《沖虛至德真經解》Vol. 6

This scripture explores the relationship between human effort and heavenly mandate through a dialogue between "Human Effort" (力) and "Heavenly Mandate" (命).

Human Effort boasts to Heavenly Mandate: "Surely my contributions surpass yours?" Heavenly Mandate retorts: "What have you truly contributed to the myriad beings that you dare compare yourself to me?" Human Effort lists its supposed powers: determining lifespan, circumstances of adversity or prosperity, social status, and wealth accumulation.

Heavenly Mandate then presents counterexamples: Peng Zu lived eight hundred years though less wise than Yao and Shun, while Yan Hui died young despite outstanding talent; Confucius with his supreme virtue was trapped between Chen and Cai, yet the tyrannical King Zhou of Shang ruled as sovereign; Ji Zha held no noble title in Wu, while Tian Heng monopolized power in Qi; the virtuous Bo Yi and Shu Qi starved at Shouyang Mountain, while the Ji family surpassed the virtuous Zhan Qin in wealth. Heavenly Mandate challenges: "If you truly controlled these outcomes, why would you shorten good men's lives while extending the wicked? Why constrain sages while elevating the rebellious? Why debase the worthy and exalt fools? Why impoverish the virtuous and enrich the malevolent?"

Struck silent, Human Effort admits it wields no such control over creation. Heavenly Mandate explains: What we call heavenly mandate is simply following what is so of itself. Longevity or premature death, adversity or prosperity, nobility or baseness, wealth or poverty—all emerge spontaneously, not by anyone's deliberate arrangement.

Jiang Yu's commentary clarifies: Human effort represents deliberate action, while heavenly mandate embodies natural principle. Heaven cannot be separated from humanity, nor humanity from heaven. Human effort operates within heavenly mandate's constraints, yet mandate manifests through human actions. To overemphasize human effort while neglecting heavenly mandate, or to believe solely in mandate while denying effort, both represent partial views. Cases like Peng Zu's longevity and Yan Hui's early death may appear controlled by some force, but actually demonstrate the complex interplay between human endeavor and cosmic principle.

This passage explores the relationship between "ming" (heavenly mandate) and "li" (human effort). The legendary longevity of Pengzu (said to have lived eight hundred years) wasn't entirely predestined, nor was the premature death of Yan Hui (Confucius' short-lived disciple) solely due to personal shortcomings. This demonstrates that neither can human effort completely alter fate, nor are all things entirely subject to destiny's rule.

Fate operates like crows being born black, swans naturally white, the long-lived Chinese toon tree, or ephemeral mushrooms—these are all natural formations whose precise causes remain ineffable. Human lifespan, wealth, and social status are neither wholly predetermined nor entirely self-determined, much like the growth of plants: roots precede sprouts, fruits emerge from blossoms, good seeds yield abundant harvests while poor ones produce weeds—all following nature's patterns.

Present good fortune may stem from accumulated virtue (De) in the past, while current virtuous deeds may become the foundation for future blessings. Thus fate and human effort are ultimately inseparable. The truly wise understand destiny's profound mystery—we shouldn't haggle with the Creator like butchers dividing meat, demanding Yan Hui's longevity or the robber Zhi's early death, insisting sages prosper while fools suffer poverty.

Those who truly comprehend fate follow natural law (Dao), cultivating themselves diligently without forcing outcomes. They regard long life and early death, adversity and success, wealth and poverty with equanimity. This embodies the sage's ideal of "rejoicing in heaven and understanding destiny," the supreme wisdom Zhuangzi conveys through Zisang's discourse on fate in the "Great Ancestral Teacher" chapter—treating profound insight into destiny as life's ultimate teacher.

Beigongzi said to Ximenzi: "We live in the same era, yet people value you more. We come from the same clan, yet people respect you more. Our appearances are comparable, yet people favor you. We speak similarly, yet people heed your words. Our conduct is alike, yet people trust you more. Both serving as officials, you're more esteemed; both farming, you're wealthier; both trading, you're more prosperous. I wear coarse hemp garments, eat coarse grains, dwell in a thatched hut, and walk on foot. Yet you wear embroidered silks, dine on refined rice and meat, reside in lofty mansions, and ride in carriages. At home you glow with self-importance, ignoring me; at court you strut arrogantly, eyeing me coldly. We haven't interacted for years, never keeping company. Do you truly believe your virtue surpasses mine?"

Ximenzi replied: "I know not the truth of it. But where your endeavors meet obstacles, mine find success—is this not proof of fortune's favor? That you claim equality in all things shows extraordinary audacity." Beigongzi, speechless, returned home dejected. On the road he encountered Dongguo Xiansheng.

"Why walk hunched with shame?" asked Dongguo. Hearing the account, he declared: "I shall relieve your humiliation." Confronting Ximenzi, he demanded: "Why disgrace Beigongzi thus?"

Ximenzi restated their exchange: "He insists we're equal in era, lineage, age, appearance, speech and deed—yet our stations differ as heaven from earth. I told him this reflects fortune's uneven measure, yet still he claims parity. Such presumption!"

