《文始經言外旨》

The Wenshi Jing Yanwai Zhi is a commentary by the Song Dynasty Daoist Chen Xianwei on the Wenshi Zhenjing (Scripture of Perfect Beginning) attributed to Master Guan Yin (Yin Xi, disciple of Laozi). This passage expounds the core teachings of the "Chapter on the One Universe" (where "universe" symbolizes the great Dao).

It begins by stating: The true Dao cannot be described in words—whatever can be spoken is not the eternal Dao. The Dao also transcends thought—whatever can be conceived is not the genuine Dao. Though heaven and earth undergo violent transformations and human affairs appear complex, with phenomena seemingly caught in endless cycles of conflict, these are but superficial appearances rather than essential reality. People debate the Dao, define it, praise it, investigate it, distance themselves from it yet pursue it. Yet describing it with words is like blowing at shadows; comprehending it through thought resembles carving dust—even the wisdom of sages loses its way here, and spirits cannot fathom the Dao's true form.

Chen Xianwei explains: When Laozi states "The Dao that can be spoken is not the eternal Dao," many misinterpret Guan Yinzi's original meaning. To say "there exists a Dao beyond speech" already separates the Dao from language. We should understand that "the ineffable itself is the Dao," thus unifying speech and the Dao. This parallels saying "emptiness that can be emptied is not true emptiness"—genuine emptiness transcends even the concept of "emptiness" itself.

This passage emphasizes that ultimate truth surpasses all linguistic constructs, and our habitual modes of thinking and expression may obscure realization of the Dao. Practitioners must transcend the limitations of language and conceptual thought to directly merge with the ineffable reality.

This scripture primarily discusses the nature and expression of the Dao (the Way). The author clarifies that true "absolute emptiness" (referring to the essence of Dao) does not signify mere nothingness, but rather a realm transcending verbal concepts. The Dao that can be spoken of is not the eternal, unchanging Dao—just as one may contemplate the nature of mind, the true Dao cannot be grasped through deliberate effort.

Laozi employs the term "constant" (常) to describe the Dao, fearing people might misunderstand his teaching as differing from ordinary conceptions. In truth, this "constant Dao" is the universal truth that permeates heaven and earth, surpassing time and space. The moment it is articulated in words, it deviates from its essential nature. The name "Dao" is but a forced designation for what ultimately cannot be named. This is the meaning behind Laozi's statement: "The Dao that can be spoken is not the eternal Dao; the name that can be named is not the eternal name."

Guan Yinzi (Laozi's disciple) further elaborates this idea: the Dao cannot be expressed through language, nor even fathomed through thought. What can be spoken or contemplated belongs to the human realm, while the true Dao pertains to the realm of "heaven" (nature). Though humans and heaven may appear distinct, fundamentally, humans are part of nature. Yet one cannot simplistically equate humanity with heaven, for while natural phenomena flow spontaneously, human affairs are fraught with contradictions—some seemingly similar yet opposite, some conflicting, and others deceptive in appearance.

This passage reveals the Daoist core understanding of the Dao: the ultimate truth that transcends language and thought, unifying heaven and humanity. It can neither be fully expressed in words nor simplistically equated with nature.

People often find themselves trapped in various contradictory states: some engage in constant strife, scheming against each other day and night; others withdraw into isolation, cutting off contact with the world; some are quick to scold and rage; others marvel or exclaim loudly; some choose to flee and avoid; while others deliberately flatter and please. The myriad things of heaven and earth and the diverse human conditions are inherently varied—how can they be measured by a single standard?

Now, some attempt to comprehend the great Dao (the fundamental truth of the universe) using human language and thought, but this is as futile as blowing at a shadow or carving on dust. Even when sages with their wisdom sought to create it, they were bewildered; when ghosts and spirits tried to fathom it, they could not recognize it. Precisely because it cannot be forced, it is called "Heaven" (natural law); because it cannot be measured, it is called "Ming" (destiny); because it cannot be divided, it is called "Xuan" (profound essence). These four characteristics are reluctantly combined and referred to as the "Dao."

In truth, there is not a single thing that lacks the quality of "Heaven," not a single thing that lacks the quality of "Ming," not a single thing that lacks the quality of "Shen" (spirit), and not a single thing that lacks the quality of "Xuan." All things are like this, and humans are no exception. Every person can be called "Heaven," every person can be called "Shen," and everyone can comprehend destiny and penetrate the profound. Do not think that what is Heaven over there is not Heaven here, or that what is Shen there is not Shen here. Those who truly understand the Dao can recognize the way of Heaven in any single thing, exhaust its divine wonders, comprehend destiny, and grasp the profound.

In learning, one must avoid being misled by different names and thus splitting the essence; in realization, one must forget the differences in names and grasp the shared substance. When Laozi speaks of the "Dao," he follows it with "Chang Wu" (the eternal formless) to observe its mysteries and "Chang You" (the eternal formed) to observe its boundaries—both are called "Xuan," and "Xuan upon Xuan" is the gateway to all wonders. Guan Yinzi (a disciple of Laozi), fearing that learners would cling to name distinctions and split the essence, particularly emphasized that Heaven, Ming, Shen, and Xuan are unified in all things.

Every single thing is like this, and every person is inherently complete. What are called "miao" (wondrous), "wei" (subtle), and "xuan" (profound) exist in all things and are possessed by all people. Those who truly realize this can grasp their shared substance and forget the differences in names. When one reaches the state of "Xuan upon Xuan," they may enter the Dao.

Observing the great Dao is like looking at water: if one feels that a pond is insufficient, they go to see rivers, lakes, and seas, saying that this is the true water. Yet they fail to realize that the fluids, saliva, and tears within their own bodies are also water. If one uses the method of "looking at water" to observe the Dao, they separate themselves from water. The broader the scope of observation, the farther one strays. In truth, one need only turn inward and reflect—the Dao is right within us.

The body's fluids—saliva, tears, and other secretions—are like rivers, lakes, and oceans within us, all manifestations of water's presence. Only the ignorant fail to recognize this truth.

The Dao (cosmic origin) itself makes no distinction between self and other. Sages do not judge who follows the Dao and who strays from it. The Dao has no self-awareness, and thus sages refrain from labeling who cultivates it or regresses. Precisely because the Dao does not cling to "having," it never falls into "nothingness." Precisely because it does not strive to attain the Dao, it never loses it.

The moment we differentiate others, we set ourselves in opposition to them. The moment we fixate on the self, we sever our connection to the Dao. How could the true "I" ever possess the Dao? How could it ever "attain" it? Only those who do not cling to the notion of "having a self" can truly embody "not lacking a self." Only those who do not deliberately pursue "gaining the self" will never lose their true nature. How could such a state resemble worldly affairs with their successes and failures? Those who claim to have attained the Dao are unworthy of even discussing it.

Those who speculate ignorantly about the Dao are like people guessing what lies beneath an overturned bowl: some guess high, declaring it gold or jade; others guess mid-range, suggesting horns or feathers; still others guess low, proposing tiles or stones. Only the one who placed the object knows the truth. If nothing was placed beneath the bowl at all, the guessers waste their effort—it becomes a game where one sets the riddle and another tries to solve it.

The real problem is this: people set riddles for themselves (using material desires as the bowl and consciousness as the lid), then try to guess the answer, only to realize they’ve forgotten what they placed there. Even with great wisdom, they cannot solve their own puzzle. Why? Because they forgot at the very moment of setting it. They assume someone else posed the riddle, and so they spend their lives guessing blindly. Only by lifting the bowl of desire and shattering the lid of consciousness can they see the "object" beneath—only then do they realize no one else set the riddle. All their earlier guesses—gold, jade, horns, feathers, tiles, stones—were delusions. Alas, what truly lies beneath the bowl? Practitioners must not mistake emptiness for confusion.

Just as a potter creates countless vessels, yet no vessel can recreate the potter or harm them; just as the great Dao gives birth to all things, yet no thing can recreate the Dao or destroy it.

The Wenshi Jing (Scripture of Master Wenshi) explores the relationship between "vessels" (concrete things) and the "Dao" (fundamental principle). It states: How can concrete objects create pottery? And how can they damage pottery? Similarly, how can phenomena create the Dao? And how can they damage the Dao? In truth, concrete objects cannot create pottery, yet to say pottery isn't composed of concrete things would also be wrong; phenomena cannot create the Dao, yet to claim the Dao doesn't manifest through phenomena would equally be mistaken.

Vessels cannot truly damage pottery—only other vessels can; phenomena cannot truly damage the Dao—only other phenomena can. As long as vessels exist, pottery exists; as long as phenomena exist, the Dao exists. If all vessels were removed, where would pottery be? If all phenomena were eliminated, where would the Dao reside?

The truly skilled potter isn't confined by specific vessels; the genuine knower of Dao isn't bound by particular phenomena. The supreme potter focuses on pottery-making without clinging to individual objects; the supreme Dao-realizer concentrates on the Dao itself without attachment to specific manifestations. Such a person, when making pottery, doesn't consciously think they're making pottery; when realizing the Dao, doesn't consciously think they're realizing the Dao.

The Dao is so vast it's difficult to comprehend, the mind so free it's unconstrained, and the myriad things so mutable they lack fixed form—like fleeting lightning or drifting dust. The sage understands that mind, phenomena, and Dao are ultimately one, neither using unity to negate multiplicity nor multiplicity to disrupt unity.

To perceive phenomena is to perceive mind—without phenomena, mind cannot manifest; to perceive mind is to perceive Dao—without mind, Dao cannot manifest. Some say "attain Dao through no-mind"—is this correct? Others claim "no-mind still has one barrier"—is this credible? The key lies in: When you see mind through phenomena, have you truly comprehended? When phenomena are absent, where is mind?

Someone asks: Can mind be seen? The answer: Mind itself cannot be seen. They ask: Then can Dao be seen? The counterquestion: Do you consider Dao and mind as one or two? The reply: Mind and Dao can be unified. They ask: Can phenomena be unified with Dao and mind? The response: Would you use what's not unified to damage unity?

It's like using a basin as a pond and stones as islands—fish swimming within wouldn't exhaust their journey even after millions of miles. Why? Because water has neither source nor destination. The Dao of sages is likewise—originally without beginning or end, thus able to respond to all things without ever being exhausted.

This scripture conveys two main teachings: first, the origin of the Dao (the Way), and second, the methods for seeking it.

First, regarding the origin of the Dao. Most people understand the evolution of all things through three stages: Taisu (primordial matter), Taishi (primordial form), and Taichu (primordial Qi). They assume these represent the ultimate origin. However, the scripture reveals that prior to Taichu exists a more fundamental stage called "Taiyi," where not even Qi has yet emerged. Taiyi represents the true state of having neither beginning nor end, without source or destination. It's like climbing a hundred-foot pole—when reaching the top, one assumes it's the end, yet there's still further to go.

Next, it discusses methods for seeking the Dao. People commonly pursue the Dao through five approaches: love (associated with Water), observation (Fire), pursuit (Wood), speech (Metal), and thought (Earth). But attachment to any single method leads one astray from the true path. Like a fish mistaking shimmering reflections on water for food, only to be caught by a fisherman. The true sage doesn't reject these methods but practices "using without clinging"—loving without indulgence, observing without fixation, pursuing without forcing, speaking without rigidity, and thinking without obsession. The key lies in maintaining a pure and undisturbed original mind.

Finally, it points out that sages and ordinary people share the same fundamental nature; the difference is that a sage's mind doesn't stir arbitrarily. Just as fish lose their way when the sky is clouded over, mistaking reflections on water for food and falling into traps, so too do those who deliberately seek the Dao. They become easily misled by extraordinary phenomena, mistaking unusual sights encountered along the path for the Dao itself, thereby drifting further from it.

This scripture discusses the dialectical relationship between "attachment" and "Wuwei (non-action)" in the cultivation of Dao. It first points out that those who truly comprehend the state of "no-self" will even relinquish the very concept of "mind," making deliberate pursuit entirely unnecessary. Someone might ask: Isn't diligent spiritual practice itself a form of pursuit? The response is: While acquiring knowledge indeed requires accumulation (as learning increases daily), the path of Dao operates conversely—it demands continuous reduction (as Dao decreases daily) until reaching the state of Wuwei. This condition of accomplishing all without deliberate action represents true spiritual progress.

The world offers numerous cultivation methods: some advocate concealment, others emphasize visibility; some stress strength, while others revere gentleness. Attachment to any single method confines one to the level of "technique"; only by non-attachment can one approach the essence of Dao. For instance, some cultivate insight through listening to sounds (contemplating the sound of Guanyin), others practice through luminosity (radiance), some refine the body through movement, while others nurture their nature through stillness—all these methods can lead to Dao. Yet once one becomes rigidly attached, they paradoxically deviate from the Great Dao. The difference between attachment and non-attachment is truly vast.

Dao itself cannot be obtained or practiced. What we can acquire is De (Virtue/Power), and what we can perform is action. Sages use obtainable De and practicable actions to perfect life (perfecting our living), while employing the unobtainable and impracticable Dao to transcend life and death (perfecting our dying). Dao cannot be separated from us for even a moment—what can be separated is not Dao. Things like virtuous conduct that can be acquired and practiced inevitably involve gain and loss, continuity and interruption. Only the unobtainable and impracticable Dao is that which must never be parted from—attaining this state means the self becomes completely unified with Dao. The Yijing states: "Dao manifests through the divine operation of virtuous conduct." Though Dao manifests, greater emphasis should be placed on the wondrous functioning of virtuous conduct. Yet none of these constitute the true "Dao"—what can be obtained is "De," and what can be performed is "action."

Practitioners accumulate virtuous conduct without daring to lapse, persisting in cultivation without daring to slacken. Completing three thousand virtuous merits qualifies one to become a celestial immortal of the Great Luo Heaven (the highest Daoist paradise), while perfecting eight hundred good deeds makes one a distinguished guest of Great Luo. These achievements perfect life through the "obtainable and practicable." As for that "unobtainable and impracticable" Dao, it utterly transcends concepts of life and death—this constitutes the genuine liberation from the cycle of birth and death (perfecting our dying).

This scripture primarily discusses the state of being that Dao cultivators should attain and the methods of practice.

On the true meaning of "hearing the Dao" (comprehending the Great Way): Those who truly understand the Dao possess inner clarity but neither deliberately pursue nor cling to it. Forced effort or stubborn pursuit will lead instead to failure and loss. The Dao is not heard with ears, but realized with the heart; it is not transmitted through human effort, but arises spontaneously from nature.

Human states of being are divided into four levels: The highest is the sage who achieves "oblivion of emotions" (completely merging with the Dao, free from dualistic thinking); next comes the virtuous person of "single-minded goodness," followed by the petty person of "single-minded evil." The sage's state is perfectly natural and cannot be described in words, while manifestations of good and evil are obvious and cannot be concealed. Ordinary people and animals alike possess awareness of good and evil; only sages attain the state of no-knowledge and no-perception, merging completely with the Great Void (cosmic origin).

The text cites examples of sages like King Wen, Confucius, and Laozi, showing they all achieved the state of "oblivious emotions." Meanwhile, the benevolent virtues of Yan Hui and Mencius, or the violent evils of Jie and Zhou and the robber Zhi, are all clearly manifested.

Regarding cultivation methods: Do not assume sages attained the Dao through diligence or stubbornness. A sage's actions are like archery—responding to external circumstances rather than forcing action; a sage's persistence is like holding an arrow—maintaining position according to circumstances rather than clinging to fixed views. True sages act according to timing: when movement is called for, they strive tirelessly; when stillness is needed, they maintain steadfast correctness, completely aligning with celestial timing. As the Yijing (Book of Changes) states: whether in movement or stillness, never missing the proper timing—thus the radiance of the Dao naturally manifests.

The core teaching is that Dao cultivation should follow natural wuwei (non-action)—without forced pursuit or rigid opinions, completely harmonizing with the timing of heavenly Dao.

Cultivating the Dao requires grasping the proper timing and opportunity. True sages (those who have attained the Dao) initially do not deliberately pursue movement or stillness—those who understand sages need only observe their wisdom in seizing the right moment.

If one seeks the Dao solely through external forms such as words, actions, learning, or knowledge, it is like running in circles, forever missing the moment of attainment. Understand that words are like the sound of a mountain spring—there is no need to distinguish right from wrong. Understand that actions are like birds in flight—no need to ponder good or evil. Understand that learning is like catching shadows—impossible to verify gain or loss. Understand that knowledge is like calculating dreams—no concrete truth can be found. In this way, one can speak yet forget words, act yet forget actions, study yet forget learning, and perceive yet forget knowledge. This is how one draws near to the Dao.

Someone may ask, "Then can the Dao still be pursued?" The answer is: Deliberate pursuit is not true pursuit; non-deliberate pursuit is the real seeking. Thus, the moment one ceases to cling, the Dao naturally aligns with you.

Establishing things through concrete effort is difficult, but letting go of things through the principles of the Dao is easy. All worldly phenomena are hard to build up but easy to destroy. People strive to create, unafraid of the difficulty, because such active achievements can be grasped—though establishing them is hard, the doing seems easy. Yet when it comes to releasing things through the Dao, people fear it, unaware that it is actually simple, because this effortless work cannot be grasped—though attainment is easy, the doing seems hard.

From the grandest—establishing the world—to the next level—building nations—down to forming families, cultivating careers, and refining one’s nature, all require the accumulation of virtue (De) and merit, day by day. Some take years, some a lifetime, even generations of diligent practice before success is possible—truly no easy task. But with just one misstep in action, one errant thought, one wrong movement, or a single mistake, the world may collapse, nations may fall, families may be ruined, and lives may be lost—such consequences arrive in the blink of an eye. Thus, establishing is difficult.

This scripture uses the nature of fire as a metaphor for the essence of Dao (the Way). Fire itself has no fixed form—it must attach to other objects to manifest. This resembles the characteristic of Dao, which is formless and imageless yet permeates all things. Just as striking metal and stone or rubbing bamboo and wood can produce fire unexpectedly, Dao appears spontaneously, seeming to exist yet not exist.

Regarding the relationship between life-death and attaining Dao, the author offers profound insight: some people awaken to Dao in a single day (as if "dying" to their old self), while others take ten or a hundred years. Those who appear alive but remain unenlightened are merely occupied with worldly affairs—they are not truly living. Real "death" means relinquishing worldly attachments, for only then can one comprehend the great Dao.

The text emphasizes that Dao itself transcends words and actions. To seek Dao by clinging to external forms or marveling at extraordinary phenomena is like abandoning the source to chase tributaries—one will never find the root. Cultivating speech and conduct may refine one's De (Virtue/Power), but it cannot directly attain Dao. If one forcibly pursues Dao through words and deeds, not only will Dao remain elusive, but even the cultivation of De will be lost.

Finally, it points out that only a true hero, one who lets go of all attachments like "releasing one’s grip from a cliff," can awaken instantly. This metaphor illustrates that enlightenment requires complete surrender of the self—without forced cultivation, one directly merges with Dao.

Those who pursue the Dao yet excessively focus on external displays of virtue will exhaust their mental energies. Believing ordinary good words and deeds insufficient, they chase after extraordinary speech and peculiar behavior, imagining these as shortcuts transcending virtue to reach the great Dao. Practitioners obsessed with such eccentricities—if they fail to awaken and stubbornly mistake these for the true Dao—will inevitably encounter demonic obstructions. As Buddhist and Daoist scriptures warn, not only do such practitioners forever miss the fundamental source, but the resulting harm is beyond description.

Learning archery, charioteering, zither playing, or chess—none can be mastered instantly. Yet the formless, imageless great Dao can be realized in a single moment. Worldly endeavors require great effort, yet people gladly pursue them; the Dao follows natural non-action (Wuwei) and is easily cultivated, yet people refuse to practice it. This is because worldly skills have tangible objects and methods to imitate, requiring years of gradual mastery. But the Dao has no form, no fixed rules—it cannot be copied or approached gradually. Some may awaken to it in a finger-snap, while others spend lifetimes grasping at shadows. Herein lies the difference—the fundamental distinction between effortful striving and effortless attainment.

When two archers compete, their skill is immediately apparent; when two chess players face off, victory is quickly decided. But when two Dao-realized masters meet, nothing is displayed—no distinction between cleverness or clumsiness, no victory or defeat. Like Confucius meeting Wenbo Xuezi in Lu—their locked gazes conveyed complete understanding without words. Contrast this with modern practitioners who meet as host and guest, testing each other's orthodoxy and measuring their respective cultivation depths—both have lost the true essence. Where can we find that wordless smile of mutual recognition between two truly awakened eyes?

My Dao is like the ocean: toss in a hundred million taels of gold—nothing shows; throw in a hundred million stones—nothing shows; pour in a hundred million impurities—nothing shows. It accommodates both minnows and the colossal Kun-whale from the Zhuangzi. All rivers flowing into it cannot fill it; all waters draining away cannot empty it.

(Note: "Wenbo Xuezi" is a realized master from Zhuangzi's writings; "Kun-whale" references the gigantic fish-bird imagery from "Free and Easy Wandering" chapter; "understanding through locked gazes"典故出自《庄子·田子方》, illustrating the wordless communion between sages.)

The metaphor of the ocean to describe the Dao (the Way, the cosmic origin and ultimate truth) is profoundly insightful. Consider the ocean's essence: it embraces everything—hard metals and stones, filthy impurities, tiny fish and massive whales—without discrimination. As for its functions, whether gathering or dispersing, nourishing all things or concealing its depths, it encompasses all without exception. How magnificent the ocean is! And so too is the Dao! Yet if the ocean were to become aware that it contains something, or to notice the gathering and scattering of a single drop of water, it would cease to be the true ocean. Similarly, the Dao transcends all cognition.

My Dao is like dwelling in darkness. Those standing in the light cannot see what lies in the shadows, but those in the darkness can perceive everything in the light. When in darkness, one does not see the self but can discern external things clearly; not seeing the self allows one to forget the self and vanish into formlessness, while seeing external things enables keen perception without confusion. To forget the self yet perceive all things with clarity—this is the realm of the sage. If one stands in the light, the self becomes visible, and seeing the self leads to attachment to appearances. Such attachment blinds one to the hidden truth. It is like the crowd joyfully climbing a terrace to admire spring scenery, their forms fully exposed, reacting anxiously to gain and loss, unaware that fortune and misfortune are intertwined—this is true ignorance.

The petty person’s adaptability is used for evil, the noble person’s for good, but the sage’s adaptability returns to the state of "non-attainment" (a realm beyond distinctions of good and evil). Precisely because there is no attachment, it aligns with the great Dao. In truth, everyone possesses this adaptability—what matters is how it is applied. What is called "adaptability" has no fixed standard. Must the petty person remain forever wicked? If they reform and turn to goodness, they become noble. Must the noble person always act virtuously? If they recklessly do evil, they become petty. Only the sage’s adaptability is like the void, returning to non-attainment. Practitioners should seek the root of adaptability in a state where neither good nor evil is contemplated—this brings one close to the Dao.

My Dao is like a sharp sword: using the blade to cut through things makes it keen, but grasping the blade with one’s hand causes injury. People often lament their inability to comprehend the Dao, yet those who do understand it handle all matters under heaven with ease, resolving difficulties effortlessly. This is because their spirit is robust and clear, their wisdom penetrating—when things arise, they naturally understand; when situations unfold, they naturally discern, without deliberate effort. If one still tries to scrutinize their own spirit, examine their own wisdom, or ponder how to be robust, how to be clear, how to be penetrating, it is like grasping a sword by its blade—rarely does one escape unharmed.

This scripture reveals the profound nature of the Dao through everyday metaphors. Using ceremonial bamboo vessels (bian dou) used in ancient sacrifices and ordinary tiles as examples, it illustrates how these objects neither question nor answer each other, yet the Dao exists in their silent interactions. The true Dao requires neither deliberate inquiry nor response—it permeates all things like the natural flow of Qi (vital energy).

