《道德真經集義(二)》Vol. 2

Collected Meanings of the True Scripture of the Dao and De, Volume Two, Section Five: Contamination

“The Dao That Can Be Spoken” Chapter (Commentary by Zhao Shian)

Let us begin by distinguishing two meanings: “constant” and “true.” When the Dao falls within what can be spoken or pointed out, it is no longer the Dao that remains constant and unchanged. The “Dao” that can be spoken refers to its lower, physical aspect—what has form and name, and belongs to objects and measurable categories. The constant Dao refers to its higher, metaphysical aspect—what has no form or name and abides in emptiness, stillness, and boundlessness.

When the Dao is dispersed among forms, names, measures, and numbers, it is in its lower, physical aspect. When it is concealed in emptiness and stillness, it is in its higher, metaphysical aspect. If we seek the Dao only in particular things, we will not find it; yet if we speak of it in the abstract, wholly apart from things, it has nowhere to dwell. Because it cannot be grasped, formed objects are not themselves the Dao; because it has no independent existence, its spiritual mystery has no fixed bounds.

The mind is the Dao’s substance, and the Dao and the mind are fundamentally one. Nature is the mind’s unfolding, and mind and nature are fundamentally one. Mind and nature are forms without shape; the Dao and the mind are “things that are no thing, yet are things.” Mind, nature, and Dao may be spoken of as one, or distinguished as three. Being, nonbeing, and sameness may split into three, yet return to one. But if this one is treated as a number, is the Dao a number? The one is wondrous and spiritual—can the Dao be separated from number? The wondrous has no form or name, so how could the Dao be fully expressed?

As soon as its function appears, all things are within the Dao. Thus, although the lower, physical aspect can be spoken of, it is not the constant Dao; the constant Dao is still present within it. And although the higher, metaphysical aspect is beyond what can be spoken of as the constant Dao, the Dao that can be spoken of also appears within it. In terms of truth and falsity, the true is the constant Dao, while the false is what can be spoken of. In terms of emptiness and reality, the Dao is true nature, while things are illusory. One may also try to understand this by considering events and principles, or forms and appearances. Although the constant includes change and actual existence, speaking of the “constant” takes nature as its basis. The mind is the Dao’s function; together, they are called the “constant.” The substance of the constant is defined by what does not change; it is called constant because it does not change. From the truly constant, the myriad beings flow forth. The constant is also “great”—seen in this light, is it not great? The constant is what the sage relies upon in illuminating and acting.

There is no need to establish a separate name for the constant when speaking of it, nor to set the constant aside when speaking of the Dao. The constant is the Dao, and the Dao is the constant. To speak of the Dao without speaking of the constant is not to speak of the constant Dao.

Plain-language Interpretation

How can one remain fixed in a single place and insist that this is “constancy,” while saying nothing about the Dao? Without speaking of the Dao, how could one truly bring constancy to light? Constancy means abiding without change; pervasiveness means reaching through all things, which are inexhaustible. They are originally one, not two different things. In practice, change and constancy exist together within the same underlying reality.

Consider Heaven: is it not constant? Yet in a time of extreme upheaval such as the “Yang Nine,” Heaven too can change. Is Earth not constant? Yet during a great calamity such as the “Hundred Six,” Earth too can move. Is the sun not constant? Yet it sometimes wanes. Is the moon not constant? Yet it is sometimes eclipsed. The top line of the Qian hexagram says, “No head”; the great Peng bird flies until the sixth month before it comes to rest. From this we can understand that whatever depends on physical form and falls within the realm of number must come to an end. Only constancy is formless. What is formless has no number; what has no number does not arise, and what does not arise does not perish. From Heaven and Earth to the myriad things, all have form and number. How could they be the same as the True Constancy I speak of? Thus it is said: the Dao that can be spoken of is not the constant Dao I mean.

Does “constant” mean unchanging? If only what never changes is called constant, does that make sense? Is change not itself constant? If only what is not constant is called change, does that make sense either? When the myriad things come into being, constancy is present with them; when they transform, constancy is present with them too. Birth follows birth without stopping at birth, and constancy leaves no trace. Transformation follows transformation without stopping at transformation, and constancy is at ease by its very nature. If arising and transforming were not grounded in True Constancy, how could they happen as they do? Constantly arising and transforming, they are rooted in True Constancy, while arising and transforming continue without end.

Like flowing water that spreads and shifts, with no single thing as its master, it is constant. Like increase and decrease, fullness and decline, with one thing as their master, they are not constant. It is not found in any one place among the myriad forms, yet it abides always within the nature of each thing. “When things reach their limit, they change; when they change, they become open to passage”—the great person responds to the times through this principle. “If something is workable, follow it; if not, change it”—the sage understands transformation through this principle as well. Used to govern the world, it is called a divine instrument; used to benefit and save the myriad things, it is called enlightened expedience; used to think through the utmost origin and the ultimate limit, it is called subtle and wondrous; used to set Yin-Yang in motion, it is called the spirit’s pivot. Yao applied it and embodied benevolence; Shun applied it and embodied filial piety; Yu applied it and channeled the rivers; Tang applied it and rose to sagehood and reverence. Their ways of applying it differed, but in truth it was one and the same. Only the Dao-bearing gentleman, who does not share the sage’s anxieties, can embody this constancy.

(II) Dispensing with Names to Reveal Reality

“A name that can be named is not the constant name.” Whatever can be called by a name must have form. Since the Dao is formless, how could it have a name?

“Name” in the scripture means a name that can be spoken aloud. It is not the original, constant name of the Great Dao.

Does the constant also have a name? The constant exists only in what does not give birth; what does not give birth is a thing, and every thing can be named. The constant exists only in what is not put to use; what is not put to use is an affair, and every affair can be named. Yet if we try to trace the root of things coming into being or the source of affairs being put to use, we cannot see anything at all.

The Liezi says: “In use, it fills the Six Directions; when set aside, no one knows where it is.” The Dao also gathers and disperses; nature joins and separates. The formless meets the formless, and what exists enters the space between what does not exist. Its spirit flies like lightning—how could it be pursued? This is what cannot be named.

When it joins, it shares one body: this joining is union with the Great Void. When it disperses, it brings forth beginnings: from nonbeing comes being; what does not itself give birth can give birth to life. Essence contains Qi and nurtures it—how could it be obscure? This dispersal takes form among the myriad things. That is what can be named.

Yang is born at Zi (the hour of the Rat), and the beauty of Zi’s Qi appears in the southeast. This is the Dao emerging to meet things. Yin is born at Wu (the hour of the Horse), and the beauty of Wu’s Qi reaches its end in the northwest. This is the Dao returning and separating from things. To meet things—is this not to become manifest? Once manifest, the names of the myriad things appear of themselves. To separate from things—is this not to become hidden? Once hidden, the origin of the One Reality cannot be seen.

Take what cannot be seen as the constant name: those things that can be named cannot be equated with it. Take what can be seen as what can be named: then even the constant name cannot escape being named. Emerging from darkness and entering darkness—how numinous is the Supreme Dao! What, then, can be named, and what cannot?

Distinguishing Nonbeing and Being

1. The Great Void Gives Rise to the One

“Nameless, it is the beginning of Heaven and Earth.” In the realm of utmost nonbeing and mystery, the Dao is clear and tranquil, as though it had always existed, untouched by any thing. Whatever has form or appearance is not the constant Dao. The next phrase, “not the constant name,” means that names belong to the realm of form and distinctions. They change according to what is beautiful or ugly; nothing exists without a name. Whatever can be named is not the constant name.

“Nameless, it is the beginning of Heaven and Earth; named, it is the mother of the myriad things.” The earlier phrase “not the constant name” means that the constant has not yet escaped the realm of names. Here, “nameless” uses the word “nonbeing” to break through the word “constant.” “Nameless, it is the beginning of Heaven and Earth”: the nameless is the constant Dao, and the constant Dao is nameless. Why express one principle in two ways? The Dao cannot be spoken of; whoever speaks of it can never fully reach it. The Dao is originally nameless; to name it…

(The original text appears to break off after “to name it,” suggesting that even an imposed name is not a true name.)

Key Ideas

A Plain-Language Interpretation

Those who speak only of appearances never reach “substance”—the root and underlying reality. The phrase “the extraordinary is ordinary” can be understood in two ways.

“Constant Dao” and “constant name” refer to the Dao’s subtle, indescribable aspect. “Nameless” and “named” refer to its workings and manifestations. The nameless gives rise to and transforms Heaven and Earth; the named gives rise to and transforms the myriad things. Both make its workings visible.

As for the reality of the highest Dao, it is clear and empty as the Great Void, before anything has come into being; there is nothing to name. When stillness reaches its utmost, movement arises. Thus the first Qi begins to stir, and becomes the beginning of the myriad things. To call this a “touch” would be inaccurate, as would calling it a “response.” From emptiness it transforms into spirit; spirit gives rise to Qi, and the process of continual generation unfolds from there. “The Dao gives birth to One”: One is the beginning of all phenomena, and its numinous balance is imparted to all things. “Being” does not mean something fully substantial; it is “One, present but not yet formed.” “Nonbeing” does not mean sheer nothingness; it is the form of the Great Beginning—like the moon’s subtle light at the Gen position, or a stream at its source. Only gradually do Heaven and Earth take shape. Who governs this transformation? It is “acting without acting.”