Dongguo observed: "Your 'measure' speaks of talent and virtue, but mine concerns another truth. Beigongzi's virtue runs deep though fortune fails him; your fortune prospers though virtue runs shallow. Your success springs not from wisdom, nor his hardship from folly—both flow from Heaven's mandate."

(This dialogue between three figures reveals the Daoist teaching of "virtue and fate being distinct": one's moral cultivation bears no necessary connection to worldly circumstances, as wealth and poverty alike stem from celestial decree, never serving as true measures of worth. Dongguo's final insight—that Ximenzi's achievements rely on fortunate destiny while Beigongzi's struggles reflect no personal failing—embodies the Daoist recognition of fate's inscrutable operations.)

This passage reveals profound insights on destiny and virtue (De) through a dialogue between Beigongzi, Ximenzi, and Dongguo Xiansheng (Eastern Mister).

Ximenzi prides himself on his favorable destiny, while Beigongzi laments his own virtuous cultivation yet unfavorable fate. Dongguo Xiansheng points out that neither truly understands the fundamental principle of the Dao's natural operation. The Dao follows its own course (symbolized by the west, representing closure, and the north, representing the nurturing of essence (Jing)). Ximenzi focuses on external circumstances, valuing destiny, while Beigongzi turns inward, emphasizing virtue.

Dongguo Xiansheng (whose name "Eastern Mister" suggests emerging from hardship into renewed vitality) embodies the wisdom of maintaining balance between movement and stillness. He enlightens Beigongzi: Destiny arises naturally—even sages like Yao, Shun, and Yan Hui were subject to it. The key lies in perspective—obsession with fate binds one, but penetrating its essence allows transcendence.

Upon realization, Beigongzi wears coarse cloth yet feels robed in fox fur, eats simple beans yet tastes fine grain, dwells in a thatched hut as if in a grand mansion, and rides a broken cart as if in a luxurious carriage. This demonstrates true awakening is not about changing external conditions but transforming inner perception. Whether destiny confines a person ultimately depends on whether one attains the state of "knowing fate."

Guan Zhong (courtesy name Yiwu) and Bao Shuya were close friends who both lived in the state of Qi. Guan Zhong served Prince Jiu, while Bao Shuya assisted Prince Xiaobai. At that time, conflicts raged between favored legitimate and illegitimate descendants within the Qi ruling house, causing public anxiety about potential turmoil. When Gongsun Wuzhi launched a rebellion, plunging Qi into a leaderless crisis, both princes rushed back to contend for the throne.

During the battle at Ju territory, Guan Zhong shot an arrow that hit Xiaobai's belt hook. After Xiaobai successfully ascended as Duke Huan of Qi, he forced the state of Lu to execute Prince Jiu. Prince Jiu's advisor Zhao Hu committed suicide to follow his lord in death, while Guan Zhong was imprisoned. Bao Shuya then advised Duke Huan: "Guan Zhong possesses exceptional governing talent." The duke protested: "He's my enemy—I want him dead." Bao Shuya countered: "I've heard that wise rulers hold no personal grudges. Moreover, one who served his former master faithfully will surely serve his new lord with equal devotion. If you aspire to hegemony among the feudal lords, you must employ Guan Zhong."

Ultimately persuaded, Duke Huan demanded Qi's return of the captive Guan Zhong. Bao Shuya personally welcomed him beyond the city walls, removing his shackles. The duke treated Guan Zhong with full ceremonial honors, elevating him above the two most powerful aristocratic clans (the Gao and Guo families), while Bao Shuya willingly took subordinate position. Entrusting Guan Zhong with state affairs, the duke honored him as "Uncle Zhong." Under Guan Zhong's guidance, Duke Huan achieved the status of Hegemon.

Guan Zhong once reflected: "In my impoverished youth, I always took larger shares when trading with Bao Shu, yet he never called me greedy—he knew my true need. When my advice brought him greater hardship, he didn't blame my foolishness—he understood timing's vagaries. Thrice I held office and thrice was dismissed—he never doubted my capability, knowing fortune had deserted me. Thrice I fled from battle—he never deemed me cowardly, recognizing my concern for aged mother. When Prince Jiu fell and Zhao Hu died honorably while I endured captivity's shame—Bao Shu never called me shameless, perceiving my disregard for petty integrity when fame eluded me. My parents gave me life, but Bao Shu understood my soul!"

Later generations praised this as the model "Friendship of Guan and Bao," celebrating Duke Huan's discernment in employing talent. Yet the scripture reveals deeper truth: no true "skill" in friendship or employment existed. Their actions weren't exceptional virtues but necessities imposed by circumstance—Zhao Hu had to die, Bao Shu had to recommend worthiness, Duke Huan had to employ his former enemy. This illustrates the Daoist principle of wuwei (non-action)—seemingly active choices were ultimately compelled by the momentum of events.

This passage recounts the story of Guan Zhong (courtesy name Yiwu) and Bao Shuya, illustrating how certain events are determined by destiny rather than personal stratagems. Guan Zhong and Bao Shuya were originally the closest of friends, sharing profound mutual understanding. Later, when Guan Zhong served Prince Jiu while Bao Shuya assisted Prince Xiaobai (later Duke Huan of Qi), their friendship remained unchanged despite serving different masters.