Those who crane their necks to gaze upon the Dao or rush to pursue it only grasp superficial knowledge, failing to comprehend its essence. Thus, sages neither humble themselves in pursuit of the Dao nor grow arrogant upon attaining it. They neither borrow the Dao from other sages nor peddle it to fools. For the Dao cannot be seized by force—the harder one chases it, the more elusive it becomes. Nor can it be flaunted, as ostentation strips it of its nobility.

Many Daoist practitioners today err in their approach—some gaze upward in longing, others seek teachers, while others hurry in pursuit. Even if they encounter the Dao, complacency and display remain forms of disrespect. True sages attain the Dao without teachers, reach it without chasing, and embody its nobility without炫耀. Their solitary path appears precious precisely because so few understand it.

Zhu Xiangxian (a Song dynasty Daoist) concludes: The Dao's profundity lies beyond intellectual comprehension and verbal expression. This very quality makes it impossible to grasp through stubborn effort. Through vivid metaphors, this passage teaches that seeking the Dao requires a stance of Wuwei (non-action)—both forceful striving and炫耀 stem from fundamental misunderstandings of its nature.

This passage from the Wenshi Jing elucidates the core principles of Daoist cultivation (xiudao). Genuine Dao practitioners emphasize relinquishing subjective emotions and artificial efforts, as emotional attachments and deliberate actions characterize ordinary people. Those who seek the Dao through words, deeds, or scholarly learning are like abandoning the source to chase tributaries, discarding the root to pursue twigs—just as archery, charioteering, zither-playing, or chess are mere skills, not the Great Dao itself.

Only by attaining the state of "non-emotion" (transcending worldly feelings) and wuwei (non-action) can one commune with heavenly Dao. Practitioners should follow natural laws without stubbornness; accommodate all things without forcing control. Achieving the state beyond self-other distinctions and gain-loss mentality, merging completely with the Great Dao while forgetting conceptual differences—this constitutes true understanding of heavenly principles and profound mysteries. Such individuals, already unified with the Dao, need neither borrow sages' reputations for self-aggrandizement nor flaunt petty cleverness to deceive fools.

(The notation "笺一宇" likely marks an ancient commentator's annotation)

The "Two Pillars Chapter" ("pillars" symbolizing heaven-earth foundations) further explains: Whether bowls, jars, bottles, pots, urns, or divination tools like tortoise shells, yarrow stalks, cracked tiles, or patterned stones—all manifest heaven-earth operations. This demonstrates that all things contain unified principles; each entity embodies complete cosmic laws, being both independent and interconnected.

The crux of cultivation lies in: merging one's jing-qi with the jing-qi of all things—when these two qi interact, miraculous resonance occurs. Like oviparous birth through female-male union or viviparous birth through bull-cow coupling—form derives from the other's jing-qi, while principle stems from their shen (spiritual essence); "attraction" arises from one's jing-qi, "observation" from one's shen. This attraction resembles water nature, observation resembles fire nature; when attraction persists it generates wood nature (growth), when observation continues it generates metal nature (contraction).

Practice method: First visualize the primordial qi (yuanqi) manifesting in an object, unite with its form through attraction, merge with its principles through deep contemplation—thus revealing cosmic imagery. This imagery circulates in the Great Void: ascending becomes heaven, descending becomes earth. This升降 (rising-descending) cycles endlessly—the ascending manifests as fire, the descending as water; what struggles to ascend manifests as wood, what resists descending as metal.

Concrete manifestations: Wood-substances produce fire through friction, release water through compression; metal-substances spark fire when struck, exude water when smelted. Metal-wood are essentially water-fire blended states—water representing jing-qi (heaven), fire representing shen (earth), wood representing hun (human soul), metal representing po (material soul). What perpetuates is time, what contains existence is space, while earth-nature permeates throughout ("only earth completes the cycle")—a truth only genuine Dao-realizers can unravel.

This scripture elucidates the relationship between heaven-earth and all beings, revealing the profound workings of the Five Phases (Wuxing). Heaven and earth act as parents to all things. Though all beings originate from them, each entity contains the essence of heaven-earth in microcosm. Even seemingly inanimate objects like bowls, bottles, tiles, and stones embody the principles of heaven-earth and can portend fortune or misfortune—how much more so for living creatures with blood and qi (vital energy), especially humans, the most spiritually endowed of all beings.

In humans, spirit (Shen) and physical essence (Jing) are interdependent. Spirit rises like fire from the earth, while essence descends like water from heaven. When this ascending-descending movement is obstructed, it gives rise to the characteristics of Wood (symbolizing growth) and Metal (symbolizing contraction). Metal and Wood are actually products of the interaction between Water and Fire, thus inheriting properties of both. This perpetual motion creates the cycle of four seasons and establishes the four cardinal directions. Once seasons and directions are set, the "Great Center" (the cosmic axis) emerges, where the Earth phase assumes its sovereign position. All beginnings, endings, dissolutions, and manifestations operate through this central Earth.

When the qi of the Great Center permeates the cosmos, heaven ascends from the center while earth descends from it—thus heaven and earth separate. This movement is reciprocal; there's no pure ascent without descent or vice versa. Human hair grows upward while limbs hang downward, symbolizing the descent of spirit from heaven. Plant roots anchor in soil while branches reach skyward, embodying the ascent of essence from earth. Animals grow horizontally with their foundation at the tail. Though all possess blood and qi, their blending with Metal-Wood attributes creates diverse lifeforms through the Five Phases' permutations—countless in variety.

Among billions of people, each dream differs, and nightly visions vary. Dreams contain heavens, earths, people, and objects—all formed by thought. If dreams can manifest such richness, who can prove our present heaven-earth isn't the thought-creation of some greater existence?

Is there any difference between the heaven, earth, and myriad things seen in dreams and those observed while awake? In truth, both are formed by the mind's projections. When an infant who does not yet comprehend thought sees the heaven, earth, and myriad things, it does not recognize what they are. What we call the concepts of heaven, earth, and myriad things are all constructs of acquired knowledge. Before infants develop such knowledge, would they dream of heaven and earth? Upon first encountering these phenomena, they likely wouldn't recognize them—only through prolonged observation do mental impressions become fixed like watermarks, after which dreams gain clarity.

This resembles the naturally formed patterns of mountains, rivers, stars, and moons seen in the veins of jade or the scales of creatures—beautiful designs spontaneously congealed by nature, not consciously created by the jade or scales themselves. Understanding this reveals that the formation of heaven, earth, and myriad things is likewise not accomplished through "thought."

The human body corresponds to nature: the heart corresponds to the jujube tree, the liver to the elm. When humans commune with heaven and earth, they dream of water before rain comes and fire before clear weather arrives. This resonance appears both connected and detached, ultimately returning each to its origin.

Heaven and earth constitute a vast form, while the human body is a miniature one. Though their physical scales differ, their spiritual essence remains identical. The brightness and darkness of sun and moon mirror the waxing and waning of human spirit—manifested not only in dreams corresponding to rainy or sunny weather. The five medicinal flavors nurtured by earth correspond to the preferences of the five viscera, extending beyond simple parallels like heart-jujube or liver-elm.

Are heaven/earth and I one body or two? Do we share one destination or separate ones? Though vast, heaven and earth possess color, form, and direction—yet what truly makes them heaven and earth is the primordial power transcending these appearances. Things that seem endlessly generated were never truly born; phenomena appearing to perish never truly die. People only perceive heaven's tangible form, unaware of the formless, imageless primordial force operating behind it.

Practitioners must truly realize this primordial source, understanding it cannot be described by language or compared to any image. The ancients called it "neither mind nor matter"; Han Shan (the Tang Dynasty poet-monk) termed it "heaven within heaven"—these names are merely forced labels, for in truth, it is utterly beyond speech.

This scripture explores the relationship between "conscious cognition" (识) and the myriad phenomena of heaven and earth. It mentions that beings who die in the womb or egg state are considered both human and object—they fundamentally lack awareness of heaven and earth's existence. What people perceive as heaven and earth are ultimately projections of their own subjective consciousness. Just as a hand remains unharmed unless it touches a blade's edge, the key lies in conscious perception.

Human consciousness arises easily yet proves difficult to eliminate—a childhood impression may persist until old age. The bondage imposed by consciousness is so formidable that although those who die in utero never witness heaven and earth, did they possess consciousness during their embryonic state? If devoid of consciousness, why would they exist in embryonic form? Buddhism considers "consciousness" the most subtle of the Five Aggregates (form, sensation, perception, mental formations, consciousness) precisely because it's most resistant to oblivion. Without consciousness, there would be no life, hence no experience of womb-birth, egg-birth or other life forms.

What people recognize as heaven and earth are merely subjective mental constructs—heaven and earth themselves neither seek nor require recognition. Heaven and earth appear in dreams, mirror reflections, and water's surface: to eliminate them from dreams requires abandoning sleep; to remove them from mirrors demands shunning reflections; to erase them from water necessitates avoiding its drawing. The presence or absence of these phenomena depends entirely on the observer. Thus the sage's aim isn't to deny heaven and earth's existence, but to transcend subjective cognition.

Heaven and earth bestow both great beneficence and great harm—understanding this principle prevents injury. In truth, heaven and earth don't harm people; people harm themselves. The heaven and earth within human minds first resemble dreams, then mirror images, finally congealing like enchanted waters (referring to attachments), becoming inescapable until death—this self-imposed bondage's damage defies description. Yet dreams originate from sleep, reflections from mirrors, water images from drawn water, and all ultimately stem from conscious cognition. Therefore the crucial matter isn't denying heaven and earth, but surpassing cognitive limitations. When discussing heaven and earth, all things are already encompassed.

The text concludes by noting heaven doesn't make itself heaven, nor earth make itself earth—just as houses, carts and boats require human labor for creation. Understanding this interdependence leads to comprehending the state of "non-dependence" (无待). Upon reaching this realm, one sees no heaven above, no earth below; perceives no self within, no others without—entering the state where self and objects are both forgotten.

This passage explores the fundamental origin and generative principles of heaven, earth, and all things. Its core insight reveals that the enduring existence of heaven and earth stems precisely from their non-striving to "become heaven and earth." If humans can relinquish self-attachment, they may attain longevity equal to the cosmos.

The text clarifies that true heaven and earth are not formed through human effort but exist within one's spiritual realm. While external conditions matter, ultimate success depends on inner cultivation. Those who reach the highest state transcend distinctions between heaven/earth, self/other, and subject/object.

Regarding the generation of all phenomena: day-night cycles originate from Qi (vital energy, the energetic foundation), while north-south orientations derive from form (material manifestation). Yet what produces Qi isn't Qi itself, nor is form generated by form alone. Like a fan creating wind—though the wind's source isn't the fan—or fire drilled from wood—though fire's origin isn't the wood itself. Dead wood and corpses possess form yet cannot generate new life, proving something more essential exists behind vitality.

The sage uses fire as metaphor: if even the most refined material manifestation (like fire) operates this way, how much more so for coarse forms? What truly generates Qi is Qi's origin (beyond Qi); what truly generates form is form's origin (beyond form). Qi corresponds to heaven, manifesting temporal changes; form corresponds to earth, expressing spatial orientations.

The tile-stone analogy concludes: tiles grow hot near fire, cold in water, warm when breathed upon, cool when exposed to wind. These apparent transformations don't originate within the tile—just as reflections in water come and go while the water remains unchanged. This reveals profound truth: all phenomenal changes are surface manifestations of an unchanging essence.

The Wenshi Jing Yanwai Zhi passage elucidates the correspondence between celestial movements and human cultivation. Using natural phenomena as metaphors for internal energy transformations, it emphasizes the mind's governing role over Qi (vital energy).

Heaven and Earth inherently lack distinctions like day/night or cold/heat—these arise solely from the sun and moon's movements. Unseasonal cold gusts in midsummer or warm currents in deep winter aren't intentional acts of nature, but temporary climatic anomalies ("guest Qi"), akin to reflections shifting across water while the water itself remains still.

Several natural analogies demonstrate energy conversion principles: swaying garments generate wind, exhaling toward objects produces moisture, water striking water creates sound, and stones colliding spark flames. Understanding this reveals how wind, rain, thunder, and lightning all stem from Qi, which itself originates in mental focus. Just as visualizing fire induces bodily heat and imagining water brings chill, the mind directly shapes physical perception.

Human spirit (Shen) and soul (Hun-Po) mirror nature's meteorological phenomena. If people can replicate wind and thunder's effects, they should certainly regulate their own spiritual essence through cultivation. Practical methods include:

1) Recognizing that motion generates wind, one may harness breathing (bellows-like "鼓动橐籥") to produce Qi;

2) Understanding breath condenses into moisture, one transforms Qi into Jing (essence);

3) Comprehending water's sonic impact, refining Jing strengthens the physical form;

4) Knowing stone collisions spark light, tempering the body enhances Shen.

By observing celestial patterns and mastering their principles, the key lies in governing Qi—which itself depends on mental focus. The mind's capacity to manifest heat or cold through visualization proves inner transformations can influence external reality. Realizing this unites human De (Virtue) with cosmic harmony.

Five-colored clouds portend harvests; eight-direction winds indicate fortune. Yet auspicious or ominous signs simply reflect Qi's cyclical transformations. While the ignorant judge through selfish discrimination, sages perceive humanity's fundamental unity with Heaven and Earth. The prognostications of "five clouds and eight winds" ultimately mirror the responsive interplay of the human heart-mind.

This scripture primarily expounds the philosophical concept of "dwelling" (interdependence and mutual reliance). It mentions that the transformations between heaven and earth—such as the shifting hues of five-colored clouds and the migration of winds from eight directions—all originate from the most numinous and divine Qi (the primordial energy in Daoist thought), yet ordinary people often fail to recognize this truth.

The author posits that humans, self, heaven, and earth are fundamentally interconnected, yet people frequently mistake personal intellect for true possession, failing to comprehend the great Dao's genuine principle of "empty clarity and spiritual penetration." All things exist in mutual dependence: heaven and earth dwell within the myriad creatures, just as the self dwells within the Dao. Without this interdependence, the Dao itself could not be established.

The text employs the metaphor of "a white steed flashing past a crevice" to illustrate life's transience, emphasizing that all existence is but a temporary dwelling. The self resides within heaven and earth, while heaven and earth manifest through the self's perception. All phenomena exist in this state of mutual reliance—only the Dao endures independently. To regard the self and Dao as separate is to prevent the Dao's true establishment.

Zhu Xiangxian (a Song Dynasty Daoist) annotates: Heaven and earth are the union of form and Qi, just as vessels like bowls and bottles embody heaven and earth. Embryos, dreams, mirror reflections, and water's reflections are all manifestations of heaven and earth. What truly makes heaven and earth what they are is not their specific forms or energies, but the essential nature dwelling within them. This essence transcends distinctions of above and below, inside and outside, self and other—it can only be realized through deep contemplation and transcending ordinary cognition, ultimately achieving the state of human-Dao unity.

The "Three Ultimates Chapter" (referring to the supreme states of heaven, earth, and humanity) comprises twenty-seven sections primarily discussing how to venerate the sage's realm. The entire passage emphasizes the mutual dependence of all things, the Dao's principle of natural spontaneity (ziran), and the path to attaining unity of heaven and humanity through cultivation.

The true sage governs the world without imposing personal standards to judge wisdom or folly. They recognize the capable and the simple based on actual conduct, neither subjectively determining right nor wrong, but assessing according to the inherent nature of affairs. Understanding that past and present share the same essence, they sometimes emulate ancient ways and sometimes innovate contemporary methods; knowing that inner and outer are fundamentally one, they sometimes focus on internal cultivation and sometimes attend to external affairs.

The secret of sage governance lies in: taking humility as the foundation, so that all things cannot burden them; embracing all with an open and receptive mind, so that external matters cannot disturb them; acting with simplicity, making difficulties easy to resolve; and employing adaptability to dissolve obstacles. Through these principles, they establish rituals to regulate the world, create music to harmonize the hearts of the people, distribute resources fairly to aid the populace, defend against external threats to protect the state, adapt to the times to establish laws, and observe all things to craft useful tools.

The sage does not rule the world through personal will but allows it to operate naturally. The people attribute achievements to the sage, yet the sage returns the credit to the world. Thus, when Yao, Shun, Yu, and Tang governed the world, the people felt everything was simply as it should be (as Laozi said, "When the work is done and affairs are complete, the people all say, 'We did it naturally'"—here, even the word "I" is omitted, reflecting an even higher state of realization).

The Dao of Heaven acts through Wuwei (non-action), and all things transform naturally; the sage governs through Wuwei, and the world attains peace of its own accord. People only see the sage's concrete actions—establishing rituals and music, managing resources, repelling invasions—and assume the sage plans with great effort. In truth, the sage merely upholds the principles of humility, openness, simplicity, and adaptability, following the wisdom or folly of the people and the right or wrong of affairs, without distinguishing past from present or prioritizing inner over outer, allowing the world to govern itself.

Just as the sky covers all things without favor (life is born and perishes, yet Heaven holds no preferences), and sunlight shines impartially (illuminating both beauty and ugliness, yet the light shows no partiality), so too is the sage's governance naturally Wuwei.

The sage is like Heaven itself—while all things undergo birth and death, Heaven shows neither preference nor aversion. The sage is also like the sun—while things may be beautiful or ugly, sunlight shines upon all without partiality. This exemplifies the sage's way of governing through Wuwei (non-action) and acting without self-centered intention.

The sage's Dao follows celestial decree rather than personal contrivance; their De (Virtue) aligns with temporal circumstances rather than conscious pursuit; their governance manifests as Wuwei rather than deliberate action. Thus the sage neither flaunts their Dao, nor parades their De, nor claims credit for accomplishments. Having attained the state of "selflessness," the sage's Dao follows natural law, their De adapts to changing times, and their deeds facilitate others' achievements. Those who obsess over displaying moral accomplishments remain ordinary people—how could they reach this selfless state?

Understanding that the essence of "self" is "no-self," the sage embraces all things with compassion; recognizing that affairs fundamentally lack selfhood, they weigh matters with righteous principles; knowing thoughts are intrinsically selfless, they regulate conduct with ritual propriety; realizing knowledge is essentially selfless, they illuminate truth with wisdom; perceiving speech as fundamentally selfless, they honor commitments with integrity.

While the sage's five constants (benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom and faithfulness) appear similar to ordinary people's, their foundation differs fundamentally: ordinary people's virtues still cling to "self," whereas the sage's virtues are built upon "no-self." This manifests as: selfless benevolence embracing all beings, selfless righteousness balancing all affairs, selfless propriety ordering all hearts, selfless wisdom illuminating all truth, and selfless faithfulness safeguarding all promises—a realm truly beyond ordinary reach.

The sage's Dao sometimes manifests benevolence as benevolence, sometimes righteousness as benevolence, and at other times propriety, wisdom or faithfulness as benevolence. These five virtues interpenetrate—the sage intuitively comprehends their fluidity without rigid adherence, while ordinary people struggle to define them. Commoners may understand benevolence as benevolence, but grasping righteousness, propriety, wisdom or faithfulness as benevolence requires supreme sagacity. For these virtues circulate and contain one another—each inherently embracing the other four. Observe how scholars and philosophers often emphasize benevolence while neglecting righteousness, or possess abundant wisdom yet deficient faithfulness—such partiality remains commonplace.

This passage from the Wenshi Jing Yanwai Zhi discusses how to comprehend the Dao of sages and the methods for observing them.

The Yijing states that benevolent people perceive the Dao and call it benevolence, while the wise perceive it and call it wisdom. Yet the Dao of sages is an undifferentiated whole that fundamentally defies verbal description. Therefore, the sage maintains pure unity without attachment, and no name in the world can define them.

Do not observe sages through their actions, for the Dao leaves no traces; do not observe them through their words, for the Dao cannot be spoken; do not observe them through their talents, for the Dao practices Wuwei (non-action); do not observe them through their appearance, for the Dao has no form.

Since the Dao is formless, traceless, wordless, and actionless, where should seekers turn? If one must search, they can only turn to the sages. Sages embody the Dao, but can the Dao truly be found through them? What people perceive in sages are merely words, appearances, actions, and talents—this actually distances them further from the Dao. Those truly skilled in observing sages look to their inner nature rather than external manifestations. But can the sage's heart-mind truly be discerned? Is it the same as or different from ordinary people's hearts? As stated in earlier chapters: "Do not borrow the Dao from sages"—this is precisely the meaning.

Even the most extraordinary actions cannot escape distinctions of high and low; the most impartial words inevitably involve judgments of right and wrong; the most marvelous talents cannot avoid comparisons of cleverness and clumsiness; the most unique appearances remain subject to assessments of beauty and ugliness. Sages merely employ these as expedient means to manifest for the world. Only when people see through these appearances can they truly perceive the sage.

Originally, sages possess no words, actions, appearances, or talents—they reluctantly employ these only to teach the world. Ordinary people, seeing only the refinement of the sage's words, the uniqueness of their appearance, the excellence of their actions, and the wonder of their talents, assume the Dao resides within these four aspects. Consequently, they become entangled in distinctions of right/wrong, beauty/ugliness, high/low, and cleverness/clumsiness, making it even harder to recognize true sages. Seekers of the Dao should observe beyond these four aspects—this constitutes true mastery in learning.

Sages modeled the honeybee's hierarchy to establish governance, learned from spiders to invent fishing nets, imitated bowing rodents to create rituals, and observed warring ants to develop military systems. Ordinary people learn from worthies, worthies learn from sages, but sages learn from all things. Only sages can achieve complete unity with the myriad beings, thereby attaining the state of "no-self."

The wise emulate sages, while sages themselves learn from all things of creation—this is an eternal truth. But did sages truly establish systems of ruler and minister by observing bees, or formulate rites and military institutions by imitating spiders, rats, and ants? In truth, sages commune with all beings, creating systems without selfish intent, for all things under heaven are their teachers. All things grow naturally, and sages merely learn from their spontaneous way (ziran). When have sages ever harbored selfish motives?

The sage declares: Viewed through the lens of the Dao (the Way), heaven, earth, and the myriad things are all manifestations of the great Dao—they resonate with it (changhe), each having a beginning and an end, like the alternation of green and yellow, or like eggs requiring incubation (luan yi). They neither favor the Dao nor discard material things, neither revere noble men nor despise petty individuals. The wise say: All things differ, daily undergoing transformation, waxing and waning—some short, some long, some straight, some square—such is the flux of phenomena. Yet they fail to realize that when sages distinguish among things and establish order (bi za ci bie fen ju), it is solely to instruct humanity, never for personal gain.

The Dao practiced by sages is as orderly as threads on a loom (ru fen), their handling of affairs as methodical as pieces arranged on a chessboard. Sound and echo respond to one another (sheng chang chang zhi), events follow their natural course from beginning to end (shi shi shi zhi), colors remain distinct as green and yellow (se qing qing zhi), and living things gestate and grow (wu luan luan zhi). Neither favoring the Dao nor discarding things, neither esteeming noble men nor belittling petty individuals—this is the realm where the Dao, like silk threads, appears entangled yet never disordered.

All things in the world exist in chaotic multiplicity, each with its own form—some short, some long, some straight, some square—everything differs and transforms daily. Only through orderly arrangement can affairs become structured like a chessboard. The sage who attains the Dao focuses solely on the Great Way, harboring no selfish attachments in the heart, thus remaining unswayed by external things. The worthy person clings to specific matters, retaining personal desires, and inevitably becomes subject to external influences.

In matters of food, clothing, dwellings, vehicles, wealth, and social status, sages and ordinary people appear identical. Ordinary people constantly try to imitate sages, while sages consistently align themselves with the common folk. Those who deliberately proclaim their own nobility and greatness—can they truly achieve it? In truth, they cannot.