If one takes nonbeing as the wondrous principle, all methods return to stillness. If one takes being as the means, ordinary people distance themselves from the Dao. Hidden, it seems useless, yet through it use is achieved; and the first to serve this use is the One Qi. Once a method has come into being, it can be put to use without end. The primordial beginning is limitless. Though One enters the realm of numbers, those who penetrate numbers attain long life. Though the beginning has form, those who refine their form do not die.

The Five Phases are Water as one, Fire as two, Wood as three, Metal as four, and Earth as five: these are their generating numbers. Wood as nine, Fire as three, Metal as seven, Water as five, and Earth as ten mark the Five Phases in their initial state. By grasping this initial state, one understands how Metal and Wood receive the primordial source; by bringing their completed forms together, one understands how Water and Fire govern life and death. Wood follows the Zi, Fu, and Shen palaces and first settles in its womb. Heaven in the Qian position belongs to Metal and operates in the east; hence all six lines are nines. It has the same origin as Wood and lodges its substance in the Metal direction: this is the wondrous working of a single family. As for Metal’s arrival and encroachment, it occupies the Yin position, within the vaporous Heaven of the seven Qi, where it receives conception amid the three Yang. Fire emerges from Dui; at the Hai position it receives the three Waters; signs of Earth at Gen and Xun then appear. Yin, Shen, Si, and Hai are the “Four Births”—“birth” means beginning. Qi, form, and substance are all cultivated and generated from these, without interruption.

This principle differs from the generating numbers in the Hongfan, which concern overcoming and combining. It also comes from the immortals’ scriptures: the One follows the primordial source and does not come to an end, which is why it is called “beginning.” (One) comes from the nameless; (two) the Taiji gives birth to three; (three) the named is the mother of the myriad things.

Vernacular Interpretation

“Mother” and “Beginning”

Here, Mother refers to the root from which all things arise. Beginning means an origin or point of inception, but at the beginning itself, one cannot yet see that anything has “already come into being.” What truly makes the arising of life visible is Mother: Mother is the aspect of generation and manifestation.

The Sequence of Things That Have Names

All things first come into being; only afterward do forms (images and signs) appear. Once forms exist, one can speak of growth (flourishing and fullness). After growth, things can be counted and described clearly: this is what it means for them to have names (the Mother of all named things, as stated in the Dao De Jing). The text uses nameless for the “Beginning” and having names for “birth.” Its meaning is that the root, originally without form or name, manifests as the named and formed things of the world—as if “being” emerged from “nonbeing.”

Supporting Evidence from Word Meanings

The Erya glosses zhao, zu, yuan, and tai as meaning beginning; all carry the sense of an origin or source.

Heaven and Earth, Husband and Wife

The Kun trigram speaks of the Way of Earth, the way of the wife, the way of the subject, and the way of the mother. Qian moves first, while Kun receives and brings forth. Thus husband and wife come first, followed by male and female. Only once male and female exist does the name “Mother” become especially apparent. That is why “Beginning” is mentioned before “Mother.”

Four Ways of Understanding

“Beginning” and “Mother” can be understood on four levels: in terms of Yin-Yang, Heaven and Earth, father and mother, and being and nonbeing.

One: Yin-Yang

Yin and Yang are Qi. Qi is originally one whole, which then divides into Yin and Yang. Once the Taiji comes into being, the single Qi divides of itself: the light and pure rises to become Heaven, while the heavy and turbid sinks to become Earth. The Kai Tian Jing says, “When Heaven’s Qi was complete, the remaining Qi became Earth.” “Complete” means that Yin and Yang each reached their allotted measure; once their measures were complete, their distinction became clear. At the time of primordial unity, Yin and Yang were intertwined and refining one another, but had not yet reached their utmost point. They remained blended and undivided. This is the hundun, or undifferentiated state, described by the Liezi as a time when Qi, form, substance, and position had not yet separated.

There is also a teaching that Yuanshi used the three Qi of Xuan, Yuan, and Shi to generate the thirty-six heavens above and the thirty-six earths below; Heaven and Earth joined in De to form Yin-Yang. Another teaching says that clarity is the source of turbidity (see the Qingjing Jing), and that Yin is the nurture of Yang (see the Shengshen Zhang). From this perspective, Yin and Yang were originally one Qi, which divided into two of its own accord. Hence the saying, “They unite, then divide again.”

Two: The Beginning of Heaven and Earth

Heaven and Earth have no parents, so to speak. They arose within the vast emptiness of the Great Void, and took shape within the single Qi of chaos, like an egg, yellow within and white without. Before they separated, Heaven and Earth were conceived within the Numinous Source. Once they parted, Heaven was above and Earth below. The three joined to form De, and nine accumulated to become Yang. When the nine Yang rose, the remaining Qi became Earth; thus there are nine heavens and nine earths. The Thirty-Six Heavens of the Great Luo derive from the number formed by the threefold union of the palaces of Metal, Fire, Earth, and other elements. The Thirty-Six Heavens of the Middle Luo came into being through the combination of the thirty-two heavens and the four beginnings. The Jiuku Jing says there are thirty-six heavens above and thirty-six earths below; these numbers correspond, with Earth born from Heaven and Heaven upheld by Earth.

Note: This passage links the Dao De Jing lines “The nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth; the named is the Mother of all things” and “The world has a beginning, which can be regarded as the Mother of the world” from chapter 52, drawing on the Yijing (Qian and Kun), cosmological teachings (the thirty-six heavens and earths), and terminology from Neidan or Daoist scriptures. Beginning leans toward the unformed source, while Mother emphasizes generation and the presence of names and forms.

It becomes complete by joining with the numbers of Heaven and Earth, totaling seventy-two as a measure for dividing the seasonal periods, from beginning to end.

Heaven and Earth are the manifest forms of the Dao. The Dao has no fixed place of abode; it abides in Heaven and Earth. Heaven and Earth, in turn, have no fixed place of abode; they abide in Qian and Kun.

Therefore, Heaven is taken as father and Earth as mother. Through the union of a single Qi, Heaven and Earth bring forth the myriad things.

As father and mother, the beginning is attributed to Qian, while the act of giving birth is attributed to Kun. Beginning and giving birth follow one and the same Dao.

Does this mean that Heaven’s form is male and Earth’s form is female? The point is not to cling to the physical forms of male and female, but to grasp the meaning and forget the image.

Once the meaning is grasped, the image can be forgotten; once the image is grasped, the words can be forgotten. If the meaning has not been grasped, how could the image express it fully?

Thus, to speak of Heaven and Earth in terms of a single Qi is like the division of spirit and essence represented by the “one” in the Kan trigram: what was joined is divided.

From this we can see that the Dao is the mother of Heaven and Earth, and Heaven and Earth are the mother of the myriad things.

This is division followed by union: Qian is Heaven and father; Kun is Earth and mother.

The distance from Heaven to Earth is eighty-four thousand li, and the distance from Earth to Heaven is the same.

In terms of the trigram images, the movement from the Fu hexagram to the Tai hexagram brings together three Yin lines and three Yang lines, with Qian below and Kun above. This is the time when Heaven and Earth meet in harmony.

The Book of Changes says, “When male and female unite their essences, the myriad things are transformed and born.” This is the meaning.

Tai means central harmony. Within it is the harmonizing Qi, deep and obscure, elusive and indistinct; the utmost truth gathers there. This is the meaning of the myriad things containing the potential for life.

Heaven and Earth are measured by the distance of eighty-four thousand li: the midpoint of Yang within Yin is the spring equinox, and the midpoint of Yin within Yang is the autumn equinox. These, too, are images of male and female joining.

Though Heaven is far from Earth and Earth far from Heaven, without their Qi joining in harmony, how could there be the names of father and mother, or the principle by which life gives rise to life?

Before division, this is called chaos; once divided, Yin and Yang can be distinguished. Those of different surnames unite as male and female; through betrothal and marriage, they unite as husband and wife.

The Book of Changes says, “There are men and women, and then there are husbands and wives.”

Thus, “mother” is used to speak of giving birth.

What exists yet is empty is the opposite of things; what is without form yet numinous is the source of truth.

That which is nameless is the source of true emptiness; that which has a name is the wondrous capacity to respond to things.

But does true Nonbeing need to depend on Being in order to reveal its wondrous workings?

A single Qi divides of itself; the Three Powers take form of themselves; the myriad things grow of themselves. Who directs this? Who holds it together? This is called the natural.

If we speak of what causes things to happen: Being arises of itself, while Nonbeing does not arise of itself.

Yet how could anything be separate from the workings of Heaven and Earth, or from the joining of Yin and Yang? Without the “Mother,” how could anything appear? If one clings to “being born,” who is there to recognize the “Mother”? The scripture says, “The Dao gives birth to them”: the Dao is the Mother of all things. It enters but does not emerge; it exists and has its workings, yet remains silent and cannot possess itself. Of the two poles, being and nonbeing, who but the Dao could establish the name “Mother”? From emptiness comes fullness, and the “Beginning” is set forth; turning from fullness back to emptiness, one being and one nonbeing—this is the Dao’s wondrous working. In the primal unity of nonbeing, one must recognize the power by which the Great Void returns; this must begin with the “Mother.” In the numbers of Heaven and Earth: Li is five and Kan is fifteen. Five is the Mother; dispersing, it gives birth to the myriad things. This is called “wondrous.” For example, when the Six Wu is added to Kan and the Six Ji to Li, the principle of generation upon generation can be seen.