During the succession struggle between Prince Jiu and Prince Xiaobai, Guan Zhong once shot an arrow at Xiaobai during the Battle of Jüdao (though Xiaobai feigned death and escaped). How could Guan Zhong have imagined then that he would one day serve Duke Huan of Qi? And when Duke Huan ascended the throne, forcing the State of Lu to execute Prince Jiu and demanding Guan Zhong's extradition for vengeance, how could the duke have contemplated employing Guan Zhong?

Though Bao Shuya could overlook Guan Zhong's attempted assassination of Duke Huan, he dared not recommend his friend due to the ruler's lingering resentment. Moreover, Guan Zhong had neither succeeded in helping Prince Jiu claim the throne nor committed suicide to follow his master in death—hardly the behavior of a virtuous and capable minister.

Yet events unfolded unexpectedly: Bao Shuya disregarded court suspicions to recommend Guan Zhong; Duke Huan set aside past grievances to employ him; and Guan Zhong, rather than refusing the ministerial position due to prior imprisonment and humiliation, devoted himself wholeheartedly to Qi's governance, forgetting his former allegiance to Prince Jiu. None of this could have been predicted by conventional wisdom.

Guan Zhong subsequently enriched Qi's treasury, reformed its rituals, strengthened military might, transformed disaster into fortune, and ultimately assisted Duke Huan in convening nine feudal lords' conferences to restore order to the realm—benefits still felt by the people today. Thus Confucius praised: "Were it not for Guan Zhong, we might well be wearing our hair loose and folding our robes to the left [i.e., adopting barbarian customs]." Guan Zhong's contributions to civilization far surpass ordinary achievements.

Guan Zhong was never one to be constrained by petty loyalties or trivial righteousness, nor would he behave like ordinary men and women who might take their own lives over minor grievances. Had it not been for Bao Shuya's recommendation, and had Duke Huan of Qi (Xiao Bai) not set aside his enmity toward Guan Zhong, how could Bao Shuya have preserved their friendship? And where would Guan Zhong have found the opportunity to demonstrate his talents? Yet in the end, Guan Zhong assisted Duke Huan in uniting the feudal lords and rectifying the realm, benefiting the people to this very day. This shows that Bao Shuya's recommendation of his enemy, Duke Huan's employment of his enemy, and Guan Zhong's endurance of humiliation in Lu while remaining loyal to Qi were all inevitable outcomes ordained by fate.

From this perspective, the world praises Bao Shuya for excelling in friendship and Duke Huan for excelling in employing talent, but in truth, there was no particular "skill" in either. These were natural developments of destiny, not something that human effort could forcibly achieve. If we speak of excelling in friendship, where was Guan Zhong's loyalty during the Battle of Ju? If we speak of excelling in employing talent, why did Duke Huan wait for Bao Shuya's recommendation before using Guan Zhong? The point here is that this principle applies not only to Duke Huan and the Guan-Bao relationship but to all friendships, loyalties, and the ways of sovereigns and ministers in the world. Yet upon closer examination, these men all acted with the utmost impartiality. Precisely because their hearts were selfless and devoted to the greater good, their friendships endured without striving, their enmities dissolved without effort, and their loyalty was rewarded without expectation—this was the very foundation of Duke Huan's success in achieving hegemony.

Alas! If a person can maintain a heart of selfless impartiality, then they will align with the natural course of Heaven's will. Why then should they bend themselves or stray from the Dao to conform to the trivial sentiments of the world? Even the hegemonic achievements accomplished through wisdom and martial prowess were not something that human effort alone could dictate—how much less so the effortless governance of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors of antiquity, where the people naturally enjoyed peace and prosperity?

Later, when Guan Zhong (styled Yi Wu) fell gravely ill, Duke Huan visited him and said, "Father Zhong's illness is severe, and there are words I must ask. If your condition worsens, to whom should I entrust the affairs of state?" Guan Zhong replied, "Whom does Your Grace wish to appoint?" The Duke said, "Would Bao Shuya be suitable?" Guan Zhong answered, "No. His character is too lofty and incorruptible—he refuses to associate with those he deems inferior, and once he learns of another's faults..."

This passage uses the story of Guan Zhong and Bao Shuya to discuss principles of governance and personnel selection. Guan Zhong prevented his close friend Bao Shuya from participating in state affairs not out of distrust, but because he understood Bao Shuya's temperament was unsuited for governance—forcing him into administration would only harm him and risk offending the ruler. This precisely demonstrates Guan Zhong's wisdom in preserving their friendship.

When asked who would be suitable to govern, Guan Zhong recommended Xi Peng. This Xi Peng could forget his own power when dealing with superiors (meaning he wouldn't abuse authority), and ensure the common people wouldn't rebel when dealing with subordinates. He always considered himself less virtuous than the Yellow Emperor (the legendary sage king), while showing compassion toward those inferior to himself. Those who transform people through virtue are called sages; those who assist others with material resources are called worthies. But if a worthy person condescends to others, he'll fail to win hearts; whereas a worthy who humbly serves others will never lack popular support.

