory gate of the Divine Sovereign (a Daoist deity), able during deep meditation to perceive through qi and naturally hear the music of heaven, clear and resonant like the striking of jade against gold.

This passage explains how Daoist practitioners transcend the bondage of sensory desires. When one reaches the highest state of inner cultivation, even the roaring of gales, crashing ocean waves, or thunder splitting mountains become as if unheard—let alone being disturbed by ordinary music.

Regarding taste: The so-called "five flavors" are pungent, salty, bitter, sour, and sweet. Some indulge in extravagance, preparing rare delicacies like qilin or phoenix to cover their tables, drowning their tongues in gluttony while losing the capacity to savor the "flavorless flavor." This "flavorless flavor" does not refer to external tastes, but to the purified state attained through inner cultivation.

Those who attain the Dao understand that the mouth is actually an extension of the Crimson Palace (heart). Thus they nourish their spiritual root (innate nature) with the essences of heaven and earth—the morning dew (hangxie), jade blossoms, golden nectar, and jade syrup. Therefore, the bland and flavorless is truly the food of celestial beings. What they ingest are the inner elixir (Zidan), lang-ointment, and jade-frost—products of alchemical refinement—how could ordinary delicacies compare?

Hunting is originally a normal state activity, each season having its proper time. But if one becomes obsessed day and night, they lose their authentic nature. The perfected person maintains inner serenity, unswayed by sensory temptations or material gains, neither indulging their nature nor harming benevolent virtue (De), preserving the clarity and stillness of the Supreme Unity (Taiyi). Naturally, no wild or dissolute behavior arises.

The pearls and jade prized by worldly people—if sought greedily and excessively—can corrupt virtue with a single thought. Yet the perfected person regards all things as light as cicada wings, sees towering mountains as mere warts, unshackled by desire. Guarded by the Dao, no treasure can hinder their cultivation.

The text quotes Zhuangzi: "The five colors blind the eyes; the five tones deafen the ears; the five flavors ruin the palate; choices and desires unsettle the mind, making one's nature gallop wild." Like the hunting enthusiast who claimed such pleasure made him forget death—this is the eruption of a frenzied mind. Or the man who rushed at dawn to seize gold in the market, captured and saying he saw only gold, not people. These are examples of external things deluding the mind.

The word "cause" (令) in this chapter and Zhuangzi's "make" (使) both describe humans being controlled by external things—valuing externals while neglecting the will, deeply seduced yet gaining superficial things, unwittingly becoming slaves to material objects.

People often fail to understand what governs their actions, leading to mistakes. Here, the character "爽" (shuǎng) means error or deviation, not the sense of pleasure or refreshment. The commentator Chao explains: If one can avoid indulging in sensory pleasures of sight and sound, or giving free rein to carnal desires, then without deliberate pursuit, one naturally attains—this is how to truly ensure no loss occurs.

Thus, those who embody the Dao (the Way) focus on inner cultivation ("nourishing the belly") rather than chasing external sensations ("chasing the eyes"), discarding outward temptations to preserve the inner foundation. Li elaborates: Focusing inward means neither allowing the inner state to dissipate outward nor permitting external distractions to disturb the mind—it is about withdrawing the gaze and returning within. Lin further clarifies: The "belly" symbolizes the internal, while the "eyes" represent the external. Sages devote themselves to inner refinement without chasing external things. Lü interprets this through the Bagua (Eight Trigrams): The Kun (Earth) trigram represents the receptive belly, while the Li (Fire) trigram symbolizes the outward-looking eyes. The belly can contain all things and nourish life; when the body is filled with Dao-Qi (vital energy), the spirit remains whole. But the eyes, chasing after external colors, disrupt the true abode of the heart-mind.

He points out: Indulging desires depletes the spirit (Shen), while embellishing appearances harms the inner self. Concentrating on inner cultivation unifies the spirit, whereas chasing external things scatters the mind. Few can transcend the temptations of sight—but if one forgets visual pleasures, the inner light becomes boundless. Filling the inner self gives the heart-mind its sovereign. Choosing inner cultivation aligns with the great Dao (the Way), while abandoning external temptations frees one from worldly entanglements.

Chapter 13 states: People panic whether receiving favor or suffering disgrace, treating major misfortunes as if they were personal afflictions. Lü explains: Favor and disgrace are the normal fluctuations of life's gains and losses, yet clinging to the body is the true calamity for one's nature. After favor often comes disgrace, and within disgrace lies the seed of future favor. High rank and lavish comforts may bring flattering excitement, but joy in gaining them and sorrow in losing them also bring much humiliation. The body itself has no inherent nobility—what is truly precious is human nature and heavenly mandate (Xingming). Life holds no inherent disaster; the real worry lies in the mind of gain and loss. A lifetime spent enduring heat and cold, entangled in right and wrong, torn between advance and retreat—if one remains obsessed with gains and losses, it is like forcibly imposing misfortune upon one's true nature. Wu adds: "To regard" (贵 guì) here means to overvalue—people place too much weight on misfortune.