Sages always restrain their radiance, blending with the dust of the world, fearing nothing more than standing out from the crowd. In daily life—food, clothing, dwelling, poverty, or wealth—how would they dare differ from ordinary people? To be admired and extravagantly praised is precisely what sages dread. When Shi Chengqi met Laozi and reproached him: "You don't resemble a sage—vegetable scraps remain in mouse holes, raw and cooked food lies scattered everywhere, yet you keep accumulating more," Laozi remained silent. Does this not show that sages would never permit others to worship and extol them?

If a fish sought to be different by leaving its school and leaping ashore, it would perish instantly. If a tiger sought novelty by abandoning its mountain forest for the city, it would be captured immediately. Sages don't deliberately distinguish themselves—they simply remain unbound by external things.

Zhuangzi once heard a great perfected person (dacheng zhiren) say: "Those who boast of themselves lack true merit. When achievements are completed, they decline; when fame becomes prominent, it suffers damage. Who can abandon merit and fame to return to the simple normality of ordinary people, erasing all traces of power—neither blaming others nor being blamed?" This is why sages are no different from ordinary people. It's like the man who forgot his own safety while wandering in Diaoling, became entranced by a strange magpie, lost his original nature, and was chased and humiliated by the forest keeper—terrified for three months afterward. This illustrates the fish leaving water and the tiger leaving the mountain. Yet even when sages mingle with the crowd without seeking novelty, how could external things possibly bind them?

The Great Dao itself takes no specific action—using the Dao to handle worldly affairs is merely method, not the Dao itself. The Great Dao has no fixed form—embodying it in concrete things yields objects, not the Dao itself. Ultimately, even sages cannot extract the Dao to show others.

The essence of Dao is wuwei (non-action). Those who apply Dao to worldly affairs have already descended into the realm of concrete matters. The essence of Dao is formless. Those who anchor Dao in material things have already confined it to physical limitations. Even sages cannot directly display Dao for others to see—so where should seekers of Dao obtain it?

The ancients said: If Dao could be presented like a gift, people would offer it to their rulers; if Dao could be submitted like tribute, people would present it to their parents; if Dao could be inherited like family property, people would bequeath it to their descendants. Precisely because Dao cannot be directly displayed, truly enlightened individuals are rare. But does this mean sages never reveal Dao at all? Did Confucius not say, "I have kept nothing hidden from you"? Those skilled at observing sages must transcend concrete things to comprehend it.

Just as bells produce bell tones and drums produce drumbeats naturally, so too are the words of sages. Just as carts move on land and boats sail on water naturally, so too are the actions of sages. Precisely because it cannot be fully described in words, it transcends all worldly discourse; precisely because it cannot be completely understood through knowledge, it surpasses all worldly wisdom.

People universally agree that a bell is a bell, but to claim a drum is also a bell becomes incomprehensible—this is the realm beyond language. People universally accept that carts travel on land, but to say boats also move on land becomes unimaginable—this is wisdom beyond conventional understanding. It's like saying dogs can transform into sheep or cartwheels can turn without touching the ground—how could such things be explained by ordinary logic? How could they be grasped through common sense?

Centipedes eat snakes, snakes eat frogs, and frogs eat centipedes—they devour each other in cycles. The words of sages are likewise: to speak of "being" creates drawbacks, to speak of "non-being" also creates drawbacks; to speak of "neither being nor non-being" still creates drawbacks, and to advocate abandoning even this "neither-nor" position becomes like sawing back and forth endlessly. Truly enlightened sages remain unattached to any verbal formulation.

The great Dao itself cannot be spoken, and those who attain Dao seldom speak of it. This is not because there's nothing to say, but because it cannot be accurately expressed in words. Forced verbal descriptions inevitably create flaws, since language must land either on "being" or "non-being." To affirm being rejects non-being; to affirm non-being rejects being. To assert "not-being" falls into "not-non-being," while asserting "not-non-being" falls back into "not-being." "Being" and "non-being" negate each other endlessly, like snakes, frogs, and centipedes devouring one another in perpetual cycles.

This scripture employs vivid metaphors to expound the Daoist wisdom of "wordlessness" and the distinction between sages and ordinary wise men.

The text begins with the metaphor of maggots tearing at each other like a saw's back-and-forth motion, illustrating how verbal disputes create similar tug-of-war situations where silence would serve better. Yet sages do not remain completely silent—their words fill the world. If scholars cling to the literal meaning of a sage's words, they not only miss the profound meaning behind them but also misinterpret the sage's original intent.

The text then uses creatures like dragons, flood-dragons (jiao), snakes, turtles, fish, and clams as metaphors: The dragon embodies infinite transformations, while the flood-dragon remains confined to its fixed form. The sage resembles the dragon—capable of greatness and humility, wisdom and apparent foolishness, nobility and lowliness, longevity and brief existence, ever-changing without constraint. The worthy man, like the flood-dragon, remains fixed in one state, unable to adapt spontaneously.

A recorded encounter shows Confucius marveling after meeting Laozi: "He is like a dragon—gathering to form a body, scattering to become patterns of writing, riding cloud-breaths to wander, nourished together with yin-yang." Struck dumb with awe, Confucius found Laozi's realm beyond verbal description. From this, Zigong realized: The true sage appears still as a corpse yet moves like a dragon; silent as an abyss yet thunders through heaven and earth.

Finally, the text describes the sage's state: Free from self-attachment, allowing all things to manifest naturally. In movement, they flow like water; in stillness, they reflect like a clear mirror; responding to all things as precisely as an echo. Vaguely present yet seemingly absent, utterly tranquil yet crystalline pure. Harmonizing with all beings without coercion, possessing nothing of what they receive. Never rushing ahead of others, always following nature's course.

The essence of this realm lies in "no-self" (wuwo)—only by relinquishing self-attachment can one perceive reality as it is. Between movement and stillness, they ripple like water—appearing active yet transcending both. Responding to all things like echoes in an empty valley, maintaining boundless openness. Merging with all creation without seeking novelty, regarding all attainments as passing clouds.

This scripture primarily elucidates the way of being for sages and their cultivated spiritual state. It first points out that sages do not deliberately strive to be first but instead follow the natural course, acting only when compelled by necessity. Their inner cultivation and outer conduct are both complete, mastering both fundamental principles (quan, "expediency") and flexible adaptation (shi, "substance").

The text then describes the sage's spiritual realm: they transcend material distinctions, roaming freely in the primordial state of Taichu (the initial condition of the cosmos). Whether it be precious gold and silver or lowly dung and dirt, flying birds and running beasts or mountain rocks and deep-sea fish—all appear equal in their eyes. This seemingly mad and dull manifestation is, in truth, the highest expression of wisdom. Both Laozi and Confucius mentioned that the true Dao exists within all things, including the humblest tiles and excrement.

Later, the text employs the metaphor of playing the zither: the musician's inner emotions naturally flow through the music, just as every word and action of one who has attained the Dao aligns with the heavenly way. Like Gengsang Chu (a disciple of Laozi) who cultivated himself for three years at Mount Weilei, bringing abundant harvests to the region, the actions of a truly enlightened person can move heaven and earth, benefiting all things.

The repeated emphasis on "expediency" (quan) refers to the sage's wisdom in adapting appropriately to different circumstances, while "Taichu" denotes the undifferentiated primordial state of all things. Through these metaphors, the text illustrates how true sages are not confined by form but maintain their original nature in all situations, their influence naturally profound and far-reaching.

Sages and ordinary people appear similar yet profoundly different. Though they speak, act, and think daily like everyone else, sages attain the state of "never having spoken, never having acted, never having thought"—a level of inner cultivation incomprehensible to most.

The more people calculate gains and losses, the harder family harmony becomes; the more they distinguish between wise and foolish, the more difficult true friendship grows; the more they argue right and wrong, the more obstructed their endeavors; the more they discriminate beauty from ugliness, the harder it is to harmonize with all things. Therefore, sages choose an attitude of undifferentiated embrace. When ordinary people appear shrewd, the sage seems dull; when the crowd notices every detail, the sage appears oblivious. For the more one calculates with cleverness, the harder it becomes to harmonize with people and circumstances. The sage embraces all without discrimination—letting benefits exist naturally, allowing wisdom and foolishness their proper places, permitting beauty and ugliness their inherent forms. Thus family naturally harmonizes, friendships form effortlessly, endeavors succeed spontaneously, and all things achieve natural balance—why would the sage need deliberate action?

Foolish people often use the sage's "clumsiness" as an excuse for their own, not realizing the sage embodies "great skill appears clumsy" and "great wisdom seems foolish." True fools only reveal their folly through辩解, the unskillful only expose their clumsiness through掩饰.

Taking sages as teachers makes one merely virtuous; taking virtuous people as teachers can make one sagely. The former imitates the sage's external traces while forgetting the Dao, while the latter transcends appearances to unite with the Dao's essence. The distinction between sage and virtuous lies in external manifestation—the Dao itself makes no such division. Those who constantly venerate sages as sacred beings will never reach their heights. Better to learn from the virtuous: when one's wisdom equals the teacher's, one can transcend forms to comprehend the Dao. The ancients said when a disciple's wisdom matches the teacher's, their virtue still lags by half—only by surpassing the teacher's wisdom can one truly achieve mastery.

(Note: "Undifferentiated embrace" refers to the Daoist state of unified, non-discriminatory awareness; "no-mind" indicates a natural mental state free from subjective attachments; "Great skill appears clumsy" comes from Chapter 45 of the Daode Jing, illustrating how supreme wisdom often seems artless.)

This scripture discusses the distinction between sages, virtuous persons, and ordinary people, as well as how the natural Dao manifests in human affairs.

Virtuous persons pursue lofty ideals but often neglect foundational principles, while ordinary people focus solely on immediate gains without understanding higher aspirations. The sage, however, bridges all levels, responding flexibly according to circumstances. Sages do not exist apart from virtuous persons or ordinary people—rather, they adapt to all environments, maintaining their nobility while engaging with the mundane. This state far surpasses the limited perspective of mere virtuous persons.

Just as nature follows the patterns of male and female complementing each other, and movement and stillness harmonizing, the words and actions of sages also align with natural law. Their speech and conduct accord with heavenly principle, creating effortless harmony in social relationships—whether between ruler and minister, father and son—much like a husband leading and a wife following, or a male bird calling and a female responding. Sages need no deliberate self-restraint, whereas virtuous persons establish rituals and norms to regulate human hearts, often becoming entangled in calculations of gain and loss in speech and action.

The sage’s state is as unfathomable as the dragon and tiger (the dragon symbolizing the lofty "soaring dragon in heaven" from the Qian hexagram of the Yijing, the tiger embodying the majestic authority of the Ge hexagram’s tiger stripes). Yet in practical matters, they move as steadily as a tortoise—seemingly slow but unshakably grounded. Their principles may be as intricate as tangled threads, but their handling of affairs is as orderly as a chessboard layout. This shows that while the Dao of sages is profound and elusive, its practice follows clear and methodical patterns.

Why is the realm of the sage so uniquely transcendent? Why is it so unobstructed and penetrating? Why so vast and boundless? And why so profoundly unfathomable? Precisely because he merges with all things yet nothing can match him, thus transcending all creation to stand in noble solitude.

The sage's state resembles the vast emptiness of space: uniquely transcendent without peer, unobstructed to perceive all things, boundless enough to fill heaven and earth, so profound it eludes sensory grasp. Because he blends with all existence yet remains unconfined by it, he stands more honored than all things. This is what Laozi meant by "there was something formless yet complete, born before heaven and earth" - that supreme state of being.

Just as clouds need the void to unfold and birds require open sky to soar freely, so too does the sage's realm depend on this principle. Without the empty vessel of space, clouds and birds would lose their freedom of transformation; similarly, without the mysterious foundation of formless subtlety, the sage's transformations would be constrained.

Zhu Xiangxian (a Song dynasty Daoist) explains: When sages govern the world, they simply follow the natural tendencies of all things. All creatures have speech, action, and thought - the sage resonates with these. They manifest wisdom and folly, beauty and ugliness, advantage and harm, right and wrong - the sage accommodates all. This capacity stems from "no-self" - the absence of rigid self-awareness, making his movements flow like water and his stillness shine like a mirror. Never imposing, always timely: sometimes precious as gold and jade, sometimes lowly as dirt; sometimes soaring high, sometimes keeping low; sometimes steadfast as mountains, sometimes unfathomable as abysses; sometimes wise, sometimes foolish; sometimes skillful, sometimes clumsy. Like the divine dragon appearing and disappearing in the Great Void, his transformations know no limit. Thus the world attributes no achievements to the sage, but to Nature itself.

(This passage comes from the "Four Talismans" chapter of the Wenshi Jing, where "talismans" refer to the four vital constituents of life: Jing (essence), Shen (spirit), Hun (ethereal soul), and Po (corporeal soul). The complete chapter contains seventeen sections, of which this is an excerpt.)

This passage employs the metaphors of water and fire to elucidate the characteristics of Jing (essence) and Shen (spirit). Jing is like water—it can disperse or coalesce, having no fixed form (wuren, "without person"), adapting to any container. Shen resembles fire, requiring fuel (gaoxin, "fat and firewood") to manifest; it has no fixed subject (wuwo, "without self"), appearing in response to external stimuli.

Though the ears may be covered, they can hear sounds from all directions, illustrating how wisdom (zhi) stands lofty and independent like water (zhi chong, "wisdom exalted"). Winter brings all things to wither and return to their roots; black remains immutable; the north symbolizes longevity—all these demonstrate water's qualities (jie jing, "all are essence"), showing Jing's formless nature.

The tongue must cooperate with teeth to produce speech, just as ritual propriety (li) requires humility (li bei, "ritual humble"). Summer makes spring's plants flourish; red can transform; the south represents transience—all these manifest fire's qualities (jie shen, "all are spirit"), revealing Shen's subjectless nature.

Like rice retaining its essence after husking, or spirits requiring objects to manifest their wonders—those who preserve Jing transcend right and wrong, while those who maintain Shen harmonize with day-night and strong-weak cycles. Water and fire appear opposed yet mutually depend, as expressed in the dialectical statement: "What is here is not there; what is there is not here."

Through abundant natural analogies, this text explains the relationship between Jing and Shen in Daoist cultivation, emphasizing their paradoxical unity-in-opposition. It guides practitioners to transcend superficial contradictions and realize inherent oneness.

This scripture elucidates the relationship between "spirit (Shen) and essence (Jing)" and the "water-fire dynamic of the Five Phases" in Daoist cultivation, as well as the meditative state of "no-self and no-other."

First, it explains the correspondence between spirit-essence and the Five Phases: Shen and Jing interact like the mutual generation and restraint of water and fire, undergoing constant transformation within the cyclical movement of the Five Phases. The southern direction corresponds to fire, which symbolizes divine illumination—hence the saying "spirit is fire." These transformations have neither beginning nor end, just as a drop of water never truly perishes nor does a beam of spiritual light ever fully extinguish. Practitioners must attain the "no-self, no-other" state, forgetting distinctions of right/wrong and gain/loss, preserving spiritual purity like husk-free rice grains.

The text employs the metaphor of "ghosts manifesting through objects" to illustrate how deities reveal themselves: just as formless spirits can appear by attaching to physical objects, divine illumination manifests through the state of "no-self." Cultivators should emulate this principle—like ghosts attaching to objects, they must adapt to changing circumstances while maintaining inner clarity.

It then details the Five Phases' generative and controlling cycles: water generates wood, wood generates fire, fire generates earth, earth generates metal, and metal generates water (generative cycle); fire melts metal, metal cuts wood, wood breaks earth, earth dams water, and water extinguishes fire (controlling cycle). Within this eternal rotation, the fundamental nature of spirit-essence neither increases nor diminishes.

Finally, it specifies: Jing corresponds to water and the corporeal soul (po) to metal; Shen corresponds to fire and the ethereal soul (hun) to wood. Since metal generates water, essence is stored within the corporeal soul; as wood generates fire, spirit resides in the ethereal soul. Fire can melt metal and consume wood, thus harmonizing both souls. In celestial terms, essence manifests as cold qi, while terrestrially it appears as....

The crux of cultivation lies in achieving the "no-self, no-other" state—transcending individual existence and spatiotemporal boundaries—allowing spirit to merge with heaven-earth and attain perpetuity.

This scripture elucidates the principle of how the Jing (essence), Qi (vital energy), and Shen (spirit) of the human body intermingle with those of heaven and earth. Water corresponds to human "Jing," fire to "Shen," metal to "Po" (corporeal soul), and wood to "Hun" (ethereal soul). The various elements of the cosmos can merge with their corresponding aspects in the human body: just as countless streams converge into a great river, myriad flames unite into a single blaze, different metals fuse into an alloy, and diverse trees graft into a new plant.

The text mentions that when "Jing" combines with "Po," it forms a set of five, and when "Shen" combines with "Hun," it also forms a set of five. Though these four aspects reside in two distinct categories, they can be unified through the number "five." Here, the "Hun" is likened to a dragon and the "Po" to a tiger. If the Hun is concealed within Shen and the Po within Jing, they become separated and unable to regulate each other. Only fire can melt metal and burn wood, so "Shen" has the power to govern both "Hun and Po." The "Danfa" (Neidan, or internal alchemy practice) described here always relies on the regulation of fire's intensity, highlighting the crucial role of fire in cultivation.

Finally, the text points out that when one can transform the water, fire, metal, and wood of heaven and earth into their own Jing, Shen, Po, and Hun—just as myriad waters unite as one, countless flames merge into a single fire, various metals fuse into one, and numerous trees graft into a single plant—then mountains, rivers, and the great earth all become manifestations of one's Dharmakaya (the transcendent body attained through cultivation). At this stage, the concepts of life and death are transcended.

This passage explains the dynamic relationship between the "Five Phases" (Wuxing: Metal, Wood, Water, Fire, Earth) and the "Five Spirits" (Wushen: Jing, Shen, Hun, Po, Yi) within the human body. The Five Phases generate and restrain one another in a cyclical pattern: Essence (Jing) generates the Ethereal Soul (Hun), which generates Spirit (Shen), which generates Intention (Yi), which generates the Corporeal Soul (Po), which in turn regenerates Essence (Jing). This perpetual cycle binds the deluded mind to the wheel of birth and death, trapping it through countless kalpas without liberation.

Two metaphors illustrate the crux: Just as the vast heavens cannot make an empty seed sprout, nor can the profound interplay of Yin-Yang hatch an unfertilized egg, the entire cycle cannot commence without the foundational Essence (Jing). All things descend from purity into turbidity—thus the process begins with Essence and culminates in the Corporeal Soul (Po). Conversely, spiritual nature manifests its mystery from the subtle—hence it starts with Intention (Yi) and ultimately perfects Spirit (Shen).

The human body's structure (head, limbs, fingers) corresponds to the number five. If cultivators refine their Spirit (Shen) to perfection and cease generating deluded intentions, they can assimilate external stimuli in a single breath. Upon reaching the state where "nothing exists that is not myself," one masters the Five Phases without being trapped in their cycles of generation and destruction—this is the key to transcending life and death.

Finally, the distinction between ordinary people and sages is highlighted: Commoners use the Corporeal Soul (Po, associated with Metal) to suppress the Ethereal Soul (Hun, associated with Wood), resulting in excessive Metal Qi and deficient Wood Qi. Sages, however, employ the Ethereal Soul (Hun) to harmonize the Corporeal Soul (Po), achieving a state where Wood Qi flourishes and Metal Qi naturally balances. This reveals the core principle of cultivation: "using Spirit (Shen) to govern form."

The human spirit is composed of Hun (the yang spirit, consciousness) and Po (the yin spirit, subconscious). During the day, the Hun operates through the eyes, while at night, the Po resides in the liver. The ability to see comes from the Hun, and the generation of dreams arises from the Po. In their original state, neither Hun nor Po possesses discriminating awareness. However, when the Hun gives rise to discriminating consciousness, it divides the world into heaven, earth, and the myriad things. Similarly, when the Po generates discriminating awareness, it separates self from others.

In the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water), Earth generates Metal, just as consciousness gives rise to the Po. The initial movement of the spirit is not called "Shen" (spirit) but "Yi" (intention). When this intentional activity deepens, it becomes the Po. Only enlightened sages understand that what we call the "self" is not truly existent, and what we call the "myriad things" are illusory concepts—all are false appearances produced by discriminating thought. Therefore, when facing the myriad phenomena, sages respond with their original nature (the innate pure state) rather than the acquired discriminating mind. Original nature is the state before consciousness arises; without the discriminating mind, no intention is generated.

Just as in the Five Phases, if Fire is lacking, Earth cannot generate (and without Earth, Metal cannot form), the absence of intention means the Po cannot take shape. If one phase is missing, the entire Five Phases system collapses. When a practitioner reaches the state of unity with heaven, earth, and all things, the profound mysteries of the universe become their Hun, and the tangible substance of the cosmos becomes their Po. In this way, no external thing can dominate them.

Ordinary people develop from Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy) into physical form, a process that moves from clarity to turbidity. When the Po (yin energy) becomes excessive, death occurs—just as in the Five Phases, excessive Metal overcomes Wood. However, sages cultivate themselves by refining intention into a Dharma body, ultimately achieving the Yang spirit (Hun). In this state, Wood (Hun) is abundant, while Metal (Po) is insufficient. Those with strong Hun have sharp awareness when awake, while those with strong Po are prone to dreaming. Whether awake or dreaming, the ability to remain lucid and unconfused is not a function of Hun or Po themselves, but rather the true nature (original innate nature) within them—though habitual tendencies have long formed discriminating consciousness.

Sages see through the illusions of "self" and "myriad things," recognizing them as projections of discriminating thought. Thus, when encountering phenomena, they transcend discriminating awareness, neither relying on acquired thought nor responding with the original nature before distinctions arise. Without clinging thoughts, discriminating consciousness does not emerge. When even the subtlest intention vanishes, the entire operation of the Five Phases ceases. Only then can one merge with the creative transformations of heaven and earth—where the universe's mysteries become one's Hun, and its substance becomes one's Po. In this way, one masters all things without being bound by them.

The Wenshi Jing Yanwai Zhi passage primarily explains the nature and ascending-descending patterns of the ethereal soul (hun 魂) and earthly soul (po 魄) through character etymology and Five Phases theory. In Daoist thought, the hun represents the yang spirit while the po constitutes the yin spirit.

From a philological perspective, ancient Chinese constructed the character "hun" (魂) by combining "ghost" (鬼) with "cloud" (云), while "po" (魄) combines "ghost" with "white" (白). The "ghost" component signifies posthumous transformation, "cloud" symbolizes wind (Wood phase), and "white" represents qi (Metal phase). Since wind's nature is light and ascending (Wood), the hun rises; whereas Metal's heavy, descending quality makes the po sink downward.

Human virtue determines the souls' destinations: those cultivating benevolence (ren 仁) ascend to assist Jupiter (Wood Star), righteousness (yi 义) practitioners aid Venus (Metal Star), propriety (li 礼) devotees support Mars (Fire Star), wisdom (zhi 智) adepts help Mercury (Water Star), and those embodying integrity (xin 信) assist Saturn (Earth Star). Conversely, violators of these Five Constants suffer elemental retribution: the unkind get subdued by Wood, the unjust by Metal, the impolite by Fire, the unwise by Water, and the untrustworthy by Earth.

When hun and po remain balanced, humans dwell in the mortal realm. The hun governs nobility, wisdom, spirituality, and clarity, while the po presides over baseness, foolishness, darkness, and dullness. The hun manifests as divine radiance, the po as ghostly apparitions. Human form, dwelling, consciousness, and preferences all correspond to Five Phases interactions.

The text further examines character evolution: noting "cloud" (云) derives from the ancient "cloud" glyph, and "white" (白) from its archaic form. Character construction encodes cosmic principles—"cloud" (wind/Wood) governs ascent while "white" (qi/Metal) controls descent, resonating with the Śūraṅgama Sūtra's teachings on karmic ascent-descent. However, ordinary people typically possess only three hun and seven po, unable to fully realize this ideal state.