In governing the state, Xi Peng wouldn't micromanage every affair; in managing his household, he wouldn't scrutinize every domestic matter. This wasn't actual blindness or deafness, but rather reflected his sufficiently tolerant approach to governance. Just as towering mountains make land barren while marshes enrich the soil, as the ancient saying goes: "One who feigns neither deafness nor muteness finds it hard to accomplish great deeds"—this captures the principle.

Finally, the text cites an allusion from the Book of Songs ("Grain Sandals"): Though the ruler of Wei was narrow-minded and impatient, the poem still praised him, illustrating that people should be evaluated comprehensively. Guan Zhong's apparent distance (seeming coldness) toward Bao Shuya and closeness (apparent favor) toward Xi Peng weren't motivated by personal bias, but were necessary adaptations to actual circumstances.

This passage examines two historical anecdotes that reveal profound truths about the cosmic principles of Heaven and the workings of destiny.

The first story concerns Guan Zhong, Bao Shuya, and Xi Peng—renowned ministers of the Qi state during the Spring and Autumn period. They understood that governing a state could not be based on personal preferences but had to follow the natural Dao (the Way) of Heaven. The reason Qi grew powerful and maintained reverence for the Zhou royal house was precisely because these virtuous ministers set aside selfish desires and acted entirely in accordance with the Heavenly principles.

The second story involves Zichan, a distinguished statesman of Zheng, and Deng Xi, a pioneer of Legalist thought. Deng Xi proposed the "theory of double possibilities" (a relativistic method of argumentation) and drafted the Bamboo Penal Code, which Zheng later adopted. He repeatedly used sophistry to challenge Zichan’s policies, forcing Zichan to concede. Eventually, Zichan had Deng Xi executed—yet these seemingly contradictory actions were in fact inevitable. It was not that Zichan wished to act this way, but circumstances left him no choice. Similarly, Emperor Wen of Han abolished mutilating punishments after the petition of Ti Ying (a filial daughter of the Han era), and later generations could not reverse this decision—both were simply the irresistible trends of the times.

The author observes that life, death, fortune, and misfortune may appear to be human affairs, but in truth, they are all decreed by Heaven. To live when it is time to live is a blessing, and to die when it is time to die is also a blessing. Conversely, clinging to life when one should die or courting death when one should live invites divine retribution. Some matters of life and death allow for personal choice, while others leave no alternative—yet ultimately, all are predetermined by fate, beyond human power to alter. True wisdom lies in recognizing what lies beyond our control.

(Note: The "theory of double possibilities" refers to Deng Xi’s school of dialectics, emphasizing the relativity of things; the Bamboo Penal Code was a legal code inscribed on bamboo slips; "mutilating punishments" were ancient corporal penalties involving bodily disfigurement.)

This scripture primarily explores the relationship between life-death and celestial mandate. The text states that to live in health and peace, then pass away virtuously in old age, constitutes what the Hongfan describes as the "Five Blessings"—heaven-sent fortune. Those who die young, live with chronic illness, or endure poverty and suffering embody the Hongfan's "Six Calamities," representing celestial punishment.

Life and death follow natural law, yet differences in longevity reflect fortune or misfortune. In truth, life and death form a unity—some perceive them as blessings, others as punishments; some experience normalcy, others sudden turns. The truly wise discern these distinctions. Yet the duration and cessation of life are predetermined at birth, with death governing life's boundaries. Matters of life and death cannot be altered by external means nor controlled internally—all are decreed by celestial mandate, beyond even the cleverest human intervention. Only by understanding this principle can one face life and death with equanimity.

The text then describes the natural operation of the Dao (the Way): Profound and boundless, the Dao spontaneously coalesces; vast and limitless, it moves of itself. Heaven and earth cannot defy it, sage wisdom cannot interfere with it, nor can ghosts and spirits deceive it. Silently the Dao accomplishes all things, maintaining equilibrium and tranquility without beginning or end.

Finally, the story of Jiliang, a friend of Yang Zhu, illustrates this: When Jiliang fell gravely ill for seven days, his children wept around him, insisting on summoning physicians. Jiliang told Yang Zhu, "My children show such lack of understanding—why don't you sing to enlighten them?" This anecdote demonstrates the proper detached attitude toward life and death.

The entire passage emphasizes the Daoist philosophy of accepting life-death as destiny and conforming to nature's patterns, advocating transcendence of mortal concerns and alignment with the spontaneous operations of the celestial Dao.

This scripture recounts a parable about Ji Liang seeking medical treatment, where three physicians' differing diagnoses reveal the Daoist perspective on the essence of life.

When Ji Liang fell ill, he consulted three doctors: The first, Physician Jiao, attributed the illness to irregular daily habits and prescribed medicinal adjustments. The second, Physician Yu, diagnosed it as congenital deficiency, considering it incurable. The third, Physician Lu, declared it neither caused by fate nor human actions, but simply the natural course of life, beyond any remedy. Ultimately, Ji Liang recovered without treatment.