(Threefold discussion of the substance, part two: constant substance illuminated in stillness.) “Ever without desire, one observes its mystery”—from “The Dao that can be spoken is not the constant Dao; the name that can be named is not the constant name,” the text identifies the constant Dao and constant name with the consummation of mystery. It is unseen when looked at and unheard when listened for. One must therefore set sight and hearing aside, beyond words and names. This cannot be attained by those who act with intention; only those who are without intention can understand it. This is called the constant Dao. Next comes, “The nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth; the named is the Mother of the myriad things.” This speaks of the Dao’s wondrous workings: the first four lines speak of mystery, while the last two reveal its function. To speak of mystery without speaking of function leaves the Dao unrevealed; to speak of function without mystery may cause events to obscure principle. Moreover, it is inevitable that the myriad things receive their mandate from nonbeing and take form through being. The sages perceive this through insight: they see that the Dao has no color or form and is truly beyond names and words. To investigate the mind is ultimately to reach no-mind; to pursue the various paths is ultimately to arrive at the true path. Since emptiness and nothingness are the Dao, how could things depend on one another as forms? If sight and hearing are not set aside, how can one return to purity and stillness? Purity and stillness are the original nature; forms and appearances give rise to names. Nature is originally clear and still, neither name nor form. Forms apart from nature are delusion and emptiness. Thus names arise from substance and form, while forms arise from the mind’s thoughts. With truth and falsity set against each other, the Dao’s origin is difficult to trace. Therefore, the author of the scripture must take emptiness and nothingness as the guiding principle; those who investigate principle should contemplate forms and appearances. Through emptiness, one perceives fullness; through illusion and delusion, one comes to know the return. Being is born from nonbeing; refined thoughts of the dust of the world bring things to completion. Things have no self-nature, and so they are called empty; the Dao has no name because it has no form. This is what Zhuangzi calls…】【。

The phrase “before there was ever a beginning of not-being” speaks of “two”: its function is constant. Observe the bounds of the Dao through “constant desire,” and you see that the Dao itself does not arise; whatever arises is never apart from the Dao. The Dao descends into the myriad things, and none of them is other than the real. When the myriad things return to it, the Dao does not rule over them. The Dao’s constant reality is thus free and unburdened. Yet from the empty, mysterious expanse, a single Qi arises of itself. Chaos condenses into reality, and the Three Powers take concrete form. Their images appear in Heaven, where the Six Qi circulate and mingle to shape things; on Earth, the Five Phases generate and transform. Yin and Yang gather these patterns into their great order, while the Eight Trigrams set the seasons. Their laws endure, even as change never ceases. Birth and extinction are natural to the things of the world; through Yin and Yang, the subtle workings of deathlessness and birthlessness come about. Whoever understands this Dao must be a perfected person; whoever has not reached the source of life is left only with illusion and extinction. Thus constancy is the great root, while change opens a path to the numinous: from this, creation and transformation are inexhaustible. Pointing directly to rest, it transcends the fleeting. Those who do not understand death as governed by the cycles of fate lose the spirit of things; those who understand the cycles—how could form itself burden them? Being and nonbeing share the same mystery; both principles are profound. This speaks directly to the causes of nature and life. How could action be delusion? Other teachings leave nothing beyond the things of the world; those who see this Dao flourish. To observe the manifestations is to grasp the coarser aspect of principle; to enter the subtle is to see that principle and concrete things are one.

I have often sought to fathom Heaven’s secrets. Yang without Yin, or Yin without Yang, cannot be; the two seek one another and only then unite. Some say the Dragon is absent while the Tiger is present, but when the Dragon meets the Tiger, both become formless. Some say Mercury is absent while Lead is present, but when Lead meets Mercury, they become one and both vanish like spirits. Thus what is called nonbeing and being, nature and life, return to the same source: one Yin and one Yang—this is called the Dao. Only upon reaching its utmost subtlety does the unfathomable spirit appear. This is the profound mystery of Dao and De. Fuxi drew the trigrams, understanding that being exists within nonbeing, and so their images were set forth. Confucius added the commentaries, grasping that nonbeing exists within being, while the numinous alone remains unfathomable. Being and nonbeing arise through one another, yet are not two; this is the subtlety of their manifestations.

The four mysteries are one; both the expedient and the real are revealed. These two arise from the same source but bear different names. The Jing says, “The nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth; the named is the mother of the myriad things.” It reveals how the Dao descends and becomes things. Then, in “Ever without desire, observe its subtlety; ever with desire, observe its manifestations,” being and nonbeing are distinguished, and appearing and withdrawing are made clear. The point is that the Dao is one at its root, while its subtle workings unfold mysteriously, allowing people to recognize the source directly. First, being and nonbeing are marked as two aspects of a single principle; then their common source and different names are brought together.

A single meaning runs through different names

“These two” have different names, being being and nonbeing, but refer to the same level of meaning.

“These two are one being and one nonbeing; they arise together, arising from the Dao, yet bearing two names.” As the Commentary on the Changes says, “Different paths lead to the same destination; a hundred considerations converge on one.” When wisdom sees through the unity of being and nonbeing, it does not treat them as two opposed entities. If one clings to “things that exist” and denies “nonbeing,” one has not yet made a sound argument.

“Most people are quick to encounter obstacles; once obstructed, they cannot get through.” Those who speak of being cannot make room for nonbeing, and those who speak of nonbeing cannot make room for being. This doubt is what divides the paths into following and going against.

“To observe by following is what most people do.” They point to concrete things and say they exist: the sky is high and the earth low, rivers flow and mountains stand firm; the five colors appear in profusion and sounds crowd together; fame, profit, honor, and prestige, wealth and eminence, bonds of family, and the spread of the myriad ways—all are taken to be real. If someone says these things are empty or unreal, such people remain stuck in their views. They have not understood the principle that form is emptiness, and mistake the illusory for the real. All beings follow circumstances as they turn and change; this is why the path is called “following.”

“To regard true emptiness as real and transformations as illusory; to see life and death as one, wealth and rank as belonging to others, and sound and color as false; to treat one’s roots and kin as incidental; to see the gathering of the Four Great Elements as a temporary union; to know that emptiness is not truly empty, and form is not truly form”—this is what those who observe by going against the ordinary view do.

“Following is easy, like water flowing downhill: once it goes, it does not return. Going against the current is difficult, like urging a lame horse up a mountain. Though the effort is painful, reaching the summit brings joy.” This marks the boundary between the ways of Heaven and humanity, and the guiding principle of perception and understanding. At first they are distinguished, as though different; in the end they converge, making them one. See that being and nonbeing arise together from the One, and that Heaven’s appearance and disappearance share a beginning and an end.

Zhuangzi said: “Viewed from the perspective of their sameness, all things are one. Viewed from the perspective of their differences, the liver and gallbladder are as far apart as the states of Chu and Yue.” How, then, could one discuss the great unity with someone who sees only difference?

Two: The integration of affairs and principle

“Together, they are called the Mysterious.” The preceding passage says that being and nonbeing arise together from one body, so that we cannot regard them as different. This is the perfectly integrated truth. The teaching then grows more subtle and profound, and so it says, “Together, they are called the Mysterious.”

The character for “together” is made up of “one” and “mouth.” Each person has their own right and wrong, and so they do not agree. When there is one mouth, right and wrong are one. Thus, great unity leaves the human realm behind; leaving it behind means entering Heaven, and entering Heaven means becoming one with the Dao.

“Together, they are called the Mysterious”—the Mysterious beyond the Mysterious, the gateway to all wonders.

“Profound” means complete unity. The two principles of being and nonbeing, taken together, are called “the Profound.” If nonbeing is called profound, it is because it is subtle and formless. But if being is visible, how can it be called profound in the same way?

All things arise from nonbeing, and being contains nonbeing. They are originally one in nature, so why further divide “difference within sameness”? Taking form and emptiness as the first level of the Profound, and going beyond being and nonbeing as the second, makes the meaning gradually clearer. For the awakened, the Dao is everywhere; for the deluded, everything appears distinct. Only by seeing life and death as one continuous course, and what is acceptable and unacceptable as one principle, and by possessing the wisdom of equal nature, can one enter deeply.

Imperial Commentary: What is subtle and small is called profound. The Profound is the color of Heaven. A commentary on the text says: “What is small and subtle is profound; what is great and keen is outstanding.” When De is concealed, it is subtle and small; when De is manifest, it is great and keen. Thus, the sage is called profound when below, and outstanding when above.

The phrase “what is subtle and small is called profound” is difficult to explain fully. The Dao has no form or appearance: how can one distinguish small from great? The Dao is as great as Heaven, so how can it be called small? Within things, how can one distinguish its smallness? It is called hidden because it has no form, and deep because it cannot be fathomed. When the sage’s mind embodies the Dao, it is subtle; when the sage emerges to respond to things, the principle is hidden while its workings are manifest. What is small in its workings can in turn become great, drawing people’s attention; what is great in the Dao can in turn dwell in what is small, residing in the mind’s depths. The small is on the right, and the right is Yin, which supports it: it conceals subtlety but does not conceal its use. The great is on the left, and the left is the ruler who presides: it makes affairs manifest but does not make the principle manifest. Thus it is said: what is subtle and small is called profound.

The Fifth Eulogy: The Subtlety of the One Body of All Dharmas: The scripture says, “Always without desire, observe its subtlety; always with desire, observe its manifestations.” It then says, “They emerge together but have different names; together they are called the Profound.” This concludes the preceding two lines, bringing being and nonbeing together as one. It also says, “The Profound within the Profound.” At first, this means awareness and appearance illuminating one another: fully awakening to the unity of being and nonbeing is profound understanding. But the meaning of “again profound” cannot be exhausted by the preceding principle.