Through character decomposition and Five Phases theory, this passage constructs a comprehensive doctrine of soul movement, reflecting Daoism's unique synthesis of philology and cultivation theory.

The human spirit is composed of three hun (ethereal souls) and seven po (corporeal souls). Those with more hun appear noble, wise, and intelligent—transcendent like immortals; while those with more po seem base, dull, and dim—coarse like ghosts. These differences fundamentally follow the patterns of the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water), though their combinations vary.

Life manifests in countless forms: womb-born, egg-born, moisture-born, and transformation-born; those with form and without form, with consciousness and without—all these beings fill heaven and earth in endless proliferation. Yet those who attain the Dao (the Way) have no attachment to self. Without external supports, they cannot operate in the world, just as fire cannot sustain itself without wood. All worldly existence is transient. The sages, understanding this deeply, employ the generative and controlling cycles of the Five Phases to respond, ensuring the ceaseless circulation of life.

The mutual conquest of the Five Phases paradoxically creates harmony: water and fire oppose yet complement each other (as in the Jiji hexagram); metal and wood conflict yet pair like husband and wife—these exemplify the principle of unity in opposition. Like divination with turtle shells or yarrow stalks, only utmost sincerity can resonate with heavenly patterns. Without sincere heart-mind, the operations of the Five Phases remain latent.

The five human senses correspond to different spiritual dimensions: eyes correspond to jing (essence), while vision corresponds to shen (spirit). The sensory organs—eyes, ears, nose, mouth, and heart—manifest as desires (jing) in this life, while in the other realm they become the paternal source of life (contemplation); shen serves as the maternal source. Though their expressions differ, life's essence remains interconnected—inheriting qi (belonging to water) from the father and blood (belonging to fire) from the mother. Their union generates new life.

The true mystery lies in this: desire has no self-awareness, like a lock naturally engaging; contemplation has no self-awareness, like a lamp naturally glowing. When our discriminating mind does not arise, how can the cycle of birth and death persist?

Specifically: eyes, ears, nose, mouth, and heart are called the "five roots" (sensory bases); sound, color, scent, taste, and touch are the "five dusts" (perceptual objects); seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting, and thinking are the "five consciousnesses" (cognitive functions). The five roots govern the jing level and possess self-awareness; the five dusts govern the shen level and require external manifestation; the five consciousnesses govern the hun level. Only when roots, dusts, and consciousnesses are complete can whole hun and po form. The father contributes the love of jing and blood (water phase), the mother offers the contemplation of shen (fire phase), and their fiery-watery union gives birth to new conscious life—the fundamental principle of life's propagation.

This scripture employs the metaphor of a drum to elucidate the relationship between Jing (essence), Qi (vital energy), and Shen (spirit) in the human body. The drum's physical form corresponds to human Jing (the foundational substance of life), the sound produced by striking it resembles human Shen (conscious activity), while the lingering resonance parallels the "soul and ethereal spirit" (the continuation of mental activity). Just as the drum's reverberations eventually fade after the mallet ceases striking, human Jing and Qi, if not activated by Qi (energy), cannot sustain the continuous existence of Shen and the soul.

The Qi of the Five Phases (Metal, Wood, Water, Fire, and Earth - the five fundamental energies) flows unpredictably within the human body. What truly belongs to us is only the ability to actively wield the drum mallet (cultivating Jing and Qi). When asked how to maintain unceasing drumbeats and preserve the drum's form (i.e., sustain vital life force), the answer is: first lay down the drum mallet (release attachment to superficial appearances).

The text then uses the analogy of a fruit pit requiring three conditions for growth: within the human body, Jing corresponds to water, Shen to fire, and intention (Yi) to earth. Initially, these three remain separate, much like barren land suffering drought, floods, or compaction cannot nurture life. However, through fundamental cultivation (root union), humans can unite these three to generate life energy, akin to how adepts manifest marvels from emptiness (such as Zhang Xie creating mist or Zuo Ci transforming cups) - all being essentially the fusion of Jing, Qi, and Shen.

Finally, it reveals that all things in heaven and earth possess their roots: heaven has its "celestial root," earth its "terrestrial root," and humans their "human root." Authentic cultivation follows the primordial creative principle of the cosmos. By grasping this fundamental root, one can emulate heaven and earth in achieving creation ex nihilo, attaining the realm of spontaneous transformation. This requires the integration of Jing, Qi, and Shen at their foundational level, much like the union of male and female in procreation.

This scripture uses the growth patterns of trees as a metaphor for human spiritual activity. Trees (symbolizing the hun-soul) take root in winter (associated with Water) and blossom in summer (associated with Fire), just as the human hun-soul withdraws into Jing (essence, the foundation of life) at night (Yin) and manifests as Shen (conscious activity) by day (Yang).

When human consciousness merges with Jing, all perceptions become unique personal experiences; when consciousness unites with Shen, perceptions align with shared reality. Like trees that store energy in winter and flourish in summer, the hun-soul follows this rhythm of nocturnal withdrawal and diurnal manifestation. Understanding how trees take root reveals the origin of the hun-soul; comprehending the hun-soul's origin unveils the fundamental principles of cosmic creation.

Recognizing the body as an illusion in a dream allows the spiritual consciousness to soar through the Great Purity (Taiji, the highest celestial realm); perceiving external phenomena as dream visions enables the gathering of Qi to command all directions. The key to Daoist cultivation lies in both perceiving the spirit to attain longevity and transcending the spirit to achieve liberation. Through breath regulation to nourish Qi (Metal generating Water) and controlled exhalation to sustain the primordial spirit (Wood generating Fire), internal and external practices work together to prolong spiritual vitality.

The Yinfu Jing states: "Heaven contains five thieves [the mutual conquest of the Five Phases] – those who perceive them prosper," referring to how skillful nurturing of spirit leads to longevity. It also says: "People know the spirit that is spirit, but not the non-spirit that is the source of spirit," speaking of transcending ordinary consciousness to reach higher states. Some can journey spiritually through the Great Purity in dreams, while others command all phenomena in dreams – this demonstrates how both body and external objects are like illusions in a bubble. What can be done in dreams reflects the agility of spiritual consciousness; what cannot be done while awake stems from physical constraints. Only those who truly awaken to the nature of spirit can achieve the state where waking and dreaming become one, freely transforming consciousness and vital energy. These constitute the profound mysteries of Daoist practice. As for breathing techniques and similar methods, they serve merely as auxiliary means.

This scripture primarily discusses methods for nurturing the spirit (Shen) and prolonging life through both internal and external cultivation, as well as the higher realm of Daoist practice known as "transcending life by forgetting the spirit and essence."

The text first describes using breathing techniques (Qi absorption) to harmonize the external energies of Metal and Wood, while nourishing the internal spirit through practices like "rinsing with saliva" and "friction-fire massage." These represent foundational health-preservation methods. However, truly advanced Daoist arts require transcending such concrete techniques to reach the state of "forgetting the spirit and essence," which depends on personal realization and practice.

It then explains how the Five Constant Virtues (Wuchang) correspond to five aspects of human vitality: diligent observance of rites consolidates the spirit (Shen), diligent cultivation of wisdom stabilizes the vital essence (Jing), the virtue of benevolence (Yang) lightens the ethereal soul (Hun), while the virtue of righteousness (Yin) governs the corporeal soul (Po). This mirrors how the Five Planets govern five domains: Mars governs rites (elevating Shen-Qi), Jupiter governs benevolence (lightening the Hun), Venus governs righteousness (stabilizing the Po), and Mercury governs wisdom (settling the Jing). Though only four are mentioned, adding "sincerity" completes the Five Constants, just as adding the center completes the four directions.

Finally, the dung beetle rolling its ball serves as a metaphor for transformative influence: the carefully tended dung ball produces larvae that eventually transform into cicadas. This parallels alchemical practice—within the seemingly empty golden crucible (the divine chamber), as long as the alchemist maintains unwavering focus (unclouded consciousness), the Golden Elixir can be forged. When external alchemy (Waidan) succeeds, internal alchemy (Neidan) is simultaneously achieved, ultimately enabling transformation into an immortal. As the Can Tong Qi states, all things arise through this transformative process—the dung beetle's meticulous labor mirrors the practitioner's concentrated cultivation.

Integrating health practices, virtue cultivation, and alchemical principles, this passage illustrates how Daoist cultivation requires both internal and external refinement to ultimately reach the transcendent state where self and objects are both forgotten.

The cook in the kitchen was boiling crabs when he accidentally left one crab leg on the table. The cooked crabs were already served, yet that forgotten leg still twitched. This shows that what we call life and death are merely transformations of Qi (the vital energy that constitutes life in Daoist thought) gathering and dispersing. In essence, there is no true birth or death—these are merely concepts humans subjectively impose.

People always assume animals possess life, but observe the cooked crabs in the pot and the moving leg on the table: the "living" is simply Qi gathered, the "dead" merely Qi scattered. That which transcends Qi (referring to the Dao)—when has it ever known gathering, scattering, life, or death? These are nothing but human constructs.

Some die standing, some sitting, some lying down; some perish from illness, others from potions—yet fundamentally, it's all the same death, with no hierarchy. Those who truly understand the Dao, because they don't cling to the concept of "life," likewise perceive no "death."

The world doesn't realize my true self (original nature) was never born and will never die. When people see someone pass away sitting or standing, they assume them enlightened; when they see one die bedridden, they deem them unenlightened. But it's the same death—what difference exists? Only those who comprehend the Dao, never attached to "life," see no birth; never attached to "death," see no demise.

Human aversion to life-and-death, the desire to transcend it—these are the real problems. Like phantom projections (referring to deluded thoughts), if one harbors aversion to life-and-death or seeks to escape it, this can only be called demonic aberration, not Dao-realization.

Laozi said: "Can you concentrate your Qi and attain softness, like an infant?" Ask a baby: "Are you alive?" It doesn't know. "Are you dead?" It doesn't know either. Seen this way, isn't people's loathing of life-and-death a grave error? Isn't the wish to transcend it sheer aberration?

Regarding life-and-death: some say existence continues after death, some say there's nothing, some say both being and nonbeing, some say neither being nor nonbeing; some consider death fortunate, some fear it, some accept it naturally, some strive to transcend it. These tangled views are like galloping delusions. They fail to realize my life-and-death are as nonexistent as horses growing hands or cows sprouting wings—neither "being" nor "nonbeing." Like water and fire: even when touching them, one isn't burned or drowned.

Using "horses lack hands, cows lack wings" illustrates my fundamental absence of life-and-death; "entering water as water, entering fire as fire" shows my merging with life-and-death. To say it's like nonexistent horse-hands and cow-wings while also being like entering water and fire naturally—this is the true meaning of neither-born-nor-dying.

This passage elucidates the Daoist principles of life, death, and spiritual cultivation. It conveys that since nothing truly exists in an absolute sense (referring to the fundamental emptiness of all phenomena), what meaning does "entering" hold? The so-called "entry" merely describes transitioning from a state of never having truly been born into death, and from a state of never having truly died into life. Viewed this way, "entering" isn’t genuine entry, nor is "transgression" actual transgression. If one clings to dualistic concepts like "existence" or "non-existence," "fortune" or "fear," "indulgence" or "transcendence," the more one chases after shifting emotions and thoughts, the further one strays from truth—how then could such a person comprehend this principle?

Zhu Xiangxian (a Song Dynasty Daoist) explains: "Fu" (talismans) signifies alignment. By harmonizing our Shen (spirit), Hun (ethereal soul), and Po (corporeal soul) with the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) of heaven and earth, we can master these elemental forces, freeing ourselves from the cycles of mutual generation and destruction to attain the wondrous state beyond rebirth and death. But to merge with the Five Phases of creation, one must first balance one’s own spiritual components: Jing (essence) corresponds to Water, Shen to Fire, Hun to Wood, and Po to Metal. Since Metal generates Water, the Po can store Jing but not control it; as Wood generates Fire, the Hun can house Shen but not refine it. If Metal and Wood remain divided, Kan (Water) and Li (Fire)—symbolizing Yin and Yang—fail to unite, disrupting the generative function of all things. Thus, the harmonization of the Five Phases and Four Symbols (Lesser Yang, Greater Yang, Lesser Yin, Greater Yin) hinges entirely on the key formula of "Three-Five-One."

Here, the "Five" refers to Earth—specifically, Yi (intention). True Earth has no fixed position; true Yi has no concrete form. It simultaneously preserves Jing and governs Shen, lightens the Hun and steers the Po. The Cantong Qi’s phrase "a perfect circle of three-five, one part" captures this meaning. Why does "Five" contain "Three"? Because Heaven’s Three belongs to Wood, Earth’s Two to Fire—their shared nature merges into one Five; Heaven’s One belongs to Water, Earth’s Four to Metal—their shared affinity combines into another Five; with Wu-Earth (central Earth) mediating their balance.

This scripture primarily explains how the human mind, when clouded by various desires, becomes susceptible to disturbances by different types of spirit entities, and how sages transcend such states.

When the human mind is obscured by thoughts of fortune, misfortune, and calamity, it falls under the control of spiritual ghosts (ling gui). When clouded by lust between men and women, it is dominated by licentious ghosts (yin gui). When shrouded in melancholy and depression, it succumbs to sinking ghosts (chen gui). When intoxicated by indulgence and pleasure-seeking, it is ruled by manic ghosts (kuang gui). When preoccupied with curses and oaths, it becomes subject to strange ghosts (qi gui). When obsessed with medicines and food, it is governed by material ghosts (wu gui). These spirit entities manifest in various forms—some take shape through Yin energy (Yin Qi), others coalesce from darkness, some are as formless as wind, others as elusive as vapor. Some cling to clay or wooden idols, others dwell within painted images, some inhabit aged livestock, while others lurk within broken objects. When a person's vital essence (Jing) becomes entangled with the essence of these spirits, a resonance is created.

Those controlled by spirits may occasionally interpret strange phenomena or predict fortunes, yet arrogantly deny being possessed, instead believing themselves to have attained the Dao (De). Over time, such individuals may meet accidental deaths involving trees, metal objects, ropes, or wells. Only sages can command divine forces (Shen) without being controlled by them, mastering the pivotal mechanisms of all things—capable of both gathering and dispersing, while warding off external pathogenic influences. Though they engage with myriad affairs daily, their inner core remains undisturbed.

Sages actively employ spiritual power without being enslaved by it, whereas ordinary people are dominated by these forces without conscious mastery. Those who wield spiritual power consciously maintain inner serenity when facing all phenomena, while those enslaved by it find their minds obscured by externalities, becoming prey to spirit possession. At their core, these ghosts are purely Yin (Yin) energies, devoid of self-awareness, existing only by attaching themselves to external objects.

This scripture primarily addresses common pitfalls in spiritual practice and the authentic state of sagehood.

When practitioners become attached to bodily sensations and mistake external phenomena for their true self, their Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy) become trapped at the material level. When spirit (Shen) becomes entangled with matter, it invites demonic disturbances. Some may develop extraordinary abilities or precognition, then pridefully assume they've attained the Dao—yet in truth, they're being manipulated by demonic obstructions. Over time, this depletes their vital life force, injures them through the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water), and ultimately leads to ordinary physical death like inanimate objects. This phenomenon resembles the twenty-five demonic states described in Buddhism's Śūraṅgama Sūtra. Remarkably, these principles were already recorded in Guan Yinzi during the late Zhou dynasty—centuries before Buddhism entered China—and are presented with greater precision and conciseness than in Buddhist texts.

Regarding mind cultivation: Human consciousness (five sensory perceptions) naturally operates dispersedly, yet forced unification proves counterproductive. The mind inherently contains the Five Phases' attributes, yet deliberate pursuit of emptiness backfires. All phenomena constantly transform, yet enforced stillness fails. Obsession with "oneness" paradoxically creates duality; chasing "emptiness" fills the mind; demanding "stillness" triggers agitation. Only sages naturally gather all phenomena into a single thought without mental obscuration, and expand one thought throughout creation without obstruction.

The sage's mind contracts and expands effortlessly—contracting, all things return to one thought; expanding, one thought permeates all existence—never needing forced unification, emptiness, or stillness. Such deliberate striving would only forfeit these states. Precisely through non-striving does the sage's mind maintain natural unity, emptiness, and tranquility. Though appearing to contract and expand, fundamentally there's no distinction. Thus even amidst myriad transformations, their inner clarity remains undisturbed. Sages illuminate their original mind through five mirrors (wu jian)—these are truly authentic mirrors indeed.

The conclusion observes: Even the fiercest flames extinguish after millennia; the most rigid attachments dissolve after centuries. This illustrates the ultimate cessation of all conditioned phenomena.

Fire originally has no self-awareness. Since the separation of the clear and turbid in heaven and earth, there has never been naturally occurring fire in the world—it must be produced by humans drilling wood or striking flint. As Liezi said, "Fire is born from humans." Fire itself has no fixed form; though it may burn for millennia, it can be extinguished in an instant. Human consciousness is the same. From the moment it takes shape in the womb, this mind-consciousness does not preexist but arises due to the senses interacting with external stimuli and long-term habituation. As Guan Yinzi said, "Consciousness arises from the interaction of things." Consciousness itself has no fixed form; though it may remember for millennia, it can vanish in a flash. Yet extinguishing fire is easy—preventing its rekindling is hard. Dispelling consciousness is easy—preventing its rebirth is hard. The ancients said, "Attaining the Dao is easy; preserving it is difficult"—indeed, this is true.

What moves is the boat, but what makes the boat move is the water, not the boat itself. What moves is the cart, but what makes the cart move is the ox, not the cart itself. What thinks is the mind, but what makes the mind think is thought, not the mind itself. We often do not understand why things happen this way. Precisely because of this, its coming has no source, and its going has no destination. Without origin or end, it can connect with the primordial source of heaven and earth, transcending the concepts of past and present.

The mind is like fire, thought is like earth, and thinking also belongs to earth. Thus, what makes the mind think is thought, not the mind itself—just as a boat moves by water, a cart moves by an ox, and the mind operates by thought. The ancients said, "Striking a cart that does not move is like striking the ox." Now, the mind is enslaved by thinking; to remove the mind is to remove thought. The sages of the three teachings all advocate dissolving clinging thoughts rather than extinguishing the original mind—there must be profound meaning in this. When practitioners engage in thought, if they investigate the source from which thought arises, they will realize it comes without a trace and leaves without a shadow. In this way, thought is not deliberately produced, and thinking is not deliberately performed. This thoughtless thinking and intentionless intention can endure alongside the primordial source of heaven and earth, transcending past and present. This is entirely different from forcefully severing thought and making the mind like wood or stone.

Understanding that the mind is originally empty, one understands that all things are empty. Understanding that all things are empty, one understands that the Dao is also empty. Once one knows the emptiness of the Dao, one will not deliberately pursue extraordinary behavior nor be deluded by mysterious words.

There was a saying in ancient times: To regard others as sages while considering oneself arrogant, to blindly worship extraordinary deeds and be awestruck by profound words—this is to chase superficial phenomena while missing the true Dao (the Way). The Dao transcends distinctions between ancient and modern, sage and commoner, word and deed; it knows neither predecessors nor successors. Understanding this allows one to discern what belongs to external things and what is the true nature of the mind.

When external things encounter the self, thoughts arise—just as fire emerges from the friction of two pieces of wood. One cannot say the fire belongs entirely to oneself or entirely to the other. Those who stubbornly insist on such distinctions are foolish. The mind, like fire, has a dual nature; it requires the merging of self and object to produce thoughts, just as two pieces of wood must rub together to create flames. Those who claim thoughts belong solely to themselves or others, or that fire exists entirely here or there—or even that thoughts belong to neither—are equally deluded. How could they ever truly know the original mind?

Do not cling to your notions of gain and loss, right and wrong. Are the gains, losses, rights, and wrongs you perceive truly absolute? Even sages remain in a state of unknowing—how much more should you? The more sharply you calculate gains and losses, the harder it becomes to maintain harmony with loved ones; the more clearly you distinguish right from wrong, the more difficult it is to accomplish anything.

Sometimes, a dream at night feels longer than the entire night itself. A man from Qi once carried nothing but the landscapes of Qi in his heart, yet when he traveled to Song, Wei, Liang, and Jin, what filled his mind changed entirely—for the mind has no fixed abode. Like the dream of Handan, where a lifetime of glory and disgrace unfolds, only to wake and find the millet still uncooked—mere moments having passed. When has the mind ever been fixed in time? Or consider the child of Chu, raised in Chu, suddenly taken to Zhuangyu (a foreign land) for years: even if beaten daily to speak the Chu tongue, he could not—for the mind has no fixed place. How could those who stubbornly seek the original mind through time and space ever truly know it?

A skilled archer studies the bow itself, not Houyi (the legendary archer); a skilled oarsman studies the boat itself, not Ao (the ancient master of sailing). Those who cultivate the mind should study its true nature—not blindly imitate the sages.

The exquisite craftsmanship of Wheelwright Bian (a legendary ancient artisan) could not be passed down to his son, for true understanding arises from the perfect harmony between mind and hand—how could it be learned merely through a master's instruction? When the legendary archer Hou Yi taught Peng Meng to shoot, did Peng Meng truly master all of Hou Yi's skills? Even if he believed he had learned everything, was Hou Yi the only one in the world who could surpass himself? Those who study the Dao of sages, believing they've comprehended all principles, are like mice drinking from a river—when their bellies are full, they imagine they've exhausted the entire river's waters.

Today's skilled archers learn from their bows, and adept sailors learn from their boats—this metaphor is excellent. Those cultivating the mind should learn from their original mind. Bows have targets and stances to study, boats have sails and rudders to follow, but when the human mind alternates between clarity (awakening awareness) and obscurity (deluded confusion), from whom should one learn? In truth, practitioners need only grasp that thread of spiritual illumination between movement and stillness, speech and silence—the moment when clarity and obscurity transform—to discover the supreme method of mind cultivation.

The world's rights and wrongs, beauty and ugliness, success and failure are all arrangements of the Creator. People create distinctions due to clinging to personal delusions. Even if one uses "emptiness" to eliminate attachments, "emptiness" itself becomes a new attachment; using "neither existence nor emptiness" to eliminate it still leaves residual thoughts. Like vivid memories when revisiting familiar places, some experiences can neither be forgotten nor deliberately erased. True wisdom lies in transforming delusions into enlightenment—do you know how to achieve this transformation?

Delusions are like fearing ghosts when thinking of them, or dreading thieves at their mention; they're also like mistaking millet for broomcorn, or jade for stone—all are floating illusions. For instance, seeing strange phenomena triggers related associations, yet the root of these thoughts isn't within me. Just as today we can only know today's affairs, tomorrow's myriad thoughts cannot be anticipated—all delusions arise and perish randomly with circumstances. Consider also the rhinoceros gazing at the moon: the moon's reflection appears on its horn (symbolizing subjective perception), but has the true moon ever resided on the horn? All things in heaven and earth perceived within our minds are likewise. Those who understand this principle can achieve a state where externally they don't cling to objects, and internally they aren't trapped by emotions—throughout time, all phenomena merely flow and transform within the human heart's small compass.

This passage uses metaphor to illustrate the nature of human consciousness. Like the crescent-shaped patterns on a rhinoceros horn—which are not formed because the rhino deliberately thinks of the moon—yet once these patterns emerge, they become an inseparable part of the horn. The memories in our minds operate similarly: when we encounter familiar scenes again, the memories naturally resurface.

The author points out that human imaginings of future events are fundamentally illusory. Just as tomorrow has not yet arrived, all thoughts about it have no ground to take root. Present thoughts and perceptions are essentially as baseless as "fearing ghosts that do not exist." Mistaking millet for sorghum or jade for ordinary stone—such errors in perception nonetheless generate real illusions.