The text analyzes: Physician Jiao represents ordinary practitioners who only perceive acquired factors; Physician Yu is a skilled doctor who traces causes to innate conditions; while Physician Lu deserves the title of divine physician, for he perceives the true nature of life and death, understanding existence as natural endowment (referring to inborn qualities). This realization led Ji Liang to comprehend that life and death follow natural laws. Later, when Ji Liang passed away, Yang Zhu (a prominent Daoist figure) even sang before his gate.

The passage concludes by elucidating the Daoist view of life and death: Life neither prolongs itself by being valued nor shortens by being disregarded; the body neither strengthens through care nor weakens through neglect. Seemingly contradictory phenomena all conform to natural principles—all things flourish and decline spontaneously. While honor, disgrace, love, and hatred appear to influence life, they are in fact manifestations of life's natural unfolding.

Life and death, nobility and baseness—these matters are determined before human form takes shape. How could distinctions of worth or personal preferences formed after birth possibly alter them? The human body is but a temporary vessel entrusted by Heaven and Earth, and life itself merely a chance occurrence within the cosmic order. Since even Heaven and Earth cannot defy natural laws in entrusting us with life, how much less can we mortals presume to determine life's value through artificial hierarchies or alter destiny through emotional attachments?

Yet people insist on judging worth and survival through subjective lenses—deeming majority opinions "normal" while branding individual uniqueness "abnormal." Where do absolute rights or wrongs truly exist? These distinctions between normalcy and aberration are but human constructs. Tracing life to its origin, we cannot even comprehend our own birth or bodily formation—why then cling to superficial judgments of worth or preference? Liezi (a Daoist master) expounded this truth precisely to reveal how life's deepest mysteries stem from the natural Dao, thereby dispelling humanity's deluded obsessions with clinging to life and chasing fame. Those who truly cherish life's essence would rather flow with the current than act recklessly.

Yu Xiong (mentor to King Wen of Zhou) once advised: "Natural endowments cannot be increased; innate limitations cannot be diminished. Why strain after what human effort cannot alter?" Likewise, Laozi (Lao Dan) told Guan Yin (guardian of Hangu Pass): "Who can truly fathom why Heaven abhors certain things? Rather than exhausting yourself speculating on celestial will or calculating gains and losses, simply accord with spontaneity."

Consider how a duck's short legs and crane's long neck are immutable by nature—so too is human destiny fixed by cosmic principles before birth. "Calculation" refers to human cleverness, but what can such cleverness achieve against Heaven's decree? All is arranged by celestial law. In truth, what humans detest is precisely what Heaven detests—not from partiality, but through profound natural patterns beyond ordinary perception. Acceptance is the true path.

To force understanding through petty cleverness—like drilling wood for fire—exhausting one's spirit in wild conjectures? This resembles the "precognition" warned against in the Daode Jing: such seemingly wise behavior marks folly's beginning. Thus Laozi cautioned Guan Yin: Cease measuring celestial will and weighing advantages. Even Confucius disapproved of Zigong (his most calculating disciple)—though often correct in predictions, he lost touch with natural authenticity.

Yang Bu asked: There are two men who resemble each other like brothers in age, speech, demeanor, talents and appearance, yet their lifespans differ as greatly as father and son, their social status differs like father and son, their reputations differ like father and son, and the degree of love and hatred they receive differs like father and son. This perplexes me greatly.

Master Yang replied: The ancients spoke of similar phenomena, and I shall explain it to you. There are matters whose causes we don't understand yet they occur naturally—this is what we call ming (destiny). Nowadays people muddle through life, drifting along whether they act or refrain from action, as days pass by—who can truly comprehend the reasons behind these things? All this is ming.

The commentary explains: What humans can control is their xing (innate nature), while what Heaven determines is ming. One can cultivate their nature but shouldn't indulge it; one can align with destiny but shouldn't force it. The noble person cultivates themselves and follows the Dao's principles while awaiting destiny's arrangement—how could they use such practice to beg for blessings? Yet Yang Zhu (a Warring States philosopher) meticulously calculates differences in age, virtue, ability and appearance, tallying disparities in lifespan, status, reputation and the degree of love received. Using "brothers" to describe similar ages and "father-son" to describe hierarchical differences—this is using confusion to explain confusion, only deepening the perplexity. He fails to understand that destiny's arrangements are obscure and chaotic, beyond wisdom's comprehension; complex and intricate, beyond reason's discernment. Acting spontaneously without deliberate concealment, refraining from action without clinging to "non-action" (wuwei)—time flows in harmony with creation's movements, opportunities arise in sync with circumstances—who can truly grasp their subtlety? This is the profound mystery of creation's nurturing of all things. If creation had to calculate each person's due before responding, its principle of nurturing would be shallow indeed.

Those who truly trust destiny don't calculate lifespans; those who trust heavenly principle don't obsess over right and wrong; those who trust their original heart don't measure favorable or adverse circumstances; those who trust their innate nature don't concern themselves with safety or danger. Thus they attain the state of "neither believing nor disbelieving," achieving true purity. Why choose or reject? Why sorrow or joy? Why cling to action or non-action?