People commonly regard wealth as the greatest benefit, yet from another perspective, it may well be the source of calamity. Those who truly understand the Dao (the Way) do not value such things, while those who obsessively pursue them ultimately become enslaved by external objects. The phrase "cannot transcend them" refers to this inability to break free from material attachments, becoming bound by them in the end.

Regarding the principle that "favor and disgrace are equally alarming": receiving favor is actually a lowly state, for one trembles when gaining it and panics when losing it. Master Lü explains that so-called favor is nothing but currying favor with the powerful—bowing and scraping, watching their expressions, waiting for opportunities. Gaining approval through flattery and sycophancy, obeying every word and conforming to their ways—this is what "favor" truly means. Once favored, one constantly fears losing it, inevitably maintaining a servile posture. Thus both favor and disgrace cause alarm, and receiving favor is inherently degrading.

In truth, favor is the very root of disgrace, and good fortune secretly harbors disaster. When favored, one may possess fine carriages, splendid mansions, jade treasures, the highest official rank, and blessings for descendants—all cause for self-satisfaction. But once favor is lost, slander arises; praised in the morning, one may be demoted by evening. Calamity arrives in an instant, leaving one terrified. Therefore favor and disgrace follow each other like form and shadow, both warranting caution. Only sages remain unenslaved by external things, regarding favor as disgrace, distancing themselves from fame and gain to preserve their true nature. Indifferent to praise or blame, life or death, they neither indulge in glory nor grovel in poverty, naturally undisturbed by the gains and losses of favor or disgrace.

Master He adds: The statement "favor is lowly" means reputation invites slander, so fame is lowly; higher office brings greater risk, so official rank is lowly. Receiving favor itself demonstrates baseness—its acquisition implies inevitable loss, without waiting for disgrace to reveal its nature. Master Lin observes this reflects the psychology of worrying over potential gains and losses.

Regarding "valuing great calamity as one's body": our greatest anxieties exist because we have this physical form; without it, what would there be to worry about? Master Lü explains people value this troublesome body because human life depends on the nourishment of heaven, earth and the myriad things. Commoners chase profit, scholars pursue fame—though their goals differ, their attachment to this physical form remains the same.

The statement "without the body there would be no calamity" actually misinterprets Laozi's original meaning. When genuine Dao-realized individuals speak of "the body being the root of calamity," they are not advocating forgetting physical form or abandoning the flesh to fall into a state of empty nothingness. Rather, they point to how people constantly chase external things and cling to selfhood, thereby deviating from the true essence of the Dao.

The state of a Dao-realized person is this: their inner mind is as calm as cooled ashes, their physical form as detached as withered wood. Though occupying honored positions, they feel no glory; suffering humiliation, they experience no pain. They transcend the limitations of the physical body, regarding it as nonexistent; releasing attachments, they view even the mind as void. Thus they cast off illusory delusions and realize true permanence. Through cultivation of "sitting in oblivion" (a profound meditative state), nourishing the spirit-shen with "jade talismans" (Daoist protective ritual implements), and refining the form with "golden fluid" (neidan alchemical terminology for internal elixir cultivation), they ultimately achieve the wondrous unity of form and spirit, merging with the Dao's authentic reality. Naturally, they remain unperturbed by bodily concerns and encounter no great calamities.

Master He's commentary explains: Why is the body considered a major calamity? Because though small in form, it brings great misfortune—thus we must value it rather than disdain it. When one forgets the body, disasters naturally cease. Eyes and ears indulging in sensual pleasures invite transgression; nose and mouth craving fragrances breed resentment—the body is indeed the root of affliction. Heat, cold, pain and itch all bind us to physical form, revealing it as a great calamity. Yet having already received this form, we cannot immediately eliminate it—what use is mere worry? The sage cuts through with one phrase: "Transcend the body, and thereby preserve life."

Understand this: this physical form never truly belonged to me, nor can reputation be retained. My life originates from the natural void, coalescing from primordial qi into bodily form. Thus this body is but a temporary vessel, an external appearance shown to the world. Dao-realized individuals see through physical form, using truth to transcend selfhood, transforming their qi-substance through diligent cultivation of the pure and empty Dao. Thereby they surpass bodily limitations, attaining realms inaccessible to ordinary people.

While the body is indeed calamity's root, having a body necessarily means encountering external things—this is what truly invites misfortune. The Liezi states: the body isn't originally mine, yet having it, I must preserve it; external things aren't mine, yet existing, I must respond. The body is life's sovereign, external things its supporting foundation. Though we preserve the body, we cannot possess it; though relying on external things, we cannot claim them. Those who treat all under heaven as private property—how could they be sages? True sages regard both body and myriad things as communal. Understanding this principle, one forgets the body, and thereby forgets calamity.