The truly wise approach is to understand the principle of "transforming cognition into wisdom" (变识为智 biàn shí wéi zhì): when one can convert attachment to external objects into wisdom, they become neither swayed by material things nor dominated by emotions. All things are born from dust and will return to dust; all affairs arise from thought and will dissolve back into thought. Judgments of right and wrong, good and evil, may appear rational, yet they shift with the movement of thought—like a child following its mother.

The key lies in recognizing this: though thoughts may change, the original mind (本心 běnxīn) remains unchanging; though thoughts possess awareness, the original mind transcends awareness. What must be eliminated is not surface-level cognition but the root that generates it—thought itself. Just as all things arise from the earth and return to it, all cognition arises from thought and dissolves back into it. Understanding this truth allows one to maintain the constancy of the original mind, seeing through the coming and going of thoughts like dust, and recognizing worldly affairs as fleeting as lightning or illusion.

This scripture primarily explores the relationship between heart-mind (心), innate nature (性), and emotions (情), as well as how to attain transcendent states through cultivating one's nature.

The text employs metaphors to illustrate: human thoughts are like drifting dust, worldly affairs resemble flickering flames—none should disturb the true ruler within. The eternal "Great Constancy" (大常, fundamental truth) resides in one's innate nature. Emotions are the ripples of the heart-mind, the heart-mind is the flow of innate nature, and innate nature is like still water. When external things stir us, if we respond with our innate nature, the heart-mind will not be agitated, and external phenomena will pass like fleeting clouds.

The text critiques later misinterpretations that reverse the fundamental relationship, claiming "nature arises from the heart-mind." In truth, the sages of the Three Teachings all affirm: Confucius speaks of exhausting principle to fulfill nature (穷理尽性), Mencius teaches fulfilling the heart-mind to know nature (尽心知性), and Buddhism advocates clarifying the heart-mind to see nature (明心见性)—all demonstrating that the heart-mind arises from innate nature. Just as water is the source, the heart-mind is its flow, and emotions are its ripples. If one always uses the heart-mind to engage with external things, limited mental energy cannot cope with the endless affairs of the world. Only sages can respond with their innate nature, ensuring external things never disturb their inner stillness.

Regarding distinctions between worthiness and foolishness, truth and falsehood: people often judge based on personal perceptions, yet such judgments themselves are functions of the discriminating mind. Those truly awakened understand that so-called worthiness deserving respect, foolishness unworthy of attention, truths hard to forget, and falsehoods easily dismissed—all these distinctions are products of mental discrimination. Seeing through this allows one to transcend such dualities, transforming ordinary cognition into wisdom.

This scripture discusses the relationship between the human mind and external phenomena. The essential teaching is: When the mind encounters external phenomena, if it remains free from attachment, no emotions will arise; when external phenomena influence the mind, if the mind remains unattached, no discriminating consciousness will emerge. External phenomena themselves are not ultimately real—how much less so our perceptions of them? If even perceptions lack true reality, how much more so the emotions derived from them?

Deluded individuals stubbornly cling to the notion of substantial existence within what is fundamentally emptiness, and they fixate on permanence within ever-changing phenomena. A single attachment to emotion accumulates into countless emotions, and countless emotional attachments give rise to the illusion of infinite phenomena. External things come and go without end, yet the capacity of our mind is limited. Thus, our true mind becomes bound by emotions, and our essential nature is controlled by external phenomena. Though we may appear to actively summon or dismiss things at will, this coming and going is never truly under our control—it is driven by the forces of creation, ceaselessly in motion.

What most fail to realize is that although heaven and earth are vast, they can only govern things with form; though yin and yang are profound, they can only influence things endowed with Qi (vital energy). Wherever the mind's thoughts go, Qi follows; wherever Qi goes, form responds. Just as the Great Void (the cosmic origin) gives birth to all phenomena through the One Qi (primordial energy), this Qi itself is not identical to the Great Void. Our mind can transform into Qi and into form, yet the essence of mind is formless and Qi-less. Understanding this principle reveals that neither heaven and earth nor yin and yang can dominate our true mind.

Why then do humans become controlled by emotions and enslaved by external things? Precisely because they cling to existence within emptiness and permanence within change. Discriminating consciousness gives rise to emotions, and emotions reinforce attachment to phenomena. With infinite external phenomena and the unfathomable transformations of creation, humans drift helplessly in this coming and going. Some believe that since the mind can transform into Qi and form, it must inevitably be constrained by the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) and governed by yin and yang—its flourishing and decline entirely beyond self-determination.

This is as laughable as a painter frightening himself with the ghostly images he creates. They fail to recognize that our true mind is originally like the Great Void—capable of giving birth to all phenomena through the One Qi, yet this Qi is not the Great Void itself. Ignorant people mistake the One Qi directly for the Great Void—how then could they ever transcend the constraints of heaven, earth, yin, and yang?

In daily life, when people suddenly see unusual phenomena, there are typically two explanations: One is hallucinations caused by the coagulation of Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy), much like how eye strain can produce floaters; the other is illusions triggered by inner deficiencies or fixations. In truth, our thoughts can both conjure images from nothing and make real things vanish—the key lies in whether we truly believe in this capacity.

Just as snake catchers, familiar with serpent nature, remain unafraid even when dreaming of snakes. The Yellow Emperor (founder of Daoism) once said: "In the great Dao, there are no ghosts or spirits. Practitioners should maintain a solitary, unattached state of mind." When eyes are overtaxed, one might see phantom flowers or double images in empty space; when the heart harbors fear, visions of figures like Chiyou (a legendary demonic deity) may arise—these are all examples of "creating something from nothing." Yet once illusions manifest, who can avoid being deluded? Only those like the snake catcher, accustomed to such phenomena, remain unmoved.

There was once a practitioner meditating in the mountains when a mountain spirit (a supernatural being) transformed into bizarre shapes to disturb him. The man closed his eyes and said: "Your tricks have limits, but my refusal to see or hear has none." The spirit had no choice but to retreat. This demonstrates the skill of "transforming something into nothing"—the crux lies in not taking illusions as real.

If one can visualize inner alchemical (Neidan) symbols like the Infant and Maiden (representing Yin and Yang energies) or the Azure Dragon and White Tiger (guardian deities of the four directions), these too are products of thought—yet they differ from ordinary hallucinations because the practitioner maintains control. When sages encounter such visions, they retain an attitude of seeing without attachment, as the Yellow Emperor stated: "In the great Dao, there are no ghosts or spirits, only the solitary true self."

Human thoughts shift daily, seemingly driven by external forces—yet it is not the "self" directing them, but the mandate of heaven. Recognizing all as heaven’s will allows one to achieve external self-forgetfulness and inner clarity. Just as eyes naturally perceive the world, when turned inward, the external world momentarily disappears. Thus, if fate is decreed by heaven, thoughts move unbidden; if one masters fate, why exhaust the mind? This is the essential principle of dual cultivation—forgetting both inner and outer realms.

This scripture primarily explains how to attain enlightenment through mastering one's thoughts. The eyes can perceive all things in the world, but if one withdraws their gaze to turn inward, external phenomena vanish from sight—similarly, when a person stills their restless thoughts, they can reach a higher state of being. Unfortunately, few truly understand this principle.

The text then employs three metaphors to illustrate the harm of overusing the senses: staring at intricate carvings damages one's vision, listening to complex music impairs hearing, and obsessing over profound theories injures the original mind (benxin). These three examples are interconnected, all conveying that failing to restrain the senses and return inward leads to harm.

The most essential cultivation method is this: rather than judging others based on one's own thoughts, one must consider things from their perspective. Those who grasp this principle act with thoroughness, manifest virtue (De), penetrate the Dao, and engage with others without self-attachment. Those who persistently project their own views onto others create divisions—they neither accomplish tasks well nor achieve true friendship, virtue, or enlightenment. The reason sages attain the state of "selflessness" (wuwo) lies precisely in this ability for empathetic understanding.

Finally, the text reveals the key to mastering emotions (zhiqing): all matters under heaven develop from small beginnings. Practitioners must not only guard against the gradual accumulation of faults but also regulate emotions at their subtlest stages. To subdue emotions the moment they arise cultivates virtue; the more advanced method is reaching the state of "emotionless tranquility" (wangqing)—maintaining a pure and undisturbed mind before emotions even stir, thus naturally aligning with the Dao. The former is active control, the latter is fundamental dissolution—both are vital methods in cultivation.

The Daoist master Zhu Xiangxian (Song dynasty) observed that when the human mind becomes obscured by external phenomena, it becomes enslaved by worldly affairs, and the mutual conquest of the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) injures the Shen (spirit). People do not perish because of external things, but rather because of inner attachments. Only sages can master their Shen with Shen, never becoming trapped by it—thus while handling myriad affairs daily, their inner stillness remains unshaken. The Yijing states: "Utterly quiescent and unmoving, yet responsive to all stimuli," meaning only through maintaining profound stillness can one respond appropriately to the world. How can one remain both ever-responsive and ever-still?

The secret lies in three modes of engagement: meeting complexity with unified focus (avoiding chaos), encountering substance with empty stillness (avoiding stagnation), and facing change with equanimity (avoiding disturbance). True stillness is the fundamental nature of both mind and all phenomena. Any response lacking this stillness stems not from the true mind nor perceives true reality, but rather from delusory discrimination (wangshi). Once the duality of "self and other" arises, calculations of right/wrong and gain/loss emerge; with the distinction between "sage and ordinary," biases of worship or disdain develop; clinging to notions of "constancy and change" traps one in conceptual games of "being arising from non-being, non-being revealed through being." Delusory discrimination breeds delusory thoughts, which in turn reinforce discrimination—like currents propelling boats, or ox-carts turning wheels, or the moon's reflection stubbornly lingering in a rhinoceros' horn. Therefore, to dissolve millennia-accumulated delusions, one must begin by dismantling each present thought.

This scripture explores the nature of the "true self," pointing out common cognitive errors people fall into. The essence is this: when clinging thoughts dissipate, discriminating consciousness naturally vanishes; when consciousness becomes empty and still, the original mind becomes naturally clear. In this state, there is no distinction between time and space—the mental state is vast and undifferentiated, with all phenomena appearing like fleeting shadows that ultimately return to original nature. Original nature is the eternal true state of our spirit, and in the stillness of inward contemplation, one not only perceives heaven, earth, and all things but also finds even the concept of "self" dissolving. Only when the mind no longer clings to the existence of "mind" can one truly forget the limited self.

Only those who can relinquish emotional and intellectual attachments may align with the Dao. This alignment manifests as maintaining inner stillness while responding to all things. Ordinary people always think "my thoughts" differ from "others' thoughts," distinguishing "you" from "me," unaware that the people appearing in dreams are also projections of "my" consciousness. Just as fingernails and hair feel no pain, and hands and feet have no thoughts, they are still part of the "whole me." People consider solitary perceptions as dreams and shared experiences as reality, not realizing that when Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy) condense, one may see strange visions alone in broad daylight, and when Shen (spirit) and Hun (ethereal soul) interact, two people may share the same dream—all these are functions of our spirit. How can they be simplistically divided into real and unreal?

People often dismiss fleeting perceptions as illusory and lasting ones as real, yet both are merely workings of Yin-Yang Qi. It's like someone who doesn't recognize their true self, trying to find it through form, sound, or smell, only to discover the true self cannot be seen, heard, or touched. Ordinary people regard what can think and feel as "me" and exclude what cannot, but such attachments are all delusional. The true "I" transcends these relative concepts—it is a more fundamental existence.

This scripture explores the relationship between the "self" and perception, dreams and reality. It points out that people often mistakenly believe the one who thinks and feels pain is the real "self," yet thoughts are merely accumulations of external stimuli in the mind, and suffering is just a temporary sensation of Qi (vital energy) and blood converging—neither represents the true "self."

Just as nails and hair feel no pain, and hands and feet do not think, they are still part of the "self." Similarly, the heavens, earth, myriad beings, humans, spirits, birds, and beasts that appear in dreams, though lacking thought or sensation, are also manifestations of the "self." Ordinary people often regard fleeting personal visions as dreams and collective, enduring perceptions as reality, but both views are partial.

In truth, dreams arise from the interaction of Yin Qi (the dark vital energy), nighttime, sleep, and consciousness, while so-called "wakefulness" stems from the interplay of Yang Qi (the bright vital energy), daylight, alertness, and perception. When divine spirits align, two people may share the same dream at night; when Yin-Yang interact over time, the myriad phenomena of heaven and earth persist in dreams. Thus, one cannot simplistically distinguish truth from illusion using "wakefulness" and "dreams."

People of different virtues dream differently: the benevolent often dream of pines, cypresses, peaches, and plums; the righteous dream of weapons and metal; the courteous dream of ritual vessels (such as the ancient sacrificial utensils fu, gui, bian, and dou); the wise dream of rivers, lakes, and marshes; and the faithful dream of mountains and plains. These manifestations are influenced by the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water). But sages are not bound by the Five Phases—they govern all things through their innate nature, aligning their spirit with the workings of creation.

Ordinary people cannot transcend Yin-Yang and the Five Phases because their minds are ensnared by external things. As the ancient saying goes: "The greatest adversaries are Yin-Yang, from which none in heaven and earth can escape; the Five Thieves (five disturbances) dwell in the heart and manifest throughout the cosmos." This reveals that the Five Thieves originate from Yin-Yang, and human thought is shaped by their influence.

This scripture primarily discusses how humans can transcend worldly attachments to attain a state of liberation. It observes that people either cling to specific matters or external objects, all of which are governed by the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water). Consequently, they remain bound by the "Five Thieves" (the restrictive influence of the Five Phases). In waking life, this manifests as engagement with tasks, while in dreams it appears as visions—for instance, kind-hearted individuals often dream of pines and cypresses, all manifestations of the Five Phases' dominance.

Yet if one suddenly hears or thinks of something else during a dream, shifting consciousness, the dreamscape also transforms. This demonstrates that the Five Phases cannot entirely constrain the human spirit. Understanding this principle enables one to master phenomena without being enslaved by them. The sage (one who has realized the Dao) engages with the world not through deliberation but by governing with the heart; not through thought but through innate nature (original primordial essence), thus harmonizing with the transformations of heaven and earth, unbound by the Five Phases.

The scripture illustrates this with examples: encountering visions like snake-headed humans or ox-armed fish-scaled creatures need not startle, for such bizarre forms pale beside dream imagery, which in turn is less vivid than waking perceptions. True wisdom resembles heaven's silent operation—where the sun and moon move and seasons shift without speech. The sage comprehends truth effortlessly, without conscious thought.

Finally, it poses: when humans sleep and their spirit rests, why do sudden dreams of heaven, earth, and beings arise? Most dismiss this as unremarkable. Yet careful reflection reveals that the human spirit, inherently clear and pure, can conjure endless illusions. This insight directs us to return to the original purity of the heart-mind.

Isn't dreaming a most peculiar phenomenon? Everyone knows dreams are illusory. But consider our waking bodies—with ears and eyes, hands and feet, capable of seeing, hearing, and moving—each feature corresponding perfectly to what we perceive in dreams. Isn't that even more astonishing? Moreover, the mouth can speak and the heart can think—these marvels are truly beyond description.

Some say: "Our physical form is the appearance bestowed by the Dao (the cosmic origin), the shape granted by Heaven. Though we possess these organs like ears and hands, upon deeper reflection we find no substantial basis for their existence." Does this explanation make it less strange? To which I reply: What, then, is the Dao? (with a tone of skeptical inquiry)

When others press me with the same question, I respond: "The greatest truth cannot be expressed in words; the highest wisdom cannot be attained through thought." Hearing this, the questioner retreats speechless.

Someone once questioned me: "What is your family name? Your given name? Your courtesy name? What do you eat? What do you wear? Who are your friends? What servants do you employ? What zither do you play? What books do you read? What ancient studies do you pursue? What contemporary affairs concern you?" I remained silent. When the questioner persisted, I had no choice but to reply: "I have not yet understood my own self—how then can I answer these questions about 'me'?"

All people possess a true essential self, yet even sages and wise men find it difficult to recognize. Precisely because people cannot perceive their true selves, they seek themselves through external appearances and reputations—only to become even more lost. How much more futile, then, to inquire about family names, food and clothing, musical instruments, books, or ancient and modern affairs? Thus, when sages respond with silence, theirs is actually the most profound answer.

Are these persistent questioners believers or doubters? If believers, then the "me" in their eyes and the "them" in mine are mutually defined. If doubters, then my response of "no-self" is precisely the truest answer. The sages, seeing through this delusion, point out: "Others recognize me through visible forms, while I know myself through the invisible essence. When others seek me in the visible, I exist in the invisible." Therefore, the only possible reply is: "I have not yet understood my own self—how then can I answer these questions about 'me'?" Alas, this is already a second-best explanation.

This scripture primarily elucidates the relationship between form (xing), qi (vital energy), and spirit (shen) in Daoist cultivation, along with corresponding practices.

The human form can separate, merge, extend, and conceal itself. Just as a married couple can bear two children (demonstrating separation of form), two individuals can unite to conceive one child (demonstrating merging of form). Consuming Jusheng (a legendary elixir) prolongs life (extending form), while remaining invisible to others on moonless, fireless nights demonstrates concealment of form. The primordial qi (先天一炁, Xiantian Yiqi) generates all things like regrowing hair; when this qi merges with all existence, it heals like mending split lips. By preserving original qi through spiritual cultivation and sustaining form through qi, one extends physical existence. Uniting form with spirit and spirit with qi enables concealment of form.

Daoist practice comprises three levels: superior cultivation focuses on refining the primordial spirit (元神, Yuanshen), intermediate cultivation emphasizes cultivating qi, while basic cultivation works with physical form. Though each level has its subtleties, all ultimately aim for spiritual refinement as the supreme achievement. The purest element is spirit, the most turbid is physical form, with qi being half-pure and half-turbid. If even the turbid form can transform, how much more so qi and spirit? The key lies in resolute determination.

Nothing in existence lies beyond perception—all things belong to our field of awareness; no sound escapes hearing—all vibrations enter our sphere of perception. The Five Grains nourish the body, demonstrating how all matter composes our physical form; the Five Flavors regulate qi, showing how all creation feeds our vital energy. Thus our form and qi fundamentally unite with the myriad phenomena of heaven and earth.

(Note: "Qi" here refers to the primordial vital energy central to Daoist practice; "Jusheng" denotes a mythical immortality herb; "Five Substances" indicates the Five Grains, while "Five Flavors" represents sour, bitter, sweet, pungent, and salty tastes)

This scripture explores the relationship between human form, spirit, and the myriad things of heaven and earth. It states that the Five Phases nourish the physical form, while five flavors nourish the Qi (vital energy), meaning nothing between heaven and earth exists beyond our physical form and vital energy. Yet when we speak of nothing being unseen or unheard, what exactly are "seeing" and "hearing"? If the physical body could truly see and hear, why can't corpses perceive? If Qi could perceive, why can't exhaled breath see or hear? This reveals there exists something beyond form and Qi that governs and sustains all.

The classic states that within the indistinct and hazy state there exists a "thing," and within the profound darkness lies "Jing" (essence). To recognize this "thing" is precisely to perceive the "Shen" (spirit). Spirit has no fixed form—it manifests through the colors of heaven and earth's myriad things. Essence has no concrete image—it reveals itself through their sounds. Thus, my physical form and Qi are the myriad things of heaven and earth, while my spirit is their colors and sounds.

Just as farmers who work with oxen gradually become rugged, hunters accustomed to tigers grow bold, fishermen familiar with water develop calmness, and warriors trained with horses gain agility, all things can become part of me. Internally, roundworms may grow within my body; externally, lice may multiply. Tumors may transform into turtle-fish shapes, while fistulas might resemble rats or ants—I too can transform into myriad things.

The human form was never exclusively one's own. Habitual interaction with any object leads to assimilation with it, just as being afflicted by certain Qi leads to merging with that energy. Ancient tales tell of tiger painters who became tigers through profound immersion—this illustrates "habit with oxen makes one rugged." Others found their tumors teeming with lice when opened—demonstrating "external steaming transforms into parasites." Habit leads to assimilation with objects; illness leads to merging with energies. Yet worldly people cling to their bodies, mistakenly believing them uniquely theirs. How could they understand these forms are merely temporary vessels entrusted by heaven and earth?

The true "self" resembles gold within ashes—yet not as pure as gold within ore. Breaking ore yields gold; washing sand produces gold. But sifting ashes yields nothing. This metaphor teaches that discovering the true self requires shattering attachments, not futile searching among superficial appearances.

The Wenshi Jing Yanwai Zhi passage expounds cultivation wisdom about relinquishing attachments and returning to one's original mind.

On realizing "non-self": Clinging to the concept of "self" is like sifting dust to find gold—it can never be attained. Yet understanding "non-self" without deliberate pursuit is like gold naturally embedded in ore, saltiness dissolved in water, or lacquer blended in pigment—though invisible in form, it truly exists. These metaphors illustrate the inherent Dao-nature within all things.

The equality of all beings: Even a tiny bee can traverse heaven and earth; a small shrimp swims freely in the ocean. All living things contain spiritual awareness (chundong han ling) and possess the heart of Dao. While forms may differ in size, their essential nature shares no distinction. As the ancient saying about "the minute jiaoming insect building its world upon a mosquito's eyelash" reminds us—never dismiss any life for its apparent smallness.

Transcending discriminative thought: Clay figurines may be molded into noble or common forms, male or female, yet all remain clay in essence. People perceive real individuals through lenses of status and preference, but not so with clay figures, precisely because they recognize the underlying substance. This demonstrates the wondrous function of "transforming consciousness into wisdom"—converting discriminative cognition into non-discriminative awareness.

Three levels of sensory cultivation: Ordinary people (zhongren) chase external sights, sounds, and flavors; virtuous practitioners (xianren) turn inward—eyes gazing internally, ears listening inwardly, tongue savoring intrinsic fluids, mind observing itself. But sages (those who attain Dao) reach higher realization, recognizing even "inward fixation" as illusory. As an ancient verse states: "Though worldly dust is cast aside,/ Why cling to inner vexations?"—pointing to the need for transcending both external and internal attachments.

Through contrasting cultivation stages, the text ultimately reveals that supreme wisdom involves relinquishing even the concept of "cultivation" (jie wei zhi), embodying the Daoist ultimate realm of wuwei (non-action).

Within our human bodies resides the energy of the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water), yet the essence of these five energies is fundamentally interconnected. Like a single vessel that can hold water or contain fire, nurture trees or condense metal, and even transform into soil - they are inherently inclusive without distinction. Thus in nature, where feathered creatures flourish, furred beasts struggle to thrive; where furred beasts dominate, scaled creatures find it hard to multiply. Understanding this mutual restraint among the Five Phases allows one to see through the delusion of "self."

The five organs in our bodies correspond to the Qi of the Five Phases. While they appear to have distinct functions, they actually intermingle seamlessly. Just as molten metal becomes liquid (Metal generates Water) and striking metal produces sparks (Metal generates Fire); as compressed wood exudes sap (Wood generates Water) and friction ignites flame (Wood generates Fire). Birds, beasts, insects and fish all follow this pattern, though humans often manifest one Phase particularly strongly: those dominant in Fire resemble birds (the Vermilion Bird belongs to Southern Fire), those strong in Metal resemble beasts (the White Tiger belongs to Western Metal), while those inclined to Water resemble fish. When one aspect becomes exceptionally strong, others inevitably grow relatively weak.

Grasping this principle reveals that humans and all things are merely temporary coalescences of Five Phase energies - clinging to this physical form is folly. Consider how dried turtle shells, devoid of "self," can still foretell the future; how magnets without consciousness demonstrate powerful attraction; how bells and drums without life produce celestial harmonies; how boats and carriages without thought carry travelers afar. Though our bodies possess wisdom, strength, action and voice, there has never truly existed a fixed "I."

This scripture primarily explores the relationship between humans and external phenomena, self-awareness, and the influence of mental states on the physical body.