Further explanation: Not calculating lifespan, right and wrong, favorable circumstances or safety doesn't mean denying their existence. Just as Yan Hui (Confucius' disciple) died young while the robber Zhi lived long—even if a Daoist practitioner truly believes in destiny, how could they arbitrarily claim Yan Hui should have lived longer?

Pengzu (the legendary figure said to have lived eight hundred years) achieved remarkable longevity, yet fundamentally he followed the natural course between life and death without attachment to its duration. Precisely because of this non-attachment, he could accept both long life and short lifespan with equanimity—this is the realm of "wu" (non-being). The same perspective should apply to all dualistic concepts like right and wrong, favorable and adverse circumstances, safety and danger. What is called "complete disbelief" means relinquishing the discriminating mind toward lifespan, right and wrong, favorable conditions, or safety. What is called "complete belief" means trusting in heavenly mandate (tianming), cosmic principle (tianli), original mind, and inherent nature. Those who attain this state make no distinctions between preference and aversion, thus needing neither pursuit nor avoidance; they experience neither sorrow nor joy, thus transcending grief and delight. Seemingly practicing wuwei (non-action), they actually accomplish everything—this alone deserves to be called "zhen" (authenticity) and "que" (sincerity). "Zhen" signifies purity without pretense; "que" denotes truth without falsehood.

The Yellow Emperor's Scripture records: Those who attain the Dao (the Way) appear as if dead when at rest, and move like mechanical devices when active. They neither know why they should rest nor why they shouldn't; neither understand why they act nor why they shouldn't; care neither how others perceive them nor whether others change their opinions. Coming and going alone in perfect freedom—who could possibly obstruct them?

Explanation: "Appearing as if dead when at rest" describes a mind like cold ashes, indicating natural tranquility through inner emptiness; "moving like mechanical devices" refers to acting only when triggered by external circumstances, like an automatic mechanism. They move when the time comes and stop when the moment passes—whether in stillness or motion, all follows nature's course without discrimination. Attaining this state leads to forgetting both self and objects, silencing both sight and hearing, becoming unaware even of one's physical form—how could they care about others' opinions? Transcendent and solitary, unbound and unfettered, coming and going alone—what could hinder them? Ordinary people are the opposite: their inner and outer boundaries remain unclear, distinctions between honor and disgrace obscured. They consider fame as nobility and obscurity as baseness, constantly anxious about others' perceptions, perpetually fearful of authority, punishment, ghosts and spirits, or public opinion. Their internal organs become congested, their physical forms constrained, toiling through life drifting with the current—how pitiful! Why not consider this: My being myself requires no external validation. Truly recognizing one's original appearance—this alone is essential.

This scripture describes several groups of people with distinct personalities and ways of interacting with the world, revealing how the myriad manifestations of human nature ultimately return to the Dao (the Way).

The first group consists of Mo Chi (arrogant), Dan Zhi (timid), Tan Xuan (slow-witted), and Bie Fu (impatient). Though they have lived together for years, they remain ignorant of each other’s true nature, each convinced of their own superior wisdom. The second group includes Qiao Hui (sly), Yu Zhi (simple and honest), An Zhuo (stubborn), and Pian Pi (obsequious). Despite their long association, they never share their methods of navigating life, each believing their own skills to be the most refined. The third group comprises Xiao Ya (ostentatious), Qing Lu (frank), Jiao Ji (taciturn), and Ling Sui (eloquent). Though they have coexisted for years, they fail to understand one another, each certain their talents stand above the rest. The fourth group consists of Mian Yan (indecisive), Zhui Wei (evasive), Yong Gan (bold), and Qie Yi (timid and suspicious). Though they have spent years together, they never criticize each other, each convinced their conduct is without fault.

There are also Duo Ou (conformist), Zi Zhuan (self-willed), Cheng Quan (power-hungry), and Zhi Li (solitary) who, despite their long association, never support one another, each believing their timing is most opportune. Though their appearances and dispositions differ, they all ultimately return to the Dao—such is the working of fate.

Commentary explains: Mo Chi and Dan Zhi represent the contrast between arrogance and fear; Tan Xuan and Bie Fu embody slowness and impatience; Qiao Hui and Yu Zhi illustrate cunning versus guilelessness; An Zhuo and Pian Pi show the difference between stubbornness and flattery. Xiao Ya and Qing Lu exemplify ostentation and candor; Jiao Ji and Ling Sui contrast reticence with eloquence. Mian Yan and Zhui Wei include those who struggle with clarity and those who relish complication; Yong Gan and Qie Yi encompass those who embrace boldness and those who cling to fear.

Duo Ou are those who drift with the current; Zi Zhuan are the obstinate and self-assured; Cheng Quan are those who exploit power; Zhi Li are the lone wolves. Since the Dao became fragmented, people have been mired in disputes over right and wrong, profit and loss, their temperaments too numerous to fully describe. The Liezi here merely lists twenty of the most typical dispositions—those who believe themselves wisest, most skillful, most talented, or most faultless in conduct. All are ultimately embraced by the Dao.

This scripture elucidates how subjective biases often obscure the perception of reality's essence.