Sequence: Being and nonbeing arise from the Dao; the Dao governs being and nonbeing. Being exists of itself; it is not the Dao’s being. Nonbeing is absent of itself; it is not the Dao’s nonbeing. The Dao is sovereign, yet does not act as sovereign. Yet nonbeing…

“Being” also comes from the Dao, and “nonbeing” also comes from the Dao. Even before anything takes shape, it is already “mysterious”; once something takes shape, it cannot cease to be “mysterious.” When “nonbeing” appears, it becomes image and number. When image and number return within it, they in turn dissolve into extinction and nonbeing. This is what Liezi meant by “self-arising and self-transforming.” From this, it is clear that neither “being” nor “nonbeing” departs from the Dao’s luminous clarity. Since both arise from the Dao, each can embody the “mysterious.”

Consider a father and his two sons. They all share the same family name. Would the name belong only to the father and not to the sons, simply because the father is the elder and the sons are younger? This illustrates the Dao’s mystery: “being” and “nonbeing” must both belong to the mysterious.

As applied to the human body: The Dao gives rise to “the One”; the One is both a number and a beginning. To “embrace the One” and “embrace the beginning” is to gather their meaning back into the Great Nonbeing. Only then can one see what truly works within the body. Is this merely empty talk? When the dragon and tiger join, they form the sacred embryo. When the sacred embryo becomes spiritually attuned, the True Person appears; when the True Person emerges, they ride the divine light. Zhuangzi says: “Ascending on the divine light, one perishes together with the body.”

○ The Two Mysteries Precede the Myriad Teachings

○ Mystery upon Mystery: Every method arises from the Dao. From the shallow to the subtle, each has its own mysterious principle; this is called “embodying the mysterious.” Yet “the mystery embodied” has not escaped traces. To leave “the mystery embodied” is to leave behind the function of “embodiment.” Rising to the level beyond form, there is another layer of mystery. The Surangama Sutra says: “The marvelous, the constant, the still; the two extremes of being and nonbeing; neither two nor not two—all are extinguished.” This speaks of “nature.” Earlier, the discussion said that scriptures explain things in sequence. Sequence means distinguishing sudden from gradual; the sudden and gradual are then divided into Mahayana and Hinayana, and these two vehicles are further arranged by stages of attainment. In the accounts of the meaning of “being” and “nonbeing” by Haikong and Zhizang, marvelous being and marvelous nonbeing are held to be ultimate.

The Nature School discusses inner emptiness, outer emptiness, inner and outer emptiness, emptiness of emptiness, great emptiness, supreme truth emptiness, conditioned emptiness, unconditioned emptiness, ultimate emptiness, boundless emptiness, dispersed emptiness, unchanging emptiness, original-nature emptiness, own-characteristic emptiness, shared-nature emptiness, emptiness of all teachings, emptiness of the unobtainable, absence of inherent nature, and emptiness of self-nature. Yet the principle has still not reached its limit. Only upon reaching “the emptiness of the unobtainable” does one arrive again at the “mysterious.”

The words “mystery upon mystery” praise the Dao’s profound reach: neither extreme is established, the middle way has no fixed place, and neither speech nor silence can express it fully. This is called the “ultimate reality.” One must proceed step by step without treading on empty ground; only then does one first attain the true One. When the One remains within what can be attained, this is what is called “the subtle and marvelous.”

Now the sudden and gradual approaches, together with the stages of the Three Vehicles, will be used to clarify the meaning of “mystery upon mystery.”

Before the primordial undivided state, there was no name or image. Only after that state was divided did images and names arise.

Before the time of namelessness, to directly apprehend its principle is called "sudden" (dunwu, sudden awakening). After the time of naming, to gather "being" back into "non-being" is called "gradual" (jianxiu, gradual cultivation). Sudden awakening establishes no single method, whereas gradual cultivation begins from practice.

The gateway of cultivation, according to the scriptures, is "increase daily, and through increase, be able to decrease" (from the Daodejing: "In learning, one increases daily; in the Dao (Dao, the Way), one decreases daily"). One must keep diminishing until reaching "further diminishing," and only then can one attain "further mystery" (a more profound level of the mysterious).

This holds for nature (xing) and likewise for life-destiny (ming). The Weisheng Jing (Classic of Preserving Life) begins with nourishing life, next reaches longevity, and finally becomes an immortal who ascends to the heavens. The two principles of sudden and gradual each have their own direction.

The meaning of Chongxuan (Doubled Mystery) differs from the teaching of "original boundary" spoken of by the Middle Vehicle and the Lesser Vehicle. The Supreme Lord Daojun (Taishang Daojun) says: It is not empty, yet it is not non-empty; it is not empty of emptiness; it is not a dharma, nor is it not a dharma; it is not a thing, nor is it not a thing; it is not a person, nor is it not a person; it is not a cause, nor is it not a cause; it is not an effect, nor is it not an effect; it is not a beginning, nor is it not a beginning; it is not an end, nor is it not an end; it is not a branch, nor is it not a branch. As the root of all dharmas, it has no fabrication and no doing; this is called "naturalness" (ziran). Naturalness means being so of itself: one cannot make it so, nor can one make it not so.

It further says: What is called "mystery" (xuan) means that one clings to nothing in any direction; only thus is the meaning of mystery exhausted. Therefore, the practitioner dwells on neither emptiness nor existence, and this is called "mystery." Then one dispels even this "mystery" as well, grasping at nothing; this is called Chongxuan, the gate of all wonders. Now, to establish the sudden teaching and name it "further mystery" makes its meaning plain and clear.

If we distinguish by the Great Vehicle and the Supreme Vehicle: the teaching of Yuqing (Yuqing, Jade Clarity) is the Great Vehicle, in which traces of practice are effaced; the Three Pure Ones (Sanqing) constitute the Supreme Vehicle. Take the Nine Grades of Upper Immortals of Taiqing (Taiqing, Great Clarity): they are those who have entered the realm of mystery; the Nine Grades of Upper Perfected are those who have reached supreme mystery; the Nine Grades of Upper Sages are those who are "further mystery." Once the Three Pure Ones are all effaced, there is immeasurable mystery, mystery upon mystery. All of these are clarified through nature and connected through the Dao. The essential meaning of the scripture lies here, and that is why this section is called the "Perfect Teaching" (yuanjiao).

Nature and life-destiny contain one another: De (De, Virtue) merges into and becomes the Dao; nature converges and becomes destiny. The "destiny" spoken of here is the full realization of one's nature and the reaching of destiny, which differs from the destiny of longevity. The destiny of life-nourishment is not merely the full realization of nature; it requires deep foundations and firm roots before it can be accomplished.

Further, following the Changsheng (Longevity) school, the mystery is divided into "mystery upon mystery" and set forth as two gates of practice. Mystery is the principle that all things possess: it emerges from objects and enters awakening; it reveals its subtlety in function and penetrates shen (Shen, spirit) within that subtlety. All of these are called mystery. Mystery is often hidden and not manifest; secrecy is essential, and it is kept unspoken, so it circulates only within the "Splendid Hall" (Huatang).

The Book of Changes says that to investigate what is hidden and subtle, the key is to probe deeply; one who can probe deeply is called “seeing the trigger”—that is, perceiving the faint signs of things. The Book of Changes also says one should seek what is profound and secret, and trace what is remote and obscure. Yet the hidden subtlety of outer things can never match the human body itself.

Within the body lies subtle mystery—what is called the celestial mechanism (tianji). Laozi said that the body’s fine workings are hard for ordinary people to explain. People often value what is far and slight what is near: they do not know the mystery within themselves, yet wish to exhaust principle in external things. The sage observes the finest shifts of Yin and Yang within the person, takes the images of Heaven and Earth as model, and from this establishes the nine-elixir formulas (methods of Neidan cultivation) and the root of the long-life Dao. These methods are exquisitely subtle; the celestial mechanism is far-reaching—not someone of shallow attainment can make them clear. The teaching is said to descend from the Three Sovereigns and later reach the Yellow Emperor; many sages succeeded them, but what was written down stayed brief. Wei Boyang’s Cantong qi (Zhouyi Cantong qi) draws on the hexagram lines and attached texts of the Book of Changes, coordinating them with Qian, Kun, and the six “child” trigrams, to explain Heaven and Earth’s hidden workings and disclose their deep meaning.

It says that to cultivate the golden-fluid great elixir (the goal of Neidan), one must first seek the root of Heaven and Earth’s primordial unity, examine the origin of Yin–Yang creation and transformation, understand how Water and Fire restrain and assist each other, and treat the natures of Metal and Water as spouses joined in harmony and as mother and child in mutual generation. The text uses “male containing female form” to show sand arising from lead, and “female mingled with male form” to show mercury arising from sand—alchemical language for Yin–Yang union and mutual transformation.

The sun belongs to Yang; the sun holds the crow, meaning Yin within Yang. The moon belongs to Yin; the moon holds the hare, meaning Yang within Yin. Thus Yin and Yang have a law of return and change, and Water and Fire have a principle of mutual dependence—by this one may grasp the way of creation. Knowing their positions is not enough; one must know their root—that is the root of Heaven and Earth’s primordial unity. After grasping the root, one must take its emblems and understand the images of Yin–Yang pairing. With those emblems in hand, one must still examine the movement and stillness of change; when movement and stillness are clear, one must master the numbers within them. Mastering the numbers, one arranges practice by the clepsydra (the ancient water clock); when the hours are divided, one must distinguish advance and retreat. When advance and retreat are settled, one can tell Dragon and Tiger (terms in Neidan for interacting Yin, Yang, Water, and Fire), draw the boundary of south and north, and unite the forms of Metal and Water.