It begins by observing that objects like dried turtle shells, lodestones, bells, drums, boats, and carts possess no inherent agency, yet humans perceive in them tremendous power, sound, and operational principles. This occurs through the interactive dynamic between objects and human perception. Before engaging with phenomena, humans exist in a state of Wuwei (non-action) and mental stillness. Upon contact with external things, intellectual responses and actions emerge—yet these are merely reactions triggered by external stimuli, not manifestations of true "selfhood."

The text then employs the legend of the "shadow-shooting yu" (a mythical creature said to harm people through their shadows) to illustrate common misconceptions about self-identity. While people typically consider the physical body that experiences pain or itchiness as "me," they feel no discomfort when cutting nails or hair—actual parts of the body. Conversely, though shadows lack material substance, being struck by the yu through one's shadow can prove fatal. This demonstrates how the concept of "self" can extend beyond conventional boundaries. The entire cosmos is permeated by unified Qi (vital energy), the fundamental substance in Daoist cosmology, rendering absolute distinctions between substantial and insubstantial meaningless.

The latter section emphasizes how mental focus affects the body: intense recollection can make one forget hunger, rage can override cold, and nurturing Shen (spirit) can alleviate illness. Through breath regulation to harmonize Qi, hunger disappears; by visualizing spiritual warmth, cold becomes irrelevant; by aligning the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) with organ systems, injuries and diseases are prevented; when the five organs return to their natural cyclical patterns, pain is forgotten.

The conclusion identifies delusional thoughts as the root cause of hunger, cold, and illness. Recognizing these delusions stem from Five Phase imbalances, one can apply their generative and restrictive cycles (e.g., Metal energy fortifying Earth, Fire energy restraining Water) to eliminate mental distortions—core methods in Daoist cultivation. However, achieving satiety without breathwork, warmth without visualization, or healing without Five Phase regulation requires the supreme attainment of an advanced practitioner.

This passage explores the state of "no-self" (无我) through the metaphor of fire's nature. Though fire constantly flickers and burns, it inherently lacks any attachment to "self." The sages worried practitioners might mistake "no-self" for a lifeless state like wood or stone, thus emphasizing that those who truly comprehend its subtle function can act freely throughout the day without hindering this realization—much like Zhuangzi's description of those who genuinely understand "no-mind."

Zhu Xiangxian elaborates: The food we eat nourishes our form, and the Qi of all things interconnects with us. But is the body truly unified? Not exactly—my thoughts and feelings differ from others', just as dreams differ from waking states. Yet is the form entirely separate? Neither true, for people in distant lands share similar dreams, and principles resonate across a thousand miles. What constitutes "me"? What defines "others"? In truth, all things can become part of "me." When fish fall ill, they develop growths; when rats sicken, tumors form—revealing the fundamental continuity between "self" and the myriad things.

The genuine state of "no-self" isn't achieved by shutting one's eyes and ears or negating the senses. Rather, it means neither clinging to "self" nor forcibly pursuing "no-self." The sage attains the ability to forget "self" while still having a self—neither fixating on "me" through perception nor denying "me" through its absence. From this perspective, the "self" composed of ears, eyes, and limbs isn't the true self, while serpent-headed, human-bodied figures or ghostly forms with bird wings might equally be called "me." The "self" of intellect and action isn't the real self, whereas the forms of withered trees and inert stones could also represent "me." The key lies in transcending rigid conceptions of "self."

This scripture elucidates the Dao's transcendence beyond time, space, and form, as well as the spiritual states attained by its practitioners.

All phenomena may appear to possess "selfhood," yet in truth no inherent "self" exists. Thus all things may simultaneously be regarded as both myself and not myself—much like the fundamental unity between dream states and wakefulness.

Though the Dao itself is formless emptiness, those who merge concrete existence with the Dao may grasp ultimate truth within a single breath. Though material things appear substantial, those who operate through the Dao can respond to all circumstances with perfect adaptability. True masters of the Dao may assist worldly affairs or cultivate in solitude with equal ease.

The Dao transcends temporal constraints—making a single day stretch like a century, or compressing a hundred years into a moment. Unbound by spatial limits, it renders one li as vast as a hundred, or reduces a hundred li to the distance of one. Though without form or substance, it commands tangible Qi (vital energy), summoning winds and rains at will. Though fundamentally void, it transforms physical matter, shapeshifting birds and beasts.

Those who attain the Dao of clarity remain unburdened by external phenomena—their bodies light enough to ride phoenixes and cranes. Those who master the Dao of primordial chaos remain untainted by worldly attachments—their unified mind and body capable of mounting flood dragons and whales. Understanding that "being is non-being, non-being is being" grants power over spirits; comprehending that "solid is empty, empty is solid" enables penetration of metal and stone; realizing the interconnectedness of above and below permits observation of celestial bodies; grasping the continuity of past and present allows prophetic divination.

Awakening to "others as myself, myself as others" reveals others' thoughts; recognizing "all things as myself, myself as all things" cultivates the dragon and tiger (Neidan terminology for yin-yang energies) within one's body. Knowing all phenomena arise from consciousness allows visualization practices to form the "female infant" (Neidan term for the spirit); understanding Qi emerges from mental focus enables breath regulation to forge the "cauldron furnace" (alchemical metaphor for cultivation). Through these methods one may subdue tigers or merge with water and fire. Yet while adepts possess such capabilities, their profound understanding of the Dao's principles often leads them to refrain from deliberate action (Wuwei).

The Book of Changes (Yijing) states that those who understand the laws of transformation can comprehend the workings of the divine (referring to the creative forces of nature). Mencius said that the realm of sages is unfathomable—this is the meaning of "divine" (Shen). Nowadays, scholars are drifting further and further from the realm of sages, unable even to glimpse the shadow of the Dao (the Way), let alone attain the heights of sagehood. As for that unfathomable divine realm, it remains entirely unknown. Thus, when people speak of the divine, they often avoid the topic by citing Confucius’ remark about "not discussing the strange, the violent, the rebellious, or spirits." Those who truly understand the Dao never speak of such things, and even discussions of life and death are kept secret.

But did Confucius really avoid speaking of the divine and life and death? He spoke of "understanding the principles of life and death," of "the unfathomable transformations of Yin-Yang being divine," and of "the divine marvels that stir all things"—these are all direct words from Confucius. In the classic Seven Cauldrons (Qifu), the sages expounded in detail on the laws of transformation. The "cauldron" (Fu) is a vessel that uses water and fire to alter substances. When later scholars encountered these teachings, few were not startled, and some even denounced them as heretical. As Zhuangzi aptly said: the blind cannot appreciate the beauty of patterns, and the deaf cannot appreciate the music of bells and drums—but is it only the body that can be blind or deaf? The mind can be just the same!

Does not the Book of Changes say: all movement under heaven follows the principle of "the One"? When the Dao is used to govern all things, one can grasp the laws of fleeting transformations; when the Dao is employed to operate all affairs, one can accomplish all endeavors. This is the principle of "all changes returning to the same source." Those who attain the Dao can assist the world and perfect themselves—this is the way of aiding the workings of heaven and earth. The most precious treasure of the sages is the realm they inhabit. The Dao is not bound by time, not obstructed by space; it penetrates the changes of day and night and knows all things—this is the state of "arriving swiftly without running." To summon wind and rain, command the stars, disperse gloom with wind, and nourish all things with rain—this is the ability to "assist the divine."

This scripture elucidates the principles and methods of Daoist Neidan (internal alchemy) cultivation. Practitioners who comprehend the patterns of cosmic Yin-Yang transformation can attain transcendent states through internal refinement.

The text describes how birds and beasts may ride phoenixes and cranes, while flood dragons and whales can subdue spirits—this occurs when Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy) condense into form, allowing wandering souls to transform, revealing the true nature of spiritual entities. Adepts can penetrate metal and stone because the Dui trigram represents metal and the Gen trigram symbolizes mountains—when the energies of mountain and marsh interconnect, all things undergo metamorphosis. When consulting oracle bones or yarrow stalks, divine responses manifest instantly.

Those who cultivate the Dao understand that the opening and closing of Qian (Heaven) and Kun (Earth) represent the transformations of Yin-Yang. Through this realization, they grasp the profound mysteries: the intercourse of Kan (Water) and Li (Fire), the mutual nourishment of water and fire, the interflow of mountain and marsh energies, and the dynamic interaction of thunder and wind. At this stage, practitioners discover that their Zhen (Thunder) and Dui (Lake) trigrams correspond to others' lungs and liver—by entering the spiritual dimensions of Zhen and Dui, they gain insight into others' internal organs. Their own Hun (ethereal soul) and Po (corporeal soul) embody dragon-tiger essences; by concentrating these soul energies, they can transform the dragon-tiger forces within their bodies.

Within the Kan trigram resides the infant (original essence), while the Li trigram contains the maiden (original spirit). Extracting the substantial Yang from Kan to replenish the deficient Yin in Li enables the original spirit and essence to meet and manifest. The specific method involves directing the "spirit fire" (conscious intent) into the "kidney water" (Kan palace), propelling the Yang within Yin to ascend and unite with the Yin energy in the "heart fire" (Li palace). This resembles the sun capturing the moon's essence or a lodestone attracting iron needles—when the two Qi forces intertwine, transformations occur, potentially manifesting as infant-maiden images or dragon-tiger forms.

At this critical juncture, practitioners must stir the Xun (Wind) breath to intensify the Li fire, vigorously refining these energies to form the authentic elixir. The text mentions two auxiliary methods for controlling the "fire phases": Buddhist "mind observation" proves ultimately misleading, while alchemists' "breath-swallowing techniques" mistake branches for roots—neither compares to the exquisite method of illuminating the true mind with spirit fire while mobilizing breath to attract the genuine spirit. Once the Golden Elixir is perfected, practitioners naturally gain power over tigers and leopards, traversing water and fire at will. These represent the mysteries of dual cultivation of nature and life (xingming shuangxiu), some of which are subtly hinted at in the Yijing (Book of Changes).

This passage expounds on the miraculous power of Qi (the fundamental energy that constitutes all things according to Daoist philosophy). Those who have attained the Dao can reach transcendent states by cultivating pure Qi, which ordinary people cannot achieve.

A Dao-realized person perfectly balances inner cultivation with outer action—manifesting benevolence and virtue (De) while concealing their spiritual powers. Though possessing abilities to alter natural laws—such as summoning winter thunder, creating summer ice, animating corpses, or making withered trees bloom—they never employ these powers arbitrarily. All such marvels are achieved through mastery over pure Qi, for Qi gives birth to all phenomena.

Human emotional fluctuations also stem from Qi's movements. Qi operates in two modes: coalescing to generate life and dispersing to cause death. Yet Qi itself neither truly coalesces nor disperses—it transcends the transformations of life and death. Like an inn that remains constant while travelers come and go.

Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) once asked Guan Yin (Laozi's disciple): "Why can Dao-realized individuals walk on water without drowning, tread fire without burning, and traverse the skies without fear?" Guan Yin replied this results from preserving pure Qi—not through cleverness or courage. Ordinary people remain bound by physical form, but adepts refine their bodies into Qi, enabling them to coalesce into form or disperse as Qi, thus transforming freely among all things.

Observing clouds reveals Qi's transformative nature. Take the mythical sea creature "Shen": though less intelligent than humans, its prolonged Qi accumulation can conjure mirages of towers and figures. Nature abounds with such transformations—eagles becoming turtledoves, leopards turning into tigers, dung beetles metamorphosing into cicadas, or fish transforming into dragons—all manifestations of Qi's workings.

This scripture explores the relationship between humans and the creative transformations of Heaven and Earth, pointing out that humans fall short of cosmic creativity because their innate nature is internally eroded by the six desires (sensory cravings of eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and mind) and seven emotions (joy, anger, sorrow, contemplation, grief, fear, and shock), while their vital spirit (Shen) and primordial energy (Qi) are externally depleted by the Five Phases (Metal, Wood, Water, Fire, Earth) and six dusts (sensory objects of form, sound, scent, taste, touch, and mental phenomena).

Though occasionally some understand this principle—restraining desires, nurturing spirit, refining the body, and transforming Qi—they often lack perseverance, working sporadically without sustained effort. Those who truly achieve complete Qi transformation are rarer than one in a hundred million. In truth, cultivating the Dao (the Way) knows no distinctions of wisdom or foolishness, nobility or commonness—everyone can attain it. The key lies in whether one can break free from the shackles of desire.

The scripture mentions various cultivation methods: incantations, deity veneration, talisman drawing (Fulu), and hand seals, all of which can command spirits, harness Qi, and transform myriad things. However, without sincerity, one risks falling into superstition over external forms. The true essence lies in inner purity—the power of spirit (Shen) can reach everywhere, though ordinary people remain unaware of this. As the Book of Transformations states: "Shen is like a mother, Qi like a child. Using Shen to summon Qi is like a mother calling her child—none will disobey."

Between each human breath, Qi moves with incredible speed. In one day and night, the breath cycles 13,500 times, with Qi traversing vast distances. Yet sages transcend these fluctuations, preserving their unchanging original nature. The scripture emphasizes that what is truly precious is that intrinsic nature—unchanged by the gathering and scattering of Qi, unaffected by the birth and death of form. Like an inn that remains constant while travelers come and go.

The ancients used sundial shadows to measure the sun's movement, just as they used xun (an ancient unit of about eight feet) and zhang to calculate distances. If measurements could be made with xun and zhang, they could equally be calculated with bu (five feet per step) and li (three hundred bu per li). Some casually claim the sun travels four hundred thousand li daily, but this is merely a rough estimate. Precise calculation would likely reach five trillion five hundred billion li, perfectly corresponding to the Book of Changes' statement that "the numbers of heaven and earth total fifty-five."

Whether measuring the conjunctions, separations, direct motions, or retrogrades of the sun, moon, and five planets (Venus, Jupiter, Mercury, Mars, Saturn), sages could calculate them to establish calendars, yet the ignorant remain uncomprehending even when witnessing these phenomena. Thus the Scripture of the Hidden Talisman (Yinfu Jing) states: "All under heaven can see it, yet none truly understand." The swiftest transformation in this world is the creative process of heaven and earth. The ancients said heaven and earth renew themselves every moment, like carrying mountains forward while discarding the old. The creative process (zaohua) never pauses for an instant, and no thing remains unchanged for even a blink. Mountains and rivers shift daily, yet people assume they're identical to yesterday; each era dawns anew, yet the masses believe it unchanged from the past. In the moment we brush past each other, everything has already vanished into the unseen. Therefore yesterday's "me" differs from today's "me," and today's "me" will differ from tomorrow's—both "I" and the present are perpetually flowing away.

The ignorant fail to grasp this truth, imagining today's encounters can be preserved forever, unaware that between breaths, heaven and earth's creative process has already traversed four hundred thousand li. Only sages neither resist change to preserve things nor drift aimlessly with transformations, thus embodying "neither deliberately preserving nor deliberately altering." Like the immortal Qingluanzi who underwent a thousand transformations in his thousand-year lifespan, or the peach that changed its essence five times through five incarnations as an official. Sages engage with all phenomena as guests—not because they lack worldly aspirations, but because they understand all formed and numbered things inevitably follow the laws of transformation.

Sages avoid clinging to temporary preservation because they know: what takes form must follow numerical laws, these things don't truly belong to us, being merely temporary vessels entrusted by heaven and earth. If even heaven and earth cannot halt change, how can physical forms defy the creative process? Yet while sages move through the world via the ten thousand things, conforming to the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) to manifest forms, they never presume precedence in handling affairs—thus remaining guests rather than hosts. They steer all things without becoming enslaved by them, thereby maintaining independence without dependence. As guests, they come and go freely like temporary dwellers; without dependence, they...

The Wenshi Jing passage discusses the relationship between the ever-changing phenomena and eternal truth. The term "without duality" (wǔ ǒu) means life and death are fundamentally one. Understanding this principle, how could external forms and quantifiable appearances ever constrain one? Yet Daoist sages still choose not to linger in the mundane world, viewing the physical body as their greatest burden and fearing entanglement in unpredictable transformations.

Take the immortal Qingluanzi as an example—though he lived a thousand years among humans, he consistently followed nature's transformations throughout that millennium. Just as Confucius' spiritual state evolved with his sixtieth year, or Zengzi's mindset shifted during his two periods of government service, all manifestations obey this same principle. Though the myriad things continuously transform—appearing and disappearing—the fundamental Qi (primordial vital energy) remains constant. Only sages can grasp this unchanging "One" without being altered by external phenomena.

This passage continues the previous chapter's theme: while tangible forms wax and wane, the primordial Qi between heaven and earth never changes. If even Qi remains immutable, how much more so our true nature that transcends Qi? This "transcendence of Qi" refers to the more fundamental reality that generates Qi (as previously explained). The chapter clarifies: when our true spirit attaches to physical form, even a thousand years bring transformation; but abiding in Qi's source maintains eternal constancy.

Fingernails grow, hair lengthens, blood and Qi circulate—these changes occur every moment. Ordinary people notice only obvious transformations, missing the subtle flow. Sages harmonize with all changes, thereby transcending them. The world observes conspicuous cycles like the sun and moon's movement, unaware that human Qi completes fifty daily circulations (twenty-five Yin, twenty-five Yang), totaling thirteen thousand five hundred breaths, with meridian cycles never ceasing. The continuous growth of nails and hair never pauses—who can escape these subtle transformations? Only sages maintain an unmoving core while allowing external phenomena to change naturally, thus rising above transformation.

Consider how what one sees and hears in a room appears similar, but stepping to the doorway, neighbor's house, village, outskirts, or mountains reveals entirely different sights and sounds. Human preferences, conflicts, gains and losses emerge accordingly. Therefore sages maintain vigilance in every action. (Here spatial changes metaphorically represent worldly impermanence, emphasizing how adepts must transcend apparent transformations to preserve fundamental truth.)

The sage and ordinary people perceive the same sights and sounds, yet the difference lies in how ordinary minds generate preferences, aversions, and attachments to gain and loss in response to external changes. Though sages also have thoughts, they don’t produce such discriminating minds that fluctuate with circumstances. The virtuous strive for the state of "unmoved mind" but haven’t yet reached the sage’s level. A true sage is like Laozi, who wept when others wept and laughed when others laughed; like Confucius who at sixty could "hear all things with equanimity"; or like Liezi (a Daoist master) who, after three years studying with his teacher, dared not think in terms of right/wrong or speak of profit/loss—only after five years did he begin to discern them. This shows sages and ordinary people are fundamentally no different; sages don’t deliberately set themselves apart.

Where sages exercise caution: they don’t recklessly venture out to court disaster, don’t hastily blend into crowds in desolate places, nor casually socialize in the wilds to lose their original mind. They avoid perilous, turbulent environments, using careful action as their discipline. Just as the ocean nurtures countless fish and dragons—all fundamentally water—and all things flourish in nature with the same essential nature. Realizing this unity of nature, there’s no separation between self/other or life/death.

The ancients said fish and dragons don’t recognize water as the source of life, just as humans live in air yet seldom notice it. All things exist within nature’s creative transformation, sharing the same essence. Just as fish and dragons born of the ocean are all water, understanding the ocean as water allows harmony; realizing emptiness as our true nature dissolves barriers between self and others. Where, then, is the division between life and death?

The principles of the world are ever-changing: right and wrong transform into each other, gratitude and grudges shift places. Thus, sages abide in constancy while contemplating change. Nothing under heaven—no phenomenon or principle—remains unchanging. The difference between sages and the "mad" (those who’ve lost their original mind) may seem vast as sky and abyss; life and death may appear as incompatible as ice and fire. Yet should a sage lose right mindfulness, they become mad; if the mad maintain right mindfulness, they too can become sages.

This scripture reveals the natural law of mutual transformation between all things. The sages (those who have attained the Dao) understand that "right" and "wrong," "favor" and "resentment" all transform into each other, just as towering mountains become deep valleys and valleys rise to become peaks. The ignorant, however, cling stubbornly to their views like immovable mountains or rely on favors as if they were inexhaustible oceans, only to ultimately become seas of disputes and mountains of resentment.

Sages neither stubbornly cling to their views nor dwell on favors and grievances, maintaining instead a peaceful mind. They eliminate extremes as if leveling mountains and filling oceans, following the natural laws of transformation—neither rushing ahead nor lagging behind—seeking only to remain free from faults.

The three stages of human life each have their focus: in youth one should heed the teachings of parents and elders; in prime adulthood one should accept friends' advice; in old age one must be wary of the words of the young. Thus, even as all things change, one remains unperturbed. Those who stubbornly cling to their views will find every action bringing either auspicious signs, dangers, regrets, or difficulties—only sages can relinquish the self and maintain an open mind throughout life.

Among all things under heaven, the light and ethereal are easily transformed, while the heavy and solid resist change. Just as wind and clouds shift in an instant, while gold and jade retain their nature unchanged for ages. The human hunpo (the lighter aspects of spirit) belongs to the Wood phase and thus drifts lightly, while the xinshen (conscious activity) belongs to the Fire phase and shines brightly. From mao hour (dawn) to wu hour (noon) is when the hunpo is most vigorous; from shen hour (late afternoon) to hai hour (midnight) it gradually fades. This shows how our spirit follows the same cyclical transformations as nature throughout each day.

This scripture elucidates the relationship between Jing (essence), Po (corporeal soul), Hun (ethereal soul), and Shen (spirit) in Daoist cultivation, and how to attain longevity through practice. It explains that Jing and Po (representing the heavier, Yin material foundation of the body) can endure long-term and nourish Hun and Shen (the lighter, Yang spiritual aspects). If the connection between Hun and Shen is severed between the hours of Shen to Hai (3 PM to 11 PM), or if Jing and Po are damaged, then the next day's Hun and Shen cannot regenerate.

Practitioners who understand this principle refine their Jing and Po until they become as durable as gold and jade, allowing Hun and Shen to abide permanently and achieve longevity. The Cantong Qi (a pivotal alchemical classic) states that the "auspicious person" (one accomplished in cultivation) can sustain and be sustained, attaining stable longevity. The key to cultivation lies in refining Jing and Po into a gold-jade state, transforming the body into a vessel of great auspiciousness capable of hosting Hun and Shen.

The Taiyi Fire Talisman method for cultivating the Golden Elixir primarily focuses on refining these two substances—Jing and Po—with Shen making the third. The Cantong Qi mentions "Wood-Three does not enter, while Fire-Two accompanies it," indicating that Hun (Wood-Three) and Shen (Fire-Two) are not tempered within the furnace and cauldron but circulate externally through the celestial fire cycles. Combined, Hun (Three) and Shen (Two) make five, enabling them to navigate the celestial fire cycles without confusion; Jing (Water-One) and Po (Metal-Four) also combine to five, allowing them to transform into golden liquid and coalesce into the Golden Elixir. These four substances all form the number five, ultimately relying on the central Earth-Five (referring to the spleen/stomach or the harmonizing power of the center) to complete their transformations.

Zhang Wuzhen (a renowned Song Dynasty Daoist master) explains that precisely because these elements all contain "true Earth" (the harmonizing Qi), the Golden Elixir can achieve "return" (rejuvenation). He further states that East-Three (Wood) and South-Two (Fire) combine to make five, while North-One (Water) and West-Four (Metal) also form five. With Wu-Ji (Earth) occupying its central position, the convergence of these three families (Jing, Qi, and Shen) gives birth to the "infant" (the Golden Elixir). Understanding this principle reveals that within our bodies exists something truly indestructible.

The text concludes with an analogy: two childhood friends may meet as adults and fail to recognize each other; two companions in their prime may reunite in old age as strangers. Just as sparrows, doves, hawks, and turtledoves undergo transformations without distinction between past and present, the human form is merely one transient phenomenon within the cosmos.

This scripture expounds the principle that all things are in constant transformation. A person's appearance changes from childhood to old age, just as a bird alters its feather colors according to the shifting Yin-Yang energies of the four seasons. Physical forms cannot remain unchanged—how could there ever be identical states between past and present? Our bodies transform like all phenomena, though we often fail to perceive it.