Those who pride themselves on cleverness deem themselves successful; those who maintain proper conduct believe themselves faultless; those who follow trends consider themselves perfectly adapted. Each insists on their own correctness while judging others as mistaken, thus spending their entire lives confined within personal perspectives. Though worldly attitudes vary endlessly, upon examination we find that judgments of right/wrong and measures of success/failure are but fragments of existence—beauty and ugliness, good and bad ultimately dissolve into nothingness. Though all things follow the Dao's principles and return to destiny's embrace, people neither comprehend the Dao nor trust destiny. Relying instead on petty cunning, clinging stubbornly to personal views while pursuing selfish interests, they forget the universal principles governing all under heaven. Such individuals resemble earthworms pitying snakes or wind commiserating with eyes—how could they possibly be considered the pinnacle of creation?

Only those who truly embody the Great Dao and understand destiny can maintain focused awareness while remaining physically at ease. With focused awareness, one abandons trivial cleverness; with physical ease, one disregards external appearances. Such persons transcend all superficial distinctions, wandering freely between heaven and earth. Gazing down upon the masses trapped in delusion, how could they not feel profound sorrow?

What appears as success is not true success; what seems like failure is not genuine failure. Delusion arises precisely within this realm of "appearances." Those who perceive only surfaces without grasping the essence will tremble before external misfortunes yet rejoice over internal blessings. Human actions align with circumstance's flow, yet even wisdom cannot fully fathom their subtlety.

The Dao's principles are supremely refined yet perfectly evident. Before events manifest, their omens are minute—yet their underlying patterns shine most clearly. The wise perceive these signs in their nascence, while ordinary people remain blind even to accomplished facts. If even manifest realities escape comprehension, how much more elusive are the subtle transformations between success and failure? So-called "apparent success" or "seeming failure" are ultimately illusions—the principles governing triumph and defeat were predetermined before events took form. Though we speak of delusion arising from appearances, it is delusion itself that creates these appearances. Precisely because people cannot see the truth behind outcomes, they become ensnared by surfaces. Even when seemingly successful, they dare not feel secure, trembling lest they lose their gains; when apparently failing, they refuse acceptance, clinging to desperate hopes. How could such individuals avoid fearing external calamities or craving internal favors?

The Dao's movement is neither hurried nor delayed: arriving without summons, departing without farewell. Those who understand this remain unmoved whether storing or expending, preserving or discarding—never exhausting their treasures yet never hoarding possessions. The moon does not hurry through its phases; the butterfly does not resent its transformations. Thus the perfected person's actions appear as non-action (Wuwei), their achievements as non-striving. They neither anticipate events nor cling to outcomes, for they know that what seems like gain may conceal loss, and apparent loss may harbor gain. The sage embraces both without preference, recognizing them as two expressions of one reality.

One who remains clear-headed in moments of danger understands that success and failure are but natural outcomes of unfolding events. They regard fortune and misfortune with the same equanimity as the alternation of day and night or the cycling of seasons. Seeing the emergence of things, they foresee their decline; observing the past, they anticipate the future. Why should such a person burden the process with emotions of worry or joy? Those who reach this state have transcended ordinary wisdom and approach the Dao (the Way). Not even the great matters of life and death can shake their hearts—how much less could trivial concerns of gain and loss?

A true believer in destiny makes no distinction between self and others. If one insists on such distinctions, they might as well blind their eyes, stop their ears, turn their back to a cliff, and face a ravine—yet even then they would not stumble. Thus, life and death are determined by destiny, wealth and poverty arranged by circumstance. Those who lament early death do not understand destiny; those who resent poverty do not comprehend circumstance. To face death without fear and endure poverty without sorrow—this is the mark of one who truly follows destiny and accepts circumstance.

Take the ancient Daoist practitioner Shang Qiu Kai, who dared to tread through fire and water yet remained unharmed. His mind was unified, and he believed nothing in the world could harm him. This exemplifies the non-discriminating mind of a true believer in destiny. Those who do not trust destiny cling to the self—once the concept of "I" arises, distinctions of right and wrong follow, and with them come preferences and aversions. These preferences and aversions breed worry and joy, and even without literally turning one’s back to a cliff, one constantly fears stumbling. Those who blind and deafen themselves do not truly shut out perception; they merely temporarily close their senses, just as one who truly turns away from danger does not fall. This is why those who understand destiny and accept circumstance face death without fear and endure poverty without sorrow.

The clever are always calculating gains and losses, weighing the real and illusory, and analyzing human emotions—yet their successes and failures often align with expectations. The dull, on the other hand, do not measure profit and loss, do not weigh reality and illusion, do not scrutinize human feelings—and their outcomes are the same. What difference does it make, then, whether one calculates or not, whether one weighs or not? Only by completely relinquishing the calculating mind—neither deliberately calculating nor deliberately refraining—can one preserve their nature without losing their true self. This is not a forced preservation, nor an intentional avoidance of loss. Everything happens naturally—preservation, decline, loss—all in accordance with the Way.

This passage explains: calculating gains and losses, weighing reality and illusion, and analyzing human emotions—these are the ways of the clever. The dull do the opposite. Yet cleverness does not guarantee correctness, nor does dullness ensure failure.