This passage elucidates two fundamental principles of Daoist wisdom:

First, those who truly comprehend the Dao (the Way) cherish their physical form and vital essence, never sacrificing their wellbeing in pursuit of worldly power. The ancient sage-kings Shun and Yu exemplified this - though they governed the realm, they remained unburdened by power, thus ruling effectively. In contrast, those who mistake disgrace for honor and calamity for benefit are utterly unfit to govern. As Zhuangzi taught, one should cultivate oneself with the Dao's essence while regarding worldly matters as worthless chaff. Many today recklessly harm their bodies chasing external things, like using the precious Pearl of Marquis Sui to shoot sparrows - a truly lamentable waste.

Secondly, the text describes three intrinsic qualities of the Dao:

1. "Yi" (even) signifies the Dao's flawless smoothness, making it invisible to the eye

2. "Xi" (subtle) denotes the Dao's rarefied silence, rendering it inaudible

3. "Wei" (minute) expresses the Dao's formless subtlety, evading tactile perception

These three qualities are ultimately one, collectively describing the Dao's mysterious ineffability. As Lin Xiyi explains, these terms are fundamentally inseparable, all pointing to the Dao's transcendence of sensory perception. Wu Cheng further clarifies: Yi describes the Dao's tracelessness, Xi its soundlessness, and Wei its formlessness. Precisely because the Dao surpasses sensory apprehension, it ultimately resolves into an undifferentiated unity.

This passage explores how the Dao (the core concept of Daoism, referring to the origin of the cosmos and its operating principles) transcends ordinary sensory perception. The text employs vivid analogies: the Dao is like a color without hue—even if visionaries like Li Zhu and Ziyu strain their eyes, they cannot see it; it resembles a sound without tone—even if keen listeners like Chi Yu and Shi Kuang prick up their ears, they cannot hear it; it appears as a form without shape—even if mighty warriors like Meng Ben, Xia Yu, or the legendary Five Ding exert their strength, they cannot grasp it.

The author notes that when something eludes perception by eyes, ears, or physical form, it is called "Yi" (smooth and formless), "Xi" (sparse and inaudible), or "Wei" (subtle and invisible). Though these three terms differ, they point to the same essential nature of the Dao—just as countless sounds arise from a single wind, and all sensory experiences stem from one unified Qi (vital energy). The Dao cannot be interrogated through conventional means; it must be comprehended holistically as an undifferentiated unity.

The Dao is neither bright nor dim ("neither dazzling nor obscure"), continuous yet indescribable, ultimately returning to a state of "no-thing" (non-material existence). This condition is described as "form without form, image without image," suspended in a liminal space between presence and absence. Scholar Lin explains that no matter from which angle one observes, the Dao remains invisible; Scholar Wu draws a parallel with the Book of Changes' concept of "that which is above form," noting that though the Dao lacks shape or appearance, it eternally endures ("unbroken like an endless cord"), ultimately reverting to its primordial source.

Scholar Lü further emphasizes that while concrete things have boundaries, the Dao existed before heaven and earth took form, permeating all time. It disperses as harmonious Qi (the fundamental energy constituting all things), filling the vast emptiness of the cosmos, shining with the sun and moon yet never glaring, sinking deep beneath the earth yet never darkening. This quality of transcending duality, without beginning or end, embodies the profound mystery of the Dao.

This passage describes the mysterious characteristics of the Dao (the core concept in Daoism referring to the origin of the universe and its operating principles). The Dao is like a treasure hidden among rubble—dim yet not obscure, circulating continuously as an indivisible whole. Like an unbroken rope that cannot be defined by names or observed through forms, it remains complete in its virtue (De) yet never reveals itself, defying all attempts at concrete comparison.

Thus we say: the Dao is neither bright above nor dark below, an unbroken continuum that cannot be named, ultimately returning to the state of non-being. Vast and towering, profound and unfathomable, it eludes all description and comprehension. Within formlessness exists form without shape; within nothingness exists presence without image—if you say it has form, you cannot grasp its contours; if you say it lacks image, it nevertheless manifests. This is what we call "wondrous being" (appearing to exist yet not substantially) and "true non-being" (seeming void yet genuinely present), that hazy, indeterminate state between existence and non-existence.

Facing it, you cannot see its beginning; following it, you cannot discern its end. By holding fast to the ancient Dao that has existed since primordial times, one can govern present phenomena and comprehend the origins of antiquity—this constitutes the fundamental principle of the Dao. As Lin's commentary explains: "Not seeing the beginning shows the Dao has no origin; not seeing the end shows the Dao has no conclusion." "Holding fast to the ancient Dao" refers to its initial emergence from emptiness. Using this primordial emptiness to govern contemporary existence allows understanding that the so-called "Dao" is precisely the original source of all things.

Wu further elaborates: Precisely because the Dao is elusive and unfathomable, neither facing nor following it yields visibility. The term "ancient" refers to temporal precedence while "present" denotes what comes after—all things originate from the Dao. He emphasizes: The text preceding "holding fast to the ancient Dao" expounds the Dao's essential emptiness, only mentioning "being" at the end to show that despite infinite transformations, all phenomena can be governed through "the One" (the unifying principle of Dao). What we call "holding fast" means maintaining this fundamental principle to respond to the myriad things.