Zhu Xiangxian (a Song Dynasty Daoist master) explains: The "cauldron" metaphorically represents the vessel that transforms all things. Since we speak of "things," why then mention "transformation"? Because what is identical to all things becomes assimilated by them—once assimilated, how could it transform others? Only what differs from phenomena can induce change, yet being distinct, how could it be assimilated by them? Delving deeper, how can we know whether the force transforming all things might itself become assimilated by them?

Observing transformation: fingernails growing and hair lengthening are bodily changes; affection turning to resentment is emotional change. If the body doesn't change, emotions will. From this perspective, one may recognize an "unchanging" essence underlying transformation.

The sages understood this principle—they neither resist change through stubbornness nor lose their true nature by drifting with the current. Consider two people acquainted in childhood who fail to recognize each other in adulthood: this shows assimilation by adult transformation, while those preserving their essence never fully merge with that state. Similarly, friends known in adulthood becoming strangers in old age demonstrates assimilation by aging's transformations, yet those maintaining essence never wholly dissolve into senescence. This "unchanging" essence actually resides concealed beneath the apparent flux of emotional manifestations.

This scripture elucidates the profound nature of the Dao through natural phenomena and divination practices. It begins with metaphors of breath and atmospheric changes: between a single inhalation and exhalation, the movement of Qi (vital energy) occurs with lightning speed, like fleeting clouds transformed by a gentle breeze, yet the great void (Taixu) itself remains eternally unmoved—just as guests come and go incessantly while the inn stays constant. Thus, the sage accommodates all transformations of things yet remains unchanged by them, for this state of "non-transformation" lies in comprehending the essence of "the One."

"The One" refers to human nature (Xing). Achieving this state of pure, undifferentiated nature transcends all dualities—self and other, life and death. Though all things undergo change, nature itself never alters. The Yijing (Book of Changes) states that those who understand the patterns of transformation can perceive the workings of Shen (spirit), and the most miraculous quality is this simultaneous capacity for both change and changelessness.

The text then describes ancient masters skilled in divination using yarrow stalks (shé shī) and turtle shells (zhuó guī). Through these practices, they revealed the Dao's characteristics: manifesting the past within the present and foreseeing the future within the past; displaying scenes from below when above, and vice versa; perceiving the great within the small and the small within the great; deducing multiplicity from singularity and returning to the root from multiplicity; understanding things through humans and humans through things; knowing others through oneself and oneself through others.

These attributes of the Dao are: timeless (without past or present), boundless (with no summit above or foundation below), limitless in scale (so vast it has no exterior, so minute it has no core), and transcending subject-object distinctions (with nothing external and no inner self). It can neither be divided nor combined, described in words nor grasped by thought. Precisely because of this undifferentiated wholeness, it is called the Dao.

Finally, the text explains why seemingly lifeless yarrow stalks and turtle bones can foretell fortune—because they align with the Dao's nature: being timeless (without "now" in its coming or "past" in its going), they know past and future; without distinctions of high or low (with no canopy above or foundation below), they connect all levels; interpenetrating in scale (so vast as to have no outside, so small as to have no inside), they reveal the great within the small; and embodying the unity of one and many (showing multiplicity within singularity and singularity within multiplicity), they enable comprehension by analogy.

This scripture elucidates the principle that all things share an interconnected essence and cannot be forcibly divided into opposing categories. The Five Phases (Wuxing) of Metal, Wood, Water, Fire, and Earth—fundamental elements in Daoism—may appear as five fixed forms, yet in reality, they undergo endless transformations. When water lies dormant, it contains five essential essences (Jing); when fire ascends, it emits five distinct aromas; when wood flourishes, it displays five vibrant hues; when metal hardens, it produces five resonant sounds; and when earth harmonizes, it nurtures five flavors. Though rooted in the Five Phases, their combinations and transformations are beyond calculation.

The scripture emphasizes avoiding rigid labels for all things: one cannot definitively claim "ten thousand types," nor insist on "five types" or "one type." Neither diversity nor unity should be negated. Like the divination stalks (ancient tools for fortune-telling), their profundity lies in their indivisible wholeness. This divine Dao (the Way) also resides within the flesh and blood of humans, incomprehensible through analysis or recombination—just as withered branches and decayed bones may conceal profound mysteries.

The author points out that people often attempt to categorize things by shape, quantity, or temperament, either forcibly grouping or dissecting them, yet such efforts are futile. For all things are fundamentally interconnected—humans can understand the world through themselves, and all things embody human qualities. Those who truly awaken to the Dao realize: distant things need not be resisted, and nearby things naturally abide. Ultimately, one attains the state of "forgetting both self and things," neither clinging to external objects nor fixating on the self.

This passage primarily discusses the relationship between the human mind and the transformations of the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water). The core idea is that various emotions arising from the human mind trigger corresponding material changes within the body, all following the patterns of mutual generation and restraint among the Five Phases.

When particular thoughts or emotions arise in the human mind, they induce corresponding physiological responses: admiration for something makes one salivate, sorrow brings tears (the text mentions that "tears" are sometimes written as "blood"), and shame causes sweating. These bodily fluid changes are neither accidental nor transient—they undergo continuous transformation, much like the processes of mutual generation (Water nourishes Wood, Wood feeds Fire, etc.) and restraint among the Five Phases.

The Daoist terms mentioned in the text—"infant and flower maiden" (referring to Yin and Yang Qi within the body), "golden tower and crimson palace" (indicating important acupoints in the body), and "green dragon and white tiger" (metaphors for Yin-Yang energies within)—all represent different manifestations of the Five Phases' essences and Qi within the human body. As the Yin Fu Jing states about "the five thieves in heaven" (referring to the restraining forces among the Five Phases), if one can master their patterns, these energies can be harnessed for personal cultivation.

The key lies in maintaining mental tranquility. When the mind remains undistracted, the "divine water" (Jing-Qi) within naturally condenses, allowing clear perception of various energetic transformations in the body. Although these changes follow the patterns of the Five Phases, there exists a governing force that transcends them (referring to the primordial Shen). Just as scenes witnessed in childhood can reappear in dreams during old age, these impressions become deeply condensed within one's consciousness.

Birds and beasts sing at times, then gather and scatter; plants sprout anew, then flourish and wither. Heaven and earth cannot retain them, nor can sages bind them, for all things follow their own inherent rhythms. Just as a drumstick must be present for the drum to sound, and must be held to strike the surface, what we call "being" and "non-being," "paired" and "singular" are all relative concepts.

The sage observes the transformations of all things yet remains unbound by them, for these changes merely circulate between form and Qi (vital energy). Consider how birds and beasts call and move about, how plants sprout, flourish, and decay—all are fleeting shifts. Yet the sage transcends these changes just as a drum remains silent unless struck—the transformation is there, not here; just as a hand holding no drumstick makes no sound—external phenomena are paired, but the inner essence stands alone. This mirrors the earlier teaching that "a blade harms only when touched."

Faced with the same phenomenon, ordinary people become confused by names, seeing only appearances and missing the essence. The wise analyze principles but fixate on them, neglecting the concrete. The sage, however, unites with the Dao (the Way), neither clinging to principles nor to objects, understanding that all things manifest the Dao. Non-attachment is the Dao; attachment reduces it to mere phenomena.

Heaven and earth teem with myriad beings, each with names and patterns. Those who see only names become trapped by objects—this is the ordinary person. Those who discern patterns but overlook particulars transcend limitations—this is the wise. The sage differs: neither forcibly pursuing the so-called Dao nor laboriously distinguishing so-called objects, they simply follow nature. To designate one thing as the Dao makes all else non-Dao; only through non-attachment can one perceive the Dao in everything. Once attached, the Dao becomes mere phenomena.

Those who recognize the illusory nature of things need not deliberately reject them, just as one seeing clay oxen or wooden horses knows they’re called oxen and horses yet understands they’re not real. Truth and falsity stem from human perception—the sage regards even real things as illusory, making all under heaven false. Knowing all is illusion, why deliberately spurn anything?

(Note: This passage embodies the Daoist philosophy of "equalizing things" (齐物), emphasizing transcendence beyond conceptual attachments to perceive the unity behind phenomena. Using everyday metaphors—drumsticks, clay oxen—it illustrates how fixation on names obscures essence, advocating a stance of "non-grasping" to realize the underlying oneness.)

When looking at clay or wooden figurines, though their forms resemble certain things, the mind knows they are not real. Can practitioners of the Dao maintain such detachment when facing external phenomena?

Zhu Xiangxian (a Song Dynasty Daoist) explains: What exactly are divination sticks (chou)? They have form, quantity, and distinctions between odd and even numbers—hence they are called "chou." Using eight sticks for divination reflects how the mutual interplay of yin-yang and hardness-softness generates the Eight Trigrams (Bagua), giving rise to endless transformations. Extending these principles allows one to discern the differences and patterns in all things.

The truly profound Dao cannot be described in words nor grasped through thought—it is formless, chaotic, and unfathomable. Yet if observed through concrete phenomena, one finds endless variations in the five colors, five sounds, five odors, five energies (Qi), and five flavors. Do you not see those elusive, flickering things? Do you not see the stagnation of growth or scenes of decline? Do you not observe infants crying, maidens grooming themselves, the golden towers and crimson palaces (Dantian, internal alchemy sites), the azure dragon and white tiger (symbolizing yin-yang energies), or the precious cauldron and red furnace (alchemical tools)?

If one does not cling to these appearances, they all manifest the workings of the great Dao. But if fixated upon, they become obstacles to cultivation. The Golden Elixir (Jindan), if pursued with attachment, turns into poison. The sages understood this principle—thus they discarded subjective knowing to merge with heavenly Dao, never clinging to mere phenomena.

This scripture conveys two main teachings: first, the relationship between humans and external objects, and second, admonitions for navigating life.

The discussion on subject-object relations employs the metaphor of drumsticks and drums: when beating a drum, the stick and drum cooperate harmoniously, yet both remain at rest when the hand stops. This illustrates that we need neither deliberately reject external things nor cling to them obsessively. The true state transcends distinctions between self and objects, past and present, ultimately returning to the undifferentiated primordial unity (Hunlun, the "Chaotic Cauldron").

The latter section emphasizes crucial life principles: Never underestimate small matters, just as tiny cracks can sink ships; never disregard insignificant objects, as even minute insects may inflict harm; never slight humble individuals, for they may endanger nations. Only by handling trivial affairs well can one accomplish great deeds; only by accumulating small things can substantial forms emerge; only by treating minor figures with respect can one align with significant persons. Since the Dao of Heaven is inconstant and human affairs unpredictable, we must learn to assess circumstances wisely—embracing complexity when needed and simplicity when appropriate, exercising patience at times and diligence at others.

The author identifies these as essential remedies (Yanshi Zhiyan, "words as medicinal stones") for worldly governance, for human existence inevitably involves managing affairs and social interactions where every action bears consequences of fortune or misfortune. The sages left these admonitions precisely to help people avoid calamities. Quoting Confucius, the text stresses that human hearts are harder to fathom than weather patterns—those who belittle minor matters, trivial objects, or insignificant people often invite ruinous outcomes.

Particular emphasis is placed on the "Three Non-Contempts" principle: never contempt small matters, small objects, or small people. This embodies the Daoist wisdom of addressing problems while they're still萌芽 (germinal), highlighting the tradition's focus on preventative living.

Many people lose their original nature and forfeit their lives by becoming obsessed with external things. Therefore, the sages teach: First learn to treat ordinary people with kindness, then you may comprehend the Dao (the Way); first accumulate small things, then you may accomplish great deeds; first handle trivial matters well, then you may fulfill important missions. All these follow the gradual process from small to large, from subtle to obvious—never dismiss or neglect something just because it seems insignificant. If even sages approach minor matters with such caution, how much more should they treat major affairs?

The principles of the world are clear: Matters requiring careful attention cannot be handled carelessly; habits that should be abandoned cannot be forcibly endured; tasks demanding diligence cannot be approached with laziness. In life, one must discern what should and should not be done, handling affairs without stubbornly clinging to personal views. Thus, though sages engage with myriad things daily, they remain unburdened by them, always preserving their true nature.

The highest wisdom understands that cleverness ultimately cannot encompass all things, so it chooses what appears as foolishness; the sharpest eloquence knows that words ultimately cannot fully express truth, so it chooses silence; the greatest courage realizes that strength cannot overcome everything, so it chooses to yield and retreat. Such is the way of the world: Striving leads to insufficiency, while yielding brings abundance. The sages’ great wisdom that seems foolish, great eloquence that seems mute, and great courage that seems timid are not mere pretenses—they truly understand that cleverness indeed cannot encompass all things, so they choose folly; eloquence indeed cannot clarify all truths, so they choose silence; strength indeed cannot conquer all, so they choose retreat.

As the ancients wisely said: True foolishness is beyond the reach of ordinary people—this shows cleverness is inferior to folly; nine correct statements out of ten are worse than silence—this shows eloquence is inferior to reticence; the soft overcomes the hard, the weak defeats the strong—this shows ferocity is inferior to yielding.

Nothing in heaven and earth truly belongs to me—all things are not "mine," yet I must respond to them; "I" am not truly "myself," yet I must cultivate this self. Though engaging with all things, I do not cling to them; though cultivating myself, I do not fixate on it. Do not think you must first transcend external things to transcend the self, nor that you must first let go of the body to release attachments. The Dao is an undivided whole—it cannot be approached step by step.

Those skilled at responding to things leave no trace of them in their hearts; those skilled at cultivating themselves hold no fixed notion of self. If you cling to external things, you cannot truly engage with them; if you fixate on the self, you cannot truly cultivate it. Why? Because external things are not truly mine, and the self is not truly me. The moment you reject external things, you are already rejecting the self; the moment you let go of the body, you are already releasing the mind. The Dao is complete and unified—it cannot be divided or treated in parts.

This scripture examines the difference between "inner observation" and "outer observation" in spiritual cultivation. It points out that by separating "self" from the external world and distinguishing between inner mind, outer form, and external objects, one becomes trapped in the limited triad of "mind, self, and things." In truth, the Dao is fundamentally undivided—it can be realized immediately without such gradual differentiation.

The text employs vivid analogies: focusing on the tip of a hair prevents one from seeing the vastness of heaven and earth; concentrating on faint sounds makes one deaf to thunder's roar. Similarly, fixating on the grand obscures the subtle, while attending to the near blinds one to the distant. The sage's ability to perceive all things and hear all sounds stems precisely from their non-attachment to any particular perception. This isn't because the sage's spirit (Shen) is limited, but because ordinary people fail to fully utilize their spiritual capacity.

In reality, the profound mysteries of heaven, earth, and the myriad things are manifestations of our spirit (Shen), while all existence is an extension of our vital essence (Jing). Eyes become entranced by gold and jade, ears captivated by bells and drums—these are symptoms of clinging to specific sensory experiences. Only the sage, neither craving nor rejecting nor dwelling on any sight, sound, or perception, attains truly boundless awareness.

The text concludes with practical guidance: those skilled in grasping the present moment can walk the ancient path (Dao), while those adept at handling details can establish their foundation. To cultivate the ancient way, one must first skillfully engage with contemporary worldly affairs; to return to the origin, one must begin with the immediate. This emphasizes that genuine practice must be grounded in the present, never divorced from actual lived experience.

In this present age, going against prevailing social customs invites misfortune. Understanding fundamental principles without grasping practical affairs makes it difficult to establish oneself. Therefore, the sage (one who has attained the Dao) dims their radiance and blends into worldly life, handling practical matters by adapting to circumstances—this is precisely how they practice the ancient Dao and establish their foundation.

Cunning can subdue thieves; courage can conquer tigers. Only by overcoming oneself can one truly accomplish oneself; only by transcending external things can one genuinely benefit all beings; only by forgetting the very concept of "Dao" can one truly embody the great Dao. Thieves triumph through cunning, tigers dominate through courage—so by what means should a person overcome themselves? The "self" is one's own being, and "overcoming" means conquering. Understanding what the self truly is reveals how to overcome it. Those who cultivate the Dao should observe this: originally, there is no fixed "self"; this "self" arises from the aggregation of the seven emotions and six desires. To overcome the self, one must first subdue these passions. As mentioned earlier: mastering one desire nurtures virtue (De); forgetting one desire aligns with the Dao. This is the sage's method of self-realization.

A vessel that is too sturdy is more prone to breaking; a sword that is too sharp is more likely to snap. The mythical fenghuang (divine bird) appears wondrous precisely because it is rare—thus the sage takes concealment as their foundation. Musk deer are captured because they leave behind their scent—thus the sage takes restraint as their guiding principle. These truths originate from Laozi, and Master Guanyinzi (disciple of Laozi) used analogies like vessels, swords, phoenixes, and musk deer to expound Laozi's teachings, instructing practitioners to adhere to softness, maintain emptiness and stillness, and restrain their brilliance. Only then can one preserve themselves and avoid calamity—these are truly words of gold and jade.

A bottle with two holes, when filled with water and inverted, will not pour if one hole is covered—because without air entering, the water cannot exit. Though a well may be a thousand fathoms deep, when drawing water, the bucket rises—because without the bucket descending, the water cannot ascend. Therefore, the sage never rushes ahead of all things.

When a bottle is filled with water and one opening is blocked, the water cannot be poured out. Why is this? Because water's flow requires unimpeded Qi circulation. If Qi cannot ascend, the water cannot descend. Just as with well water - one must bend down to draw it up; if no one draws, the water naturally won't rise.

The sages (those who have attained the Dao) embrace Dao and De (Virtue) in their hearts. When seekers approach them earnestly, they will bend down to guide; but without seekers, there is no opportunity to teach. This illustrates the principle that "without ascent, there can be no descent." Though sages harbor aspirations to save the world and bring peace to nations - even possessing talents surpassing famous ministers like Yi Yin and Lü Shang of ancient times - if rulers refuse to humble themselves and sincerely seek counsel, these ideals cannot be realized. This demonstrates that "without descent, there can be no ascent."

A bottle must first be lifted high before water can pour; well water must first sink deep before it can rise. Sages observe the patterns of all things, always waiting for external stimulation before acting, responding only when called. Precisely because sages never strive to lead, they naturally become the guides of all under heaven.

After making mistakes, though losses have already occurred, one should reflect inwardly before errors happen. Don't rely solely on your own cleverness, but gather collective wisdom; don't cling to personal views, but embrace perspectives from all under heaven. Practicing this principle lifelong will prevent faults.

Even the wise Emperor Shun of antiquity never presumed his own infallibility, but humbly accepted others' counsel - how much more should ordinary people do so? People often only calmly reflect after suffering losses, publicly discussing causes of misfortune, all because they relied on petty cleverness while neglecting universal principles. Since regret comes after knowledge, what use is cleverness then? The past cannot be undone, but the future can still be remedied. Only by humbling oneself, respecting those of lower status, avoiding intellectual arrogance, rejecting stubbornness, absorbing the world's wisdom, gathering all-under-heaven's intelligence, and employing universal talents can one avoid lifelong errors. Examples include King Goujian of Yue enduring humiliation to restore his kingdom after the Kuaiji defeat, and Duke Mu of Qin accepting loyal advice after defeat at Mount Yao - both exemplify this.

Ancient and modern customs differ; eastern and western practices vary. Even within families and individuals, virtues manifest uniquely. How can I stubbornly impose one standard on posterity? Only by adapting to circumstances, preparing before events arise, dissolving resentments, restraining desires, treating others generously, handling affairs simply, and acting naturally after weighing priorities can one mysteriously align with the divine Dao, reaching realms beyond ordinary comprehension.

This passage explores the common ground between Daoist and Confucian thought, while delineating different levels of human relationships.

It first observes how the Daoist principle of "following temporal circumstances and moving with worldly currents" closely resembles Confucius' teaching in the Book of Changes about "adapting to the times and harmonizing with others." Both traditions emphasize cultivating qualities like seizing opportune moments, restraining desires, and practicing forgiveness. Some scholars mistakenly assume Daoism advocates only Wuwei (non-action), which reflects a partial understanding of the sage's path. True sages respond flexibly to circumstances—neither obstinately clinging to views nor changing arbitrarily—thus achieving alignment with the Dao. Confucius himself acknowledged privately modeling his conduct after Laozi and Pengzu (two iconic Daoist figures), demonstrating the fundamental unity of Confucian and Daoist teachings.

The text then classifies human relationships into three tiers: The highest is "Dao communion," transcending judgments of right and wrong like the unconditional bond between parent and child—this constitutes sage-level interaction. Next comes "De communion," where noble individuals connect through shared virtue and righteous Qi (vital energy), drawing close when aligned and distancing when incompatible. The lowest is "transactional association," where ordinary people bond for profit but abandon each other in adversity, as Zhuangzi noted: "Those united by gain scatter when hardship comes."

Finally, it identifies misconceptions to avoid in Dao cultivation: Never mistake the Dao's essence for clumsy simplicity—true wisdom values keen discernment. Don't assume the Dao is obscure—clarity should be sought. Reject the notion that the Dao is unattainably lofty—harmonious integration is the goal. Avoid viewing the Dao as formless dispersion—focus on essential principles. Dispense with the idea that cultivation requires melancholy—maintain joyful openness. Ancient masters long ago warned about these common deviations in spiritual practice that require conscious correction.

The teachings of ancient sages took many forms. In those days, there were various schools of thought represented by figures like Qin Guli, Song Ping, Yin Wen, Peng Meng, Tian Pian, Shen Dao, and Mo Di. Unfortunately, these discourses were not preserved, and by Mencius' time only the Yang Zhu and Mohist schools remained. This shows that the teachings of Qin Guli and others had already fallen out of favor during the era of Guan Yinzi (Laozi's disciple) and Confucius.

Several popular cultivation methods exist today: the Chan Buddhist practice of rapid-fire dialogue seeking verbal dexterity; the qinggong (light-body skill) approach of leaping and flying through visualization; the Western Regions Buddhist method of purifying the six senses to achieve harmony; the huatou introspection technique seeking sudden enlightenment through urgency; and the carefree approach pursuing absolute freedom. While differing from ancient teachings, these share broad similarities. Practitioners should be wary, as such methods easily lead to pitfalls.

Cultivators must avoid five faults: don't reject worldly conventions to elevate yourself; don't disparage others to exalt yourself; don't belittle the Dao's methods while being self-righteous; don't slander virtue (De) to promote yourself; and don't scorn others' talents to show off. Rejecting conventions invites worldly retaliation; disparaging others brings self-inflicted shame; enduring contempt reveals shallowness; refusing to counter slander betrays arrogance; and feeling superior to crude people while flaunting talent is absurd. These five are common faults among practitioners that require self-correction.

What truly confounds the wise isn't wisdom but apparent foolishness; what silences the eloquent isn't rhetoric but seeming dullness. As Guo Xiang's commentary adds: what overcomes the brave isn't bravery but apparent weakness. Excessive cleverness and eloquence become flaws, while knowing how to appear simple and awkward proves the better medicine. Opposing wisdom with wisdom or rhetoric with rhetoric is like fighting fire with fire or water with water—utterly ineffective. When the Southern Tang dynasty sent erudite, eloquent envoys to the Song court, Emperor Taizu deliberately assigned illiterate military officers to receive them, rendering the silver-tongued diplomats powerless—precisely illustrating this principle.

Nature follows immutable laws: Heaven cannot make lotus flowers bloom in winter or chrysanthemums flourish in spring; Earth cannot grow oranges by the Luo River (in present-day Luoyang, Henan) or raccoon dogs by the Wen River (in modern Shandong). Thus, enlightened sages who embody the Dao never contravene these natural principles.

The sage recognizes human limitations: Hands cannot replace feet for walking, nor can feet substitute for hands in grasping. Fish cannot be made to fly, nor birds compelled to run. Therefore, the sage neither forces themselves to perform unsuitable tasks nor demands others to act beyond their inherent capacities. Maintaining this understanding allows flexible adaptation—acting when appropriate, resting when needed, revealing when timely, and concealing when prudent. This embodies the manifestation of the Dao (the Way).