Only then does great-elixir cultivation have a true footing. In Neidan there are inner and outer, Water and Fire, dry and moist, the cauldron chamber, the “womb” vessel, advance and retreat, line images, Water–Fire timing, rules of drawing out and adding, hexagram patterns, and forms of union and separation. Each item named above conceals subtle principle. The practitioner must ponder it with full intent and also receive instruction from a master before the depth can be understood.

If the secret is locked away and kept from being spoken, where then is the root of long life?

The ancients said, “The nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth; the named is the mother of the myriad things.” They spoke only of “beginning” and “mother,” not of “ending,” so that readers would infer their intent and realize it for themselves. Only then can it be called true understanding. The principle of the “three achievements” set out in the Bifa, the teachings recorded in the Golden Proclamation and Jade Book, and the tradition of transmitting the Dao and describing the source of the Five Immortals, along with distinguishing the essentials of the Nine Returns and Seven Reversions, all seek to gather these layers of profound meaning. Those of lesser achievement correspond to the initial mystery; those of middling achievement, to the utmost mystery; and those of great achievement, to the mystery beyond mystery. Cultivating the body and nurturing life, ingesting Qi and refining the Elixir, and ultimately transcending the world and ascending as an immortal, reaching the ultimate in mystery—all proceed by stages. Nature moves from delusive emptiness to true emptiness; life moves from cultivating one’s life to attaining the Real. This is what “mystery beyond mystery” means.

If one can hold to “nonbeing” but cannot hold to “nonbeing of nonbeing,” one cannot speak of the gateway to all wonders. If one can nourish Qi but cannot refine Shen, one cannot speak of the principle of “mystery beyond mystery.” Nature rests in emptiness, and life rests in substance; only then does the wondrous gateway appear. The wonder does not lie in a single wonder, but in “all.”

If we interpret “gateway to all wonders” literally, three people make a “crowd,” but it does not stop at three. Everything from Heaven and Earth to the myriad things, from sentient beings to the insentient, is encompassed within it; hence it is the gateway to all wonders. As for the mysterious, it means fully realizing one’s nature; when nature is fully realized, it is one alone. “Beyond mystery” means reaching the ultimate in life; when life reaches its ultimate, one enters a state beyond death and birth. The Dao has no gate or side path; it opens in all directions without limit. If we speak specifically of a “gate,” how could the Dao be confined to anything? The gate is not a place: it is the Dao itself.

Nature has a returning movement, and from this return come the terms “going out” and “coming in.” Those who speak only of going out and coming in have not yet realized their nature. When nature is realized, there is nothing left to realize—what could go out, and what could come in? Only then can one bring the myriad beings together in utmost emptiness and make the wondrous unity of nature into an unfathomable Shen. The Book of Changes says, “Through fully realizing one’s nature, one sustains it continually; this is the gateway of the Dao and its principles.” Hence the saying, “Birth and death.” The Yinfu Jing says, “Heaven gives life and Heaven takes life”; this is the principle of the Dao. To emerge from the workings and enter into them is what the image of Gen teaches: “When it is time to stop, stop; when it is time to act, act.” To emerge without fear is to embody the Dao.

On the “Gate of All Wonders” and Coming and Going

“To enter without delighting in the act of entering” is to understand the mysterious. “To come and go, yet be unable to say whether one is coming or going” is to bring wondrous functioning to its utmost. Those who recognize this “gate” can grasp the principles of life and death that run through all things, and make clear the teaching that “the many beginnings”—the root to which all things return—serves as their final resting place.

All things receive their mandate from “nothingness”: they come to be from nonbeing. Whatever receives its mandate from the Dao may be called wondrous; hence the phrase “all wonders.” What is this wonder like? It is like water: whatever it touches becomes wet. All that is born through the Dao and sustained by the Dao has its own wonder.

The text goes on to say: I emerge from the “Gate of All Wonders” and obtain the “One.” With the One within me, I carry this wonder back through the gate, return to the root and restore my mandate, and realize that further layer of mystery. I can also enable people and all things to each attain their own wonder.

It is also like fire: shining from itself, it illuminates whatever it shines upon; transforming from itself, it transforms all things. At first, the Dao brings me into wonder; in the end, I too bring things into wonder. At this point, is the Dao making me wondrous, or am I making things wondrous? Ultimately, one enters a state of “not knowing,” no longer drawing such rigid distinctions between subject and object.

Shao Ruoyu’s Commentary on “The Dao That Can Be Spoken” through “The Gate of All Wonders”

From “the Dao that can be spoken” to “the Gate of All Wonders”: the Great Dao is utterly empty and still, without form or name. It cannot be grasped through sight or hearing, exhausted through thought or discussion, or fully expressed in words. It is the Dao without beginning or end, abiding forever and never changing.

From emptiness emerges the “One Qi.” Only with the One Qi are there traces that can be followed. Therefore, the Dao that can be spoken is already not the Dao that abides forever unchanged; and once the One Qi has a name and can be called and named, that name is no longer the ever abiding, nameless name.

Before the One Qi appears, before there is form or name, this is “the beginning of Heaven and Earth,” the Dao that cannot be spoken. Once the One Qi has a name and becomes the mother of the myriad things, this is the Dao that can be spoken. From this we can understand that the human body comes from the One; only by taking the One as one’s model and awakening through it can a person see the Great Dao.

In the human body, the Great Dao is the true mind. The “One Qi” is linked to the desires that arise within the heart. The true mind is originally empty and still, with neither birth nor death. When the true mind stirs, images arise; these are called desire, thought, discernment, awareness, and so forth. Desire arises from the mind, and through desire one undergoes birth. After birth, attachment to likes and dislikes continues without end: one becomes absorbed in the five colors and immersed in the five sounds, relies on force, and dwells on favor and disgrace. Mistaken delusion is taken for the mind; the false mind covers everything, the single mind grows unclear, and the Dao of the One Qi is obscured.

If a person relinquishes delusion and abandons desire, turning the light of awareness back toward the true mind, this accords with the path described earlier: coming and going through the Gate of All Wonders, returning to the root and restoring one’s mandate. One enters the wondrous from the mysterious, returns from the One to nothingness, and ultimately reaches “not knowing,” without departing from the foundation of the Great Dao.

A Plain-Language Interpretation

“It is simply this one mind” refers to this very mind: to keep it true is to be upright; to realize it directly is to be numinous.

“It is the mother of all things, and the root and source of life and death” means that this mind is the source of all things and the ground on which life and death depend. Desires can obscure the true mind, and so there is life and death. If a person can be free of desire, the mind becomes empty and still, like the “beginning without a name”; only then can one leave the cycle of life and death. Laozi says, “Always be without desire in order to observe its mystery.” This points to the subtle way of leaving life and death. He also says, “Always have desire in order to observe its manifestations”; “manifestations” means the boundaries and surface appearances of things.

One must not use the mind to seek the mind, for that is desire; nor use the mind to extinguish the mind, in the name of being without desire. Both approaches are mistaken. The two sides, being and nonbeing, must be gathered together as one. Only when teachings are expressed in words are the names “being” and “nonbeing” distinguished; when they are unified, this is called the “Mystery.” In Buddhism, it is called the “Dharma Gate of Nonduality,” or the “Middle Way.” The Gate of Mystery takes the “middle” as its method, like a fish trap made of bamboo. The method arises from the mind, but if one clings to the “middle” once it has arisen, the mind is no longer empty and still. Fearing that people would be caught in the method of the “Middle Way” and unwilling to let go of the trap, Laozi added “the Mystery upon Mystery” to break that attachment. Practitioners should cling neither to being and nonbeing nor remain fixed on the “Middle Way” of mystery and the middle. At the ground of reality, unstained by even a speck of dust, the mind becomes empty and still. This is Wuwei (non-action). There is no need for further probing or calculation, because nothing is gained in the first place—this is what being without desire means. When not even a mote of dust is established, it is called purity; when there is no contrivance at all, it is called Wuwei; when there is no cultivation and no realization, it is called spontaneity; when nothing is possessed, it is called emptiness and stillness; when one is free and unimpeded, it is called carefree ease; when all is plain and ordinary, it is called serenity and simplicity.

When the mind is without desire: free from distinctions, there are no afflictions; meeting each situation without a sense of self, there is no contention, and therefore no fault. Free from good and evil, one is not bound by cause and effect; attached to none of the myriad things, there is no birth; without birth, there is no death. When the mind is always without desire, it is the Gate of the Many Mysteries.

(The final phrase, “Wang Zhi-ran: The Dao that can be spoken of, through the Gate of the Many Mysteries,” appears to be a title or a heading added by a commentator. It echoes the earlier phrase, “The mind that is always without desire is the Gate of the Many Mysteries”; the main text has already explained its meaning.)

A Plain-Language Interpretation

“Upright and constant, like the course of the four seasons: never reaching an end, never having a beginning, yet suddenly arising and suddenly vanishing, declining and flourishing in succession”—this is not what I mean by what is truly constant.

To be upright and constant is to be like the seasons in their course: there is no ultimate end and no beginning, yet things arise and vanish in turn, one generation declining as another flourishes. That is not what I mean by the truly constant.

“Ever free of desire, one observes its subtlety”: this speaks of the Dao’s essence. “Ever with desire, one observes its boundaries and traces”: this speaks of the Dao’s function. Essence and function are often lodged in the elusive realm between presence and absence, and among the fine and the coarse, the subtle and the manifest. They cannot be known through cleverness or recognized through discrimination. Even seeing and hearing, approaching and following, cannot grasp them. How, then, can they be attained?

What is known through learning is never something that cannot be known without learning.

The Classic of Changes says: “Without thought, without action, still and unmoving, yet when touched, it responds and penetrates the affairs of the world.” The Yangzi says: “Cultivate the Dao, and you attain the Dao; seek De, and you attain De.” Mencius says: “When you realize it for yourself—realize it for yourself—you will encounter its source on every side.” Once learning reaches the point where one encounters the source on every side, where could one go and not find one’s way? This is what it means to attain it: to attain this.

Ah, the Dao’s subtlety is enough to fathom the nature of all things, and its traces are enough to exhaust their principles. Principle and nature are mysteriously one. What we call presence and absence can, in general, be contemplated together and both dissolve in that contemplation.

Someone may ask: “Presence, presence-and-absence, absence-and-presence, absence, absence-and-presence, absence”—what does this mean? It describes how presence and absence replace one another in this way. Absence is true presence; presence is true absence. Presence and absence depend on each other and have never truly been separate.

The Classic says: “These two emerge together but have different names; together they are called the Mysterious.” As a color, the Mysterious is dark and subtle, red containing black; Yin and Yang blend and mingle, returning to the One. The Classic of Changes says: “One Yin and one Yang: this is called the Dao. The unfathomable transformation of Yin and Yang is called spirit.” Yin and Yang, like presence and absence, return to the One. But to be one with the One is not yet to be wondrous in the One; to be wondrous in the One is not yet to be wondrous in the many; to be wondrous in the many is not yet to be wondrous in myself and in things. Thus, “spirit” is a name for the wondrous way that encompasses all things.

When the Mysterious is mysterious again and again, there is nothing among the One and the many, myself and things, that is not wondrous. This is what is called the Gateway to All Wonders. That is why Laozi begins the first chapter with the meaning of “Mysterious upon Mysterious,” expressing the ultimate principle beyond which nothing can be added. It is profound and far-reaching. Students should devote themselves fully to understanding it.

Plain-Language Interpretation

I. What Is Meant by “Constant”?

If something is so at one time and not at another, if it endures here but not there, or if it was so in the past but is not so now, it cannot be called “constant.”

II. Before the Dao Took Form as De

Before the Dao appeared as De, it was undifferentiated and indistinct, containing all things as one. What it held within could be hard or soft, full or empty, short or long. It appeared in response to whatever it encountered, taking myriad different forms, yet it did not attach itself to any particular response, event, or thing. What, then, could it encounter without responding to it? What could it act upon without bringing to completion? Thus there was no distinction between this and that, or between past and present. Those who understood the Dao grasped its essential meaning and explained it clearly. They called that which was so in every case “constant.”

III. The Dao Took Form as De, and De Became Names

When the Dao appeared as De, De became manifest in names: benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and wisdom. These are all ways in which the Dao finds expression. But once its traces are impressed upon particular events and names are assigned to particular things, it becomes attached and limited. This De cannot extend to that De, and this name cannot be used as another name. Thus any “Dao that can be spoken of” is no longer the constant Dao, and any “name that can be named” is naturally no longer a constant name.

IV. “The Nameless” as the Beginning of Heaven and Earth

“The nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth.” Heaven and Earth govern the transformations of things and the cycles of opening and closing; within the world, they are already the greatest. Laozi, however, established a level beyond Heaven and Earth, called it “the nameless,” and said that this “nameless” could be called the beginning of Heaven and Earth. Confucian scholars often suspect claims of this sort of being empty exaggeration.

Yet the two primary forces in the Classic of Changes are Heaven and Earth, and what gives rise to them is the Supreme Ultimate (Taiji). The Supreme Ultimate is neither Heaven nor Earth, yet it can encompass both and stand at their central pivot. At that time there was no form to observe and no number to count, so Laozi gave it another name: “the nameless.” In its place within the order of things, Laozi’s “nameless” corresponds precisely to the Supreme Ultimate. “Ultimate” means the furthest limit; the Supreme Ultimate can reach beyond where Heaven and Earth can reach. The name “nameless” means “before there are signs”—for Heaven and Earth have not yet appeared. The names differ, but the underlying principle is the same.

V. The Author Anticipates Later Doubts

The author also knew that later generations would surely doubt this point. The Liezi therefore offers a related explanation, which continues below according to its original meaning.

Someone asks himself a question and then answers it, roughly as follows: If “things with form arise from the formless,” where did Heaven and Earth come from? This amounts to admitting that “Nothing” first gave rise to Heaven and Earth. Liezi knew that readers would surely find this puzzling, so when explaining the word “then” he said that, before Heaven and Earth came into being, several “images” already existed within “Nothing.” There were four levels, called Great Change, Great Origin, Great Beginning, and Great Simplicity, in ascending sequence. At this stage, Qi, form, and substance were all present but had not yet separated; this can only be described as a state of undifferentiated wholeness. Only after further movement and transformation did the light, clear Qi become Heaven and the heavy, turbid Qi become Earth. The Taiji, or Supreme Ultimate, abides in emptiness, encompassing the clear and the turbid, and stands on its own in a state of Wuwei (non-action) and peerlessness. Is this not precisely the state of undifferentiated wholeness and Nothingness? Laozi established the name “Nothing” and placed it before Heaven and Earth, in accord with the principles of the Changes.

“Named Being” is the mother of the myriad things; later, the text also says, “All things under Heaven arise from Being, and Being arises from Nothing.” When still in the state of “Nothing,” there is only emptiness and obscurity. All “Being” arises from it, so the claim that “Nothing can begin Heaven and Earth” is understandable. But once it enters the state of “Being,” how does it differ from particular things, and how can it still “give birth to things”? The answer is that this is probably the moment when Nothing has begun to stir but has not yet transformed into the myriad things. The boundary between them lies precisely at the point when undifferentiated wholeness is about to stir but has not yet manifested: it is about to be called “Nothing,” yet is no longer pure Nothingness; it is about to be called a “thing,” yet has not acquired form or substance. So, taking account of this subtlety, it is called “Being.” By the time the myriad things have flourished and are called “the myriad things,” their forms have congealed and their substances have taken shape. This is true of Heaven and Earth, the sun and moon, rain and dew, mountains and rivers, plants, animals and people, and implements: all have form and substance, and so are more than merely nameable as “Being.” Laozi describes this “Being” by changing its name three times while referring to the same principle: expressed in terms of number, it is “One”—One can give rise to all numbers but has not yet become the many; expressed in terms of form, it is “image”; and in relation to implements, it is “uncarved wood.” Image and uncarved wood both refer to the time before form and implements have congealed. Thus this is the moment above which there is no longer Nothingness, but below which things have not yet come into being.

“Being” refers to an existence without distinctions between past and present, or between self and other, and yet it has always been the source from which the myriad things arise. That is why the text later says: “The world has a beginning; regard it as the mother of the world.” Zhuangzi’s thinking about “the origin of things” probably rests on this same idea.

Laozi knew that this was hard to explain all at once. So, moving from a general account to a more detailed one, he offered this summary: There is something formed in undifferentiated wholeness that existed before Heaven and Earth. It is still and empty, stands alone without changing, and moves in cycles without ceasing. It may be regarded as the mother of the world. I do not know its name; for lack of a better term, I call it the Dao, and, again for lack of a better term, I call it Great.

“Formed in undifferentiated wholeness” means that things are still blended together, not yet divided or distinguished. It is the state in which “being” and “nonbeing” have just become one and have not yet separated. “Before Heaven and Earth” means that Heaven and Earth themselves took shape and began here. It stands on its own and flows without end; taken together, these qualities make it the mother of the world, so indeed nothing is not its offspring. These three ideas—undifferentiated formation, existing before Heaven and Earth, and being the mother of the world—together encompass the origins of every event and every thing in the world.

Where the Six Classics have already explained a subject fully, Laozi often leaves it largely unelaborated. Where they have not pursued it to its limits, he develops it in detail, taking a more winding path. The Six Classics discuss the governance of the world and reach their highest point when they speak of the Dao. Laozi, however, distinguishes further levels above the Dao, the Mother, and Heaven and Earth: “nonbeing,” “the Mysterious,” and “the Mysterious beyond the Mysterious.” The dividing line lies here: beyond these three, nothing can be spoken or named. Yet if there is no name to call it by, where can words find a foothold when one wishes to speak from this point and awaken those who have not yet understood? Laozi therefore goes beyond what can be “spoken of” or “named,” and establishes the two terms “being” and “nonbeing” as vessels for conveying his central teaching. This is the guiding principle of his doctrine.

Once the two meanings of “being” and “nonbeing” have been established, readers can follow the text’s words wherever they lead. When it speaks of “nonbeing,” they understand that it points to what came before Heaven and Earth; when it speaks of “being,” they understand that it points beyond the outward forms of the myriad things. Thus, though the book ranges widely, turns through many twists, and covers numerous topics, it never goes beyond these two meanings, “being” and “nonbeing.”

The Six Classics, in fact, have already spoken of “being” and “nonbeing.” What distinguishes them from Laozi is that they never treat this pair of concepts on its own as a subject for dedicated discussion.