Among the various schools of Daoist practice, some emphasize concealment, others highlight revelation; some advocate transformation, while others prioritize stillness. All these are but different expressions of nature's inherent patterns. The sage observes celestial phenomena to regulate the emergence and withdrawal of their spirit (Shen), and examines geographical conditions to arrange the movement and stillness of their physical form. Extending this principle to others, they allow the spirit to manifest when it should and withdraw when necessary; the body moves when required and rests when appropriate. Just as hands cannot walk like feet, fish cannot fly like birds, and Heaven cannot reverse seasons to make plants grow unnaturally, how could we defy the inherent strengths of ourselves or others? Forcing actions contrary to one's nature only invites calamity.

In human affairs, moderation is essential: Few words avoid suspicion, restrained actions prevent criticism, limited cleverness reduces manipulation, and modest talents minimize exploitation. Conversely, excessive speech invites distrust, numerous deeds provoke debate, abundant wisdom exhausts the spirit, and manifold abilities bring burdens—all warrant vigilance.

The essence of cultivation lies in four principles: uphold sincerity, practice simplicity, maintain magnanimity, and respond with stillness. Mastering these ensures the Dao remains inexhaustible. In interactions, sincerity preserves virtue (De); simplicity conserves vital energy (Qi); magnanimity prevents resentment; and stillness safeguards celestial mysteries.

In practical matters: base actions on actual conditions, make judgments according to principle, rely on collective strength for implementation, and entrust outcomes to Heaven's will. Address present affairs using contemporary knowledge, but seek ancient wisdom to comprehend universal truths. Though worldly endeavors require collaboration, enlightenment ultimately depends on one's own profound realization.

In dealing with present matters, one should take the matter itself as the teacher. Just as an expert archer learns from the bow itself rather than imitating Houyi (the legendary archer), and a skilled boatman studies the vessel rather than emulating Ao (an ancient strongman). This approach to learning ensures one doesn't deviate from reality. But when investigating fundamental principles, one should take the ancients as teachers, for the ancient sages penetrated the nature of things with unparalleled depth—a level modern people cannot reach.

When matters involve human action, one must consider public preferences. Since we call it a "matter," it originates from human initiative but is ultimately accomplished by Heaven—how dare we stubbornly cling to personal views? As for the Dao (the fundamental truth of the universe), one need only practice it alone.

Gold, silver, and fine jade are hard to relinquish, while dirt and stones are easily discarded. When Dao practitioners encounter profound teachings or cultivation methods, they must remember not to cling to them. These can serve as references but shouldn't be grasped—once attachment forms, it becomes an incurable affliction of the heart. Students who memorize every virtuous saying and good deed they hear may be called diligent learners. Yet they don't realize this only builds moral character but doesn't lead to the Dao. The true Dao requires a mind purified of all attachments—only then can one hope to approach it. Clinging to profound teachings in the heart instead creates internal maladies. Why? Just as dirt is easily discarded but gold and jade hard to release, profound words once lodged in the mind become unforgettable. The ancients said, "One pleasing saying becomes a hitching post for ten thousand generations"—how true this is!

People fail to understand urgent priorities while pursuing miscellaneous and exotic affairs, ultimately inviting poverty and misfortune. They don't realize the Dao permeates everywhere—one shouldn't abandon the root to chase branches.

This scripture primarily discusses how the essence of cultivating the Dao lies in refining the heart-mind, while also addressing common misconceptions in spiritual practice.

It first points out that the Great Dao (the fundamental law of the universe) is not external to the heart-mind—the nature of consciousness itself manifests the Dao. Though the Dao permeates all things, its most concentrated manifestation appears in the human heart. This "heart-mind" reveals itself in every aspect of daily life, from eating and sleeping to every gesture and movement. Therefore, cultivating the heart-mind is the most crucial task for Dao seekers. Ancient practitioners valued even the time spent trimming their nails, knowing that time waits for no one. Those who refine themselves well may transcend worldly existence, while those who fail risk falling into the cycle of rebirth. Could anything in this world be more important than this?

The text then critiques the common failing of worldly scholars: neglecting daily cultivation while chasing after exotic marvels and busying themselves with external affairs. Even if they achieve minor accomplishments this way, they remain vulnerable when calamity strikes—let alone attaining liberation from life and death. This is like using the priceless Pearl of Marquis Sui to shoot sparrows—a complete reversal of priorities.

Next, it exposes misguided approaches to practice: some practitioners ignore the fundamental cultivation of heart-mind to pursue trivialities; reject wise teachers to follow fools; and disregard immediate principles in favor of obscure theories. While such methods may show short-term results, they inevitably harm one's vital essence over time.

Finally, it emphasizes that while ancient sages taught with different emphases—some speaking of stillness, others of clarity, some of emptiness, others of obscurity—these were all skillful means, as the true Dao transcends words and concepts. Like medicinal herbs, when used correctly even common plants like platycodon (jiegeng) or plantain (fuyi) can save lives, while misused gold and jade become harmful. The key lies in grasping the meaning beyond words.

The words of sages contain both refined elements as precious as gold and jade, and crude elements as common as grass roots and seeds. Ancient masters taught that whether subtle expressions or plain speech, all ultimately return to the supreme Dao. Some comprehend the great Way through simple words, while others hear profound teachings yet remain unenlightened. This resembles medicine: when properly prescribed, common herbs can save lives; when misapplied, even golden elixirs (Jindan) may cause harm. Why obsess over the apparent value of the remedy? The crucial matter lies in accurate diagnosis.

When discussing worldly affairs, opinions diverge—some emphasize benefits, others harms, some see mixed outcomes, others simultaneous advantages and disadvantages—with one perspective inevitably proving correct. But such distinctions collapse when speaking of the Dao. The Dao differs fundamentally from mundane matters: worldly affairs always involve gains and losses, allowing for balanced or biased discussions, whereas the Dao transcends all dichotomies of conformity or deviation. Those truly skilled in expressing the Dao often choose wordless silence.

Concrete matters have specific referents, permitting logical discourse; the omnipresent yet unattached Dao defies conventional reasoning. Those who understand language's inherent lack of fixed principles can make any utterance accord with the Dao, while those unaware of this truth—even wielding the most sublime teachings—will find them becoming obstacles to comprehension.

The Dao stands diametrically opposed to worldly affairs, as incompatible as fire and water, day and night. Daoist practitioners err gravely by discussing the Dao as they would ordinary matters. Worldly discussions follow logical patterns because their objects are definite, but how can the Dao—ubiquitous yet ungraspable—be measured by ordinary standards? Recognizing the Dao's ineffability allows all speech to manifest it; failing this, even holding supreme truths merely creates veils obscuring the Way.

The foolish believe easily, the wise with difficulty; trusting individual sages proves simpler than trusting hundreds of sages simultaneously. Those distrusting multitudes of sages become blind externally to others, internally to themselves, upwardly to the Dao, and downwardly to worldly affairs.

Entering Daoist practice begins with establishing faith—without firm conviction, the Dao cannot take root in one's heart. Yet believing sages proves easier than trusting madmen and fools. Only when one can believe even the most deluded individuals does faith become truly steadfast. Here "faith" differs from conventional understanding: worldly faith means "belief in," while the Daoist perspective speaks of "faith beyond belief." Not trusting fools and madmen comes naturally to most—precisely why this "non-faith" constitutes a special realization built upon universal awareness.

This scripture primarily examines the dialectical relationship between "belief" and "non-belief," as well as the importance of sensory withdrawal in spiritual cultivation.

Regarding "belief," it states: If a person doesn't even trust sages, ordinary people likely won't accept his attitude of disbelief. Going further, if one doubts even the saints, this perspective becomes even harder for the world to endorse. The most extreme form is doubting countless saints—this kind of "non-belief" is the most incomprehensible to ordinary people. Yet those who can steadfastly maintain this "disbelief in countless saints" have truly attained the state of "genuine belief." Such individuals have transcended distinctions between inner and outer, superior and inferior, no longer clinging to others, self, principles, or worldly affairs.

The text then illustrates cultivation methods through metaphor: Sages use obscure language (mengmeng) to make people "deaf," employ cryptic expressions (mingming) to make them "blind," and apply abstruse discourse (chenchen) to render them "mute." True practitioners must achieve this: hearing without registering external sounds (not clinging to principles, worldly matters, or self), seeing without perceiving external forms (not distinguishing between principles, worldly matters, or self), and remaining silent (not discussing principles, worldly matters, or self).

A parable follows: A student asked his teacher how to instruct someone who was blind, deaf, and mute. The teacher had the student approach, displayed his palm, and asked what it was. When the student replied "a palm," the teacher immediately pointed out: One who can hear the question and approach isn't deaf; one who can see the palm isn't blind; one who can answer isn't mute. This demonstrates how many who appear to understand principles will reveal their true state when put to practical tests.

Finally, quoting the Cantongqi and Yinfujing, it emphasizes: One must seal the three crucial senses—ears, eyes, and mouth (sanyao)—to avoid external disturbances. Authentic cultivation lies in transcending sensory cognition to reach the wordless realm of silent communion.

The conclusion highlights ordinary people's cognitive limitations: They only recognize how false gains contain true losses, but fail to see how genuine gains may also entail true losses; they only understand how false correctness harbors real errors, but remain unaware how true correctness might also contain genuine errors.

People often believe they can find truth amidst falsehood and discern correctness within error, thus desperately pursuing what they call "truth" and "rightness." Little do they realize that the true Dao (the fundamental truth of the cosmos) inherently transcends distinctions of gain and loss, right and wrong. The moment one becomes attached to such dualities, they descend into the realm of concrete phenomena, drifting far from the essence of the Great Dao.

It is like when some practitioners encounter extraordinary visions or objects during cultivation and stubbornly take them as manifestations of the true Dao, only to unknowingly fall prey to demonic obstructions. Speaking of the Great Dao is like recounting a dream: the dreamer may vividly describe mountains of gold, rare treasures, or mythical creatures, yet cannot produce a single tangible item for the listener. Though the listener hears the words, they can never obtain what is described. Those who truly understand such discourse neither cling to literal meanings nor argue over truth and falsehood.

This analogy perfectly illustrates the dilemma of transmitting the Dao. It is as if someone says, "I dreamed I became immensely wealthy," and the listener replies, "But I didn’t see it." The speaker insists, "I truly had this dream," to which the listener retorts, "Since I didn’t experience it, why should I believe you?" In the end, the speaker, unable to provide evidence, calls the listener foolish, while the listener, lacking verification, accuses the speaker of lying. Such debates are better avoided altogether. As the ancients long observed: Understanding principles is easy; conveying them without words is hard. Hearing the Dao is simple; realizing it in the heart is difficult. Thus, those skilled in listening to the Dao do not quibble over surface meanings but seek to grasp what lies beyond words.

Master Guan Yinzi (a prominent Daoist figure) deliberately concluded his scripture with this chapter to admonish seekers: When facing profound truths, avoid rigid attachment to words or forceful debates over right and wrong. Simply apprehend the true meaning beyond language.

Finally, four essentials of cultivation are summarized:

1) Comprehension of the Dao must be fluid (adaptable and penetrating)

2) Cultivation of Virtue (De) must be upright (adhering to principles)

3) Conduct must be steady (persistent and unwavering)

4) Action must be decisive (resolute and sharp)

For if the Dao lacks fluidity, it loses its numinous wonder; if Virtue lacks rectitude, it strays from the true path; if conduct lacks steadiness, it cannot endure; and if action lacks decisiveness, it bears no fruit. These are the essential principles of practice as distilled by Master Guan Yinzi.

Master Guan Yinzi (the Daoist Sage Wenshi Zhenren), after expounding the profound mysteries of the Dao, remained concerned that practitioners might focus solely on pursuing the Great Way while neglecting moral cultivation, or emphasize virtue yet overlook practical action, or accumulate good deeds while abandoning their fundamental duties. These are all manifestations of grasping the root while neglecting the branches - yet often, it's the poorly tended branches that end up damaging the root.

Indeed, the world has those who ruin their conduct through improper handling of affairs, those who impair their De (Virtue) through flawed character, and those who hinder their Dao cultivation through damaged virtue. How can practitioners concentrate solely on the Dao without supporting it with virtue? Or know only to accumulate virtue while being careless in concrete matters? Nowadays, some aspire to seek the Dao yet belittle moral cultivation, even neglecting their proper duties and essential work. Do they not understand the profound intention of the sages' teachings, which equally emphasize both essence and function, both root and branch? The boundless compassion of the great sage Guan Yinzi for future practitioners truly reaches the utmost degree, beyond what words can express.

Zhu Xiangxian explains: What is medicine? It means regulation and governance. What is nine? It represents exhaustive investigation. When Yang energy reaches its zenith (nine being the ultimate Yang number), it transforms into Yin. When excellent medicine completes its nine refinements, it achieves endless regeneration. But if we attempt to regulate each thing separately, no amount of medicine would suffice; if we apply medicine to every matter, even the best treatment cannot be comprehensive. How then can one attain harmony with the wondrous Dao?

The sages teach us: The Great Dao itself requires no medicine. All worldly oppositions between things and self, calculations of right and wrong, gains and losses, distinctions between wisdom and foolishness, courage and cowardice - clinging to these constitutes illness, while non-attachment serves as medicine. Thus inferior medicine treats external things, middling medicine treats the self, and superior medicine treats the mind. How to understand this? For instance, attachment to certain sounds makes the ears ill (not that the ears themselves are sick), and fixation on particular colors makes the eyes ill (not that the eyes themselves are diseased) - these are all cases of neglecting the root while chasing the branches.

Therefore, the sages propose extraordinary methods of applying medicine: using ancient wisdom to address modern problems, employing unique methods to treat universal phenomena, applying heavenly principles to remedy human weaknesses. But does this fully reveal the true self? Not yet. Because subtle words are not ordinary speech, and mysterious meanings transcend conventional thought. If one clings to literal interpretations, one may miss the true essence.

This scripture primarily discusses how Dao practitioners should transcend attachment to superficial appearances and reach the state where both external objects and the self are forgotten.

If one clings to outward behaviors while believing to have attained the true Dao, it is as absurd as treasuring words spoken in a dream or confusing vessels with beasts. Those who truly attain the Dao engage with all things yet remain unbound by them; they nourish themselves yet remain unattached to the concept of "self." When a cultivator reaches the state where nothing is seen externally and no self is perceived internally, distinctions between square and round, flat and sharp vanish—the foolish and the sage become equal, and gold, jade, and wild grass hold no difference. Why? Because attachment to anything is sickness, while non-attachment is the cure. As the ancients said: "The true medicine is not medicine." Understanding the principle of "medicine that is no medicine" leads to grasping the truth of "things that are no things." At this stage, even the concept of "cure" becomes unnecessary.

The text then discusses the importance of teaching and transmission. The Great Dao (Dao) must be revealed through teaching, and teaching relies on written words to spread. Words, teaching, and the Dao thus mutually support one another. The presence or absence of texts directly influences the flourishing or decline of the Dao. Confucius composed the Six Classics to illuminate the Dao, and the world revered it; the First Emperor of Qin burned books and buried scholars, causing the Dao to vanish; the Han Dynasty rediscovered the classics, allowing the Dao to reemerge. This demonstrates that the survival of texts determines the clarity or obscurity of the Dao. Hence, Confucius lamented, "Has this culture not been lost?"—all of which is determined by heaven’s will, beyond human control.

Finally, the text recounts the story of Laozi (the Mysterious Origin Dao Ancestor). As the Zhou Dynasty declined, Laozi prepared to journey west. The border official Yin Xi, observing the clouds and qi (vital energy), foresaw the arrival of a true man and purified himself in anticipation. When Laozi arrived, Yin Xi bowed to him as a master and received the transmission of the Daodejing in five thousand words. After attaining the Dao, Laozi propagated it through written scriptures. This account references Liu Xiang’s records.

This passage recounts the transmission history of the Wenshi Jing (Scripture of Master Wenshi), a Daoist classic. Although Guan Yinzi (Yin Xi, disciple of Laozi) possessed lofty De (Virtue), he lived in reclusion and never held office, so his teachings weren't widely disseminated during his time. Through records in Zhuangzi and Liezi, we learn that Liezi personally sought instruction from him, while Zhuangzi admired his doctrines, honoring him as "the vast and genuine sage of antiquity."

By the Qin-Han period, an extraordinary figure named Gai Gong transmitted this text to Cao Can (Chancellor of the Western Han). After Cao Can's death, the scripture was buried with him. During Emperor Wu of Han's reign, it was rediscovered by fangshi (Daoist adepts), then secretly kept by Prince Huainan Liu An. The author laments: Why do sage's classics always face more obscurity than circulation? Could it be that those who obtained them feared revealing celestial secrets, preferring to treasure them privately?

After Liu Xiang (Han dynasty scholar) presented it to the imperial court, the text wasn't mentioned again until Ge Hong's (Ge Zhichuan) preface in the Eastern Jin. Thereafter, this classic was lost. From the Jin dynasty onward, though eminent Daoists like Tao Hongjing and Kou Qianzhi produced thousands of scrolls of writings, none referenced this work. During the Song dynasty, Master Bixu (Chen Jingyuan), while annotating Laozi and Zhuangzi, mistakenly identified Xisheng Jing (Scripture of Western Ascension) as Guan Yinzi's work.

When Emperor Huizong of Song launched extensive searches for Daoist scriptures, this text still didn't surface. Not until the Dading era of the Jin dynasty, when Patriarch Wang Chongyang founded the Quanzhen (Complete Perfection) tradition and Qiu Chuji (Changchun Zhenren) advised Genghis Khan to implement governance through Wuwei (non-action), did Daoism flourish. Though Daoist temples spread across cities and countryside, with adepts gathering everywhere, the Wenshi Jing never reappeared in the world.

This passage recounts the legendary rediscovery of the Guan Yinzi (also known as Wenzhen Zhenjing), a Daoist classic. During his travels in the south, the Daoist practitioner (yuke) Zhang Zhongcai obtained this ancient text from mountain herb gatherers, mirroring the famous account of Li Quan discovering the Yinfu Jing in a stone chamber.

When Zhang brought the text to present at the Baoxuan Hall to the lineage master, the assembled teachers initially paid little attention to the label reading "Guan Yinzi's Book." However, upon closer examination, they found its content profoundly abstruse and elegantly archaic, its language so dense and obscure it seemed like deciphering the tracks of ants. Through collective study and deliberation, they gradually grasped its true meaning, discovering a teaching of such sublime transcendence that readers felt transported to the realm of absolute emptiness, their spirits liberated.

Amazed, the teachers inquired about the text's origins. Learning it was serendipitously acquired, they reported to the lineage master. After deep contemplation, the master sighed, recognizing this as heaven's will. The reappearance of this millennium-lost classic coincided with an era of "auspicious celestial beginnings and flourishing Daoist transformation"—precisely the destined moment for its return.

Three marvels were noted: First, its resurgence aligned perfectly with the rise of the Quanzhen (Complete Perfection) school, a major Daoist lineage. Second, it emerged during the third generation of leadership under Qinghe Zhenren (Wang Chuyi), as if preordained. Third, Zhang Zhongcai's two-thousand-li journey from Chu to Yan to deliver the text proceeded with uncanny smoothness, as if divinely assisted. The author marvels that this work by Yin Xi (Guan Yinzi) returned after a thousand years precisely to Yin's spiritual descendants—a needle finding its groove—demonstrating heaven's manifest principle.

This account vividly illustrates the Daoist doctrine of "scriptures emerging in accordance with cosmic timing," where significant texts appear in harmony with celestial cycles and the ebb and flow of Daoist traditions. It also reflects the sacred regard for ancient esoteric classics and the numinous experiences within master-disciple transmission.

This passage discusses the origins and characteristics of the Wenshi Jing (Scripture of Cultivated Beginnings), a Daoist classic. It recounts how the ancient Six Classics (Shi, Shu, Li, Yi, Yue, and Chunqiu) were discovered among broken walls, thus allowing the Way of ancient sage-kings to serve as vital guidance for later generations. Now emerging during Daoism's flourishing period, this Wenshi Jing would become the most essential reference scripture for the Mysterious Gate (Daoism) throughout the ages.

Later, the Celestial Master (Tianshi) Piyun had this scripture engraved and preserved, incorporating it into the Daoist Canon (Daozang) and naming it Wenshi Zhenjing (Perfect Scripture of Cultivated Beginnings) by decree of Lord Lao (the supreme Daoist deity). When the Perfected Being Zhenchang expounded the profound teachings (Xuanxue), many talented scholars gathered to study and practice its principles morning and night, frequently referencing this scripture.

The text's phrasing and meaning are uniquely distinctive, forming a school of its own. Unlike Zhuangzi or Liezi, which employ fables, debates, riding the wind, or dreaming of butterflies to convey transcendent ideas, this scripture moves from cosmic principles to alchemical elixirs (Jindan), with each chapter containing profound truths—each distinct yet never straying from the core. Since the dawn of written records, no other work has matched its depth and mystery.

This scripture comprehends the arcane principles to attain the true essence of life, recognizes the Dao of Heaven to exhaust the workings of the divine. It dissects the subtleties of the Five Constants (benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and trust) and all human conduct, surpassing the famous discourses of the Confucian classics. It elucidates the essence of the Four Phrases (possibly Daoist mantras) and the Hundred Errors (various misconceptions), using intricate and circuitous language—the deeper one delves, the more unfathomable it becomes, like crossing the ocean with a staff or soaring through the heavens on a floating leaf. Ge Hong’s (the Jin dynasty Daoist theorist) cosmological analogies bear some resemblance to this scripture.

Later, many learned scholars attempted to explore its profound and hidden meanings, producing numerous commentaries, yet these annotations only blemished the scripture's purity.

This text is Zhu Xiangxian's preface to The Subtle Meaning Beyond Words in the Wenshi Jing, which expounds on the unique value of this classic and the significance of its commentary.

The Wenshi Jing encompasses four profound principles: it uses the metaphor of "female infant, dragon and tiger" to elucidate the mysteries of alchemical cultivation (Neidan); employs "bells, drums, boats, and carts" to convey the sudden insights of Chan Buddhism; explains the workings of cosmic creation through "essence-water and spirit-fire"; and illustrates worldly truths with "small cracks and tiny insects." The author notes that many scholars grasp only part of these teachings—some understand conventional wisdom but fail to perceive transformation, others comprehend the doctrines of emptiness yet remain ignorant of cultivation methods, and still others master the dialectics of existence and non-existence but neglect the governance of literary expression.

Zhu Xiangxian praises the commentary by Master Baoyi (the annotator) for its penetrating insight and erudition, unbound by the literal text yet able to reveal profound meanings beyond words without distorting the original intent—hence the title The Subtle Meaning Beyond Words. He believes this commentary not only clarifies the true meaning of the scripture but also offers such lofty understanding that it would bring joy to Master Guanyinzi (traditionally regarded as the author of the Wenshi Jing) even a thousand years later.

The author emphasizes that both the classic and its commentary are indispensable in the Daoist tradition. Once the true meaning of the scripture is illuminated, the profound wisdom of the sages becomes as clear as the sun and moon, allowing those with discerning eyes to awaken to its truths. He stresses that Daoist teachings rely on words to reveal their essence, while the Great Dao (Dao) itself is transmitted through these teachings.

Finally, Zhu Xiangxian recounts how, during a summer retreat at the Zongsheng Temple in Louguan, Zhongnan Mountain (where Guanyinzi is said to have attained enlightenment), he resolved to compile and transmit Master Baoyi’s commentary. His hope was that all—whether cultivators, laypeople, the wise, or the ordinary—might grasp the Great Dao through this work. Fearing that future generations might obtain this treasure yet fail to cherish it, he composed this preface to record its origins and encourage fellow seekers to value this rare opportunity.