When Laozi speaks of “non-action,” “no direction,” and “no form,” he is speaking of “nothingness.” Yet he does not discard thought, action, direction, and form altogether, leaving nothingness standing alone. He makes his argument from the time before creation had taken on any shape or sign, when even thought, action, direction, and form had not yet shown the slightest hint of emerging. Understood this way, he truly stands on the side of nothingness. But if one places all the Six Classics—the Confucian classics—at the stage after things have already taken shape, the vision may be lofty and far-reaching, yet it seems to describe something that does not exist in the world, with its meaning merely entrusted to words.

In fact, the distinctions in Laozi’s book are clear, with examples and principles set out throughout that can be checked one by one. Confucian teaching can also be brought into accord with it. This is not like the interpretations of Laozi common in the world, which fail to distinguish between Dao and the concrete forms that embody it, forcing shallow ideas into what is profound. They appear to exalt Laozi, but in truth they muddle and obscure him.

Why not test the matter against concrete examples, starting with the plain and familiar? Zhang Liang’s composure, Cao Shen’s quiet restraint, and Emperor Wen of Han’s few words and limited activity—do they not show that “Laozi’s way may not have worked in Zhou, but began to take effect in Han”? In putting Laozi’s thought into practice, these three—a ruler and two ministers—were models for all ages. Could they really have been unconcerned with affairs of the world? They simply refused to be held captive by human desire. Though they may not have fully conformed to the way of “valuing nothingness,” they were still able to “gather emptiness and calm disturbance,” and not be led about by names, things, and mundane affairs.

In the Western Jin, some people cast aside ritual, music, punishments, and government, and spoke only of “nothingness.” The guiding principles and laws fell into ruin, and the Jin court descended into chaos. Those who read Laozi must therefore understand that within Wuwei (non-action), there is naturally “nothing left undone.” Only then can they see why Han and Jin, though both drew on Laozi, produced entirely different results.

As for those who recklessly speak of “inaction,” adopt the titles of Daoist adepts, use emptiness to embellish absurdities, and invent tales of ascension to immortality and the rewards and punishments that follow, none of this comes from Laozi’s own words. Tracing these ideas to their origins, talk of “immortals” arose in the Warring States period, while prayers at shrines and claims of divine retribution flourished under the Han. Not one of these appears in the eighty-one chapters of Laozi. Should those who study Laozi take the text of the eighty-one chapters as their guide, or the fantastic claims added and embellished in later ages? The answer is self-evident.

Quite so. Should rulers and ministers take Zhang Liang, Cao Shen, and Emperor Wen as their constant models? Or should they look to the debauchery of the Western Jin and the bizarre legends of later ages as standards to follow? The examples that should serve as lessons or warnings are already plain to see.

“Ever free of desire, one observes its mystery; ever possessed of desire, one observes its boundaries.” Only what can give rise to “being” from “nonbeing” without claiming to be “being” can remain constantly in “nonbeing.” Only what can bring forth and nurture the myriad things from “being” without claiming to be a “thing” can remain constantly in “being.” Why? Because only what has not yet taken form and remains uninterrupted can be constant. As for what takes shape through the transformations of nature and emerges from the Great Dao as De, benevolence, righteousness, and ritual all belong to the realm of “things.” As a “thing,” if it remains concentrated and undispersed, it may be called “being”; once dispersed, it returns to “nonbeing.”

Thus, once something proceeds from “being” and takes itself to be a “thing,” anything that has ever taken shape cannot preserve its “being” of its own accord. The myriad things all arise together, flourishing in profusion; when they return to the root and wither, that outcome may come at any moment. Since what already exists cannot be held on to, after returning to life’s source and becoming still, once the spring earth swells with vitality and things again emerge in profusion, they cannot stop themselves. They can only find refuge within “nonbeing.”

The gains and losses of the world’s learning about the Dao, and the merits and faults of implements such as wheel spokes and doors and windows, all follow the same principle. Thus, none of the “being” or “nonbeing” found in the world is sufficient to exhaust the inner and outer aspects of the Great Dao.

As for “constant nonbeing,” it is the Dao, contained within and not yet manifested. “Constant being” is the Dao already in motion, tending toward manifestation. Both “make things things without being made into things by them,” and so can encompass the whole process of life and transformation without becoming trapped in it. Since they occupy the position that encompasses all, and embrace both substance and function, the beginning and end of the Great Dao can be sought through them.

“Mystery” refers to the depths of transformation, from which all that exists emerges; it is the domain encompassed by “constant nonbeing.” “Boundary” means a limit, like the frontier at the edges of China. Since “nonbeing” has emerged as “being,” and “being” must in turn emerge as “things,” it cannot remain forever in the depths but must always occupy a boundary. With these two meanings established, the inner and outer aspects of the Great Dao can be examined. By grasping “constant nonbeing” and entering into accord with it, one can investigate the mystery from which all that exists emerges and see its inner aspect. By grasping “constant being” and entering into accord with it, one can trace the boundaries through which all things come to be and see their outward forms.

Born into the world, people tend to see only the surface of things. This is why Laozi placed special importance on “constant Nonbeing” and “constant Being”: through them, we can understand the inner and outer aspects of the Dao (the Way).

Zhuangzi said, “Those who see Being were the gentlemen of old; those who see Nonbeing are friends of Heaven and Earth.” This expresses the same principle.

The Book of Changes says, “What is above form is called the Dao; what is below form is called a vessel.”

The Dao is the vessel, and the vessel is the Dao. They differ only in the levels at which they appear; they are not two entirely separate things.

The “Mystery” and the “Manifestation” discussed here correspond to what the Book of Changes calls “above form” and “below form.”

Laozi chose “Mystery” and “Manifestation” instead of “above” and “below” because he wanted to develop his own terminology. Yet the principle he ultimately points to is hardly different from that of the Book of Changes.

Among the things in the world, how could anything stand above without support beneath it? And how could anything have an inner aspect without an outer appearance?

The Dao and vessels, Nonbeing and Being, depend on one another and become clear through their relationship. Laozi uses these comparisons so that we understand: when he speaks of the Mystery, he has not left out the Manifestation, the concrete appearance of things.

“Constant Being” and “constant Nonbeing” arise from the same source but have different names. What appears within “constant Nonbeing” is the Manifestation; what is contained within “constant Being” is the Mystery.

Once they have appeared, Being and Nonbeing can certainly be distinguished. Before they appear, however, they are blended together without separation. That is why it is said that these two are the same.

Being the same means being one. This “One” is not yet one thing among the myriad things that come later. It is the One in the saying “the One gives rise to Two, Two gives rise to Three”—the One that has not yet unfolded into the myriad things.

The Book of Changes, the Five Classics, the Analects, and the Mencius all speak of the One, but rarely explain what makes it one. Laozi and his disciples discuss this in particular detail.

They call it “formed in a blend,” “undivided wholeness,” or “chaos”: all these terms refer to a state not yet divided into two.

Before it appears, it is called “the same.” With no counterpart to stand against it, it is called “the solitary.” Because it does not change, it is called “constant.” Each name takes hold of the whole and clarifies how people should follow it.

When Being has emerged from the source but has not yet become a concrete thing, other names are introduced to make it understood: “the One,” “the Uncarved Block,” and “the Image.” Each conveys the sense of all things contained in a unified whole, and each is named according to the aspect through which it is expressed.

Laozi therefore explains the Dao in this area with particular care. Though his words may differ greatly from Confucian teachings on the surface, Confucians cannot help drawing on his insights into the Mystery.

Those who understand the Dao can use differences to illuminate what is shared and to enrich one another. Only those with a shallow understanding of the Dao claim that the followers of Confucius and Laozi do not belong to the same tradition.

It is like passing by someone’s front gate without knowing that beyond it lie a hall and inner chambers.

“Both are called mysterious”: Among the five colors, black is called mysterious. The sky’s original nature is mysterious because it has no ultimate limit. The Great Mystery points directly to “nothing”—to what has no thing that can be named. In winter, all things return to their roots and renew their life, yet the boundaries of the fields cannot be seen. This state is called mysterious: mystery means what is deep and remote. Liezi’s phrase “Change has no form” accords with this interpretation.

“Both are called mysterious” means that being and nonbeing are joined together, undivided in primordial chaos. Only then can they be called deep and remote. Once signs have appeared and faint forms have emerged, nonbeing is truly concealed within “nonbeing,” while being takes shape within “being.” As soon as boundaries begin to arise, the state can no longer be called mysterious.

“Mystery upon mystery, the gateway to all wonders”: When all things are joined in obscurity with nonbeing, they have reached the utmost. Yet beyond this there is another layer of mystery. Advancing one step beyond nonbeing is mystery, deeper still; beyond mystery lies “mystery upon mystery.” What is the principle behind this? Liezi and Zhuangzi had already explained it.

Liezi speaks of Great Change, Great Beginning, Great Origin, and Great Simplicity. These are the starting points from which Qi, form, and substance arise. Only after passing through these four stages in order do the light and pure become heaven, and the heavy and turbid become earth. Follow the sequence: beyond “being” lies “nonbeing”; beyond “nonbeing” lies “mystery”; beyond “mystery” lies “mystery upon mystery.” The progression can be understood.

Zhuangzi says, “There is that which is ‘being,’ and that which is ‘nonbeing’”—these are Laozi’s “constant nonbeing” and “constant being.” He then says, “There was that which had not yet begun to have nonbeing”—this is Laozi’s “mystery.” And he says, “There was that which had not yet begun to have what had not yet begun to have nonbeing”—this is “mystery upon mystery.” These are principles perceived in the mind, for which the world has no ready-made names; one can only express them indirectly, by stretching the meaning of words.

When Laozi speaks of “stillness, emptiness, depth, and obscurity,” he is really describing the states of mystery and mystery upon mystery. Zhuangzi expands on this with “dark silence and vast obscurity.” Only “constant nonbeing” can gather together the wonders of all things. Thus “mystery upon mystery” should be the source from which all wonders emerge. The later phrase “the multitude of beginnings,” and Zhuangzi’s “the hundred flourishing things” and “the multitude of beauties,” follow the same pattern: they take their model from this wonder and stand in contrast to clarity.

A discussion: Since the time when written records and tallies first came into use…

A Plain-Language Interpretation

On “Sagely Wisdom, Benevolence, and Righteousness,” the Classic of Changes, and the Five Classics

The teachings of sagely wisdom, benevolence, and righteousness took their point of departure from the Zhouyi (Classic of Changes), and were put into practice through the way of governing the world represented by the Five Classics, the Three Rites, and the Six Classics. From antiquity to the present, people everywhere have relied on these teachings to sustain their lives, just as they rely on grain and cloth: with them, they can live; without them, they cannot. Nothing else could simply be substituted for them.

Laozi Seems to Reject Sagely Wisdom, Benevolence, and Righteousness

Laozi set out a different teaching, seemingly insisting that people abandon sagely wisdom, benevolence, and righteousness and return to the simplicity of ancient times, when records were kept by tying knots. Those who regarded the Six Classics as orthodox learning often joined forces to reject him and call his book heretical.

Yet Why Could the Five Thousand Words Not Be Discarded?

And yet the five thousand words of the Daodejing often stood alongside the Six Classics, and in the end could not be abolished. Why was that?

The Six Classics Focus on Implements; Laozi Focuses on the Dao

The Six Classics discuss rites, laws, and institutions. They write mostly about concrete human affairs, objects, and norms—what the ancients called “implements”—while saying relatively little about the Dao itself. Laozi, by contrast, seeks to explain the subtle essence of the Dao as fully as possible, often leaving concrete objects and institutions aside. The two differ in how much detail they give, but the Dao is contained in implements, and the Dao gives rise to implements. They cannot be forcibly separated into two things.

Why Do Those Seeking the Dao Often Draw on Laozi’s Words?

People generally seek the Dao by progressing step by step from elementary learning toward deeper understanding. At the most subtle level, the Six Classics often stop short of saying everything. Laozi, however, once gave voice as fully as he could to what lay within him. So when those who have gained some understanding of the Dao cannot find enough in the Six Classics to confirm what they have learned, they often draw on Laozi’s words to develop the argument. The teachings may seem opposed on the surface, yet the Dao they convey often proceeds side by side without conflict. There is a reason for this.

This Principle Is So Subtle That Dachang Explains It Through Farming

Dachang, the author, says: This principle is so subtle that it is hard to explain fully in a single sentence. He therefore uses the simplest and most familiar example, one drawn from everyday life, so that anyone can understand.

Farmers are the foundation of the world, and their work is among the plainest and most tangible of human activities. The teachings of the Six Classics speak to them about when to plow and when to harvest, and about farming tools such as plows and hoes. In this sense, they speak increasingly of what lies “below form,” of things that resemble implements.

Yet the wondrous workings of the four seasons are embodied in these farming tasks and tools; the seeds of the hundred grains mature and bear fruit through this labor. The mysteries of the vital energy of Heaven and Earth may enter a realm beyond words, but they must still become visible through these concrete functions. How could anyone say that the Dao is absent from implements simply because it is embodied in them?

Laozi and the Governance of Farming

Laozi did indeed have a distinctive understanding of the Dao, probing its subtleties to their utmost. He said nothing, of course, about the policies and teachings governing spring plowing and autumn harvest. But in writing his book, he spoke of the myriad things flourishing and returning to their roots, of life returning to its source, and of transformations without end—each with its own means of sowing, harvesting, nurturing, and cutting down. Laozi… (the original ends or is incomplete here)

Note: This passage comes from a discussion in volume two of the Collected Commentaries on the True Classic of the Dao. Its central concern is to reconcile the Six Classics, which address rites, laws, and practical implements, with Laozi, who addresses the substance of the Dao. They may seem opposed, but “implements carry the Dao, and the Dao gives rise to implements”; therefore, the Daodejing stands alongside the Six Classics and cannot be discarded. The final farming analogy shows that the Dao should not be denied simply because it is present in humble, ordinary implements.

A Plain-Language Interpretation

1. On How to Read the Laozi

Since ancient times, people have offered many different interpretations of the Laozi, without reaching agreement. Yet when it comes to explaining its subtle and mysterious ideas—the pivotal processes by which Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things come into being and change, and the source in which Dao and De are contained—people instead feel that the Laozi speaks too plainly. They keep wanting to ask: Why can Heaven and Earth be what they are? Why can “mysterious nonbeing” be “mysterious nonbeing”? To satisfy this urge to pursue things to their roots, they may feel that the Laozi is at odds with the Confucian Six Classics.

Yet Master Dachang once tried to seek what Laozi left unsaid in what he said plainly, and to find the profound meaning that could not help but appear in the places where Laozi refused to speak directly. Seen this way, Laozi did not cast aside De, benevolence, righteousness, or ritual; nor did he reject taxes, military force and punishments, chickens and dogs, boats and carts. Although Laozi esteemed “nonbeing,” he never abandoned “being.”

The first chapter of the Laozi speaks of “mystery upon mystery,” which goes beyond all wonders and governs the emergence of every subtle thing. “Being,” by contrast, is used to perceive the faint signs of things, and stands alongside “wondrousness” and “nonbeing.” How, then, could “being” and “things” ever be divided into two? And how could sage wisdom, benevolence, or righteousness ever be cast aside? Read Laozi from this perspective and it becomes clear: within the utmost nonbeing, all things are in fact always contained; and at the beginning of bringing forth the wondrous, there must be traces of practical action. This cannot be denied.

2. Huang Maocai Says

“The Dao that can be spoken of is not the constant Dao; the name that can be named is not the constant name.”

“Constant” means lasting and enduring. The Dao extends from the beginning to the end of Heaven and Earth. How could ordinary people clearly put its lasting and far-reaching nature into words? If the Dao could be spoken, or a name could be given, it would be no more than the shallow understanding of ordinary people, and could not be called the great, constant Dao.

The scripture says, “I do not know its name, so I style it ‘Dao.’” There is only one Dao; how, then, can it be set in opposition to a “name”? Laozi’s intent, perhaps, was to reveal the enduring Dao in detail to people.

“The nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth; the named is the mother of the myriad things.”

Is “nonbeing” truly the beginning of Heaven and Earth and the myriad things? If it really is nonbeing, how could anything begin from it? “Nameless” does not mean “having no name”; it means “beyond description,” and is called this for that reason. Once the myriad things exist, “the named” is likewise only a name assigned to them as a makeshift.

The scripture says, “Vague and indistinct—yet within it there is an image; indistinct and vague—yet within it there is a thing.” It also says, “There is a thing, formless yet complete, born before Heaven and Earth.” These are all expressions that assign names as a makeshift. “Mother” means that which can give birth to the myriad things. Heaven and Earth come first, and only then the myriad things; that is why Heaven and Earth are mentioned first, followed by the myriad things. Such is the order.

“Constantly without desire, one observes its subtlety; constantly with desire, one observes its traces.”

The two emerge from the same source but have different names; together they are called “mystery.” The scripture speaks of “not desiring”—not desiring what? Not coveting—and it also speaks of “few desires.” This shows that desire may exist; it simply should not be excessive. If we now say “without desire,” that differs from the meaning of the scripture.

This passage explores the relationship between "having desire" (you yu) and "being desireless" (wu yu). While desirelessness aligns with the constant state of the Dao, the text reveals that desire itself is also a natural manifestation of the Dao's workings. Since the emergence of all things, whether nine-orificed creatures born from wombs or eight-orificed beings hatched from eggs, all perpetuate life through desire in an endless cycle. Thus, desire too represents the Dao's normative expression.

Common understanding recognizes that "non-being" (wu) originates from the Dao, yet few realize "being" (you) equally springs from the same source. Both states emerge from the same profound root—the mysterious "Xuan" that signifies the Dao's inscrutable essence. This mystical origin ceaselessly transforms, serving as the very gateway to all wonders.

The subsequent dialogue between Nanbo Zikui and the female Daoist Yu illustrates the progressive transmission of Daoist realization: beginning with written records (the "children of auxiliary ink"), advancing through oral transmission (the "grandchildren of Luoyang recitation"), then direct witnessing (zhanming) and personal hearing (niexu), further deepening through practical cultivation (xuyi) and poetic inspiration (yu'ou), until reaching the mysterious darkness (xuanming) and vast emptiness (canliao), ultimately arriving at primordial contemplation (yishi) of cosmic origins. This progression demonstrates how deeper investigation of the Dao reveals inexhaustible profundities. Yu's understanding traces back to the universe's inception, embodying the Dao's mystery within mystery—the very reason it's called "the gateway to all wonders."

This exposition unveils the Daoist dialectic between being and non-being, while mapping the practitioner's gradual awakening to the Great Dao through ascending stages of realization.