These two stories both exemplify the Daoist philosophy of "following nature's course."

The first story explores the dialectical relationship between wisdom and foolishness. True great wisdom doesn't lie in petty calculations or deliberate displays, but rather in achieving this state: neither completely relying on cleverness nor intentionally rejecting wisdom; using wisdom without becoming constrained by it. Those who reach this realm can transcend gains and losses, maintain their complete innate nature, and spontaneously align with the Dao (the Way) of heaven.

The second story recounts an anecdote about Duke Jing of Qi. While sightseeing at Mount Niu, the duke suddenly wept with melancholy as he gazed upon the capital's beautiful scenery, fearing he would lose all this after death. Ministers Kong and Liangqiu joined in weeping, while only Yanzi laughed nearby. Yanzi pointed out: if wise rulers could reign forever, then Duke Tai and Duke Huan would have ruled eternally long ago; if courageous rulers could reign forever, Duke Zhuang and Duke Ling wouldn't have passed away either. Throughout history, rulers have taken turns ascending and departing the throne—yet now Duke Jing weeps over this, which shows lack of benevolence. Hearing this, the ashamed duke punished himself with wine and also penalized the two flattering ministers.

Note on commentary: The "penalty wine" (fajue) mentioned here holds special significance in Daoist health cultivation, believing moderate drinking can nourish primordial qi (vital energy). Duke Jing grieved because he was attached to external things and didn't understand the Dao of following nature's course. Only after hearing Yanzi's words did he realize his lack of self-cultivation, hence using wine for self-regulation.

The final mention of Wei country's Dongmen Wu—who showed no sorrow after his son's death—demonstrates the Daoist concept of "natural birth and death" (the incomplete original text prevents detailed explanation of this dialogue with his steward).

Dongmen Wu's son passed away, yet he showed no grief. When asked why, he replied, "Originally I had no son. When I was without a son, I felt no sorrow. Now that my son is gone, it's just like the time before I had him—why should I grieve?"

This story raises discussion about the state of "forgetting emotions" (wangqing). Only the enlightened sages of ancient times could truly transcend emotions completely. Ordinary people who pretend to be carefree without attaining this state are merely displaying emotional numbness. If one were truly without emotions, could they still be considered human? Even Confucius, a sage, wept bitterly when his disciple Yan Hui died, proving that even sages cannot entirely escape human emotions. So, was Dongmen Wu's behavior truly an achievement of the "forgetting emotions" state?

The text then explores the relationship between "effort" (li) and "destiny" (ming): Farmers must till the land according to the seasons, merchants pursue profit, craftsmen hone their skills, and officials seek power—these are all natural outcomes of their circumstances. Yet farmers face droughts and floods, merchants experience gains and losses, craftsmen meet with success or failure, and officials encounter smooth or rough careers—these are the workings of destiny.

This forms the core philosophy of the "Effort and Destiny" chapter in the Liezi. While emphasizing destiny's role in human life, the author doesn't advocate abandoning personal effort. Mencius believed that while benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom are innate (ming), they can be perfected through cultivation (xing). Though sensory desires are natural tendencies (xing), they must still be governed by moral principles (ming). Human effort can modify certain innate tendencies, yet destiny contains unalterable elements. Fate and human nature interact, jointly determining longevity, success, nobility, and wealth.

Though Liezi stresses destiny's power, he doesn't advocate complete passivity. The key lies in not being troubled by external circumstances like lifespan or social status, maintaining autonomy while submitting to heaven's will. From the perspective of the Dao, all human actions are ultimately part of destiny—yet people should still strive to their fullest within destiny's framework.

This passage elucidates the principle of "ming" (destiny, the natural order of things). Whether through active striving or wuwei (non-action), success or failure ultimately stems from the arrangements of destiny. The length of one's life, the smoothness or adversity of circumstances, one's social status, and the abundance of wealth all arise naturally, without deliberate manipulation by external forces. Since everything unfolds according to its inherent nature, neither longevity nor brevity of life should be overly dwelled upon, nor should favorable or unfavorable circumstances provoke excessive joy or sorrow.

Those who truly understand destiny accept all things with equanimity. Even a sage like Confucius, despite his extraordinary gifts, was still subject to the constraints of fate: expelled from the state of Lu, endangered by the felling of trees in Song, trapped in hardship between Shang and Zhou, and besieged between Chen and Cai—ultimately never gaining the full trust of rulers. Yet he cultivated himself, maintaining joy through both fortune and adversity, because he recognized that success and failure, gain and loss, were never truly within his control.

Ordinary people often fail to grasp this truth, believing instead that personal intelligence and effort can alter destiny. For instance, Bao Shuya initially treated Guan Zhong with great kindness, only to be later slighted by him; Xi Peng at first looked down on Guan Zhong but later came to esteem him highly. Deng Xi interfered with Zichan's governance, and though Zichan adopted Deng Xi's penal methods, Deng Xi ultimately met execution. What appear to be deliberate human choices are, in fact, manifestations of destiny. Regrettably, these individuals mistakenly believed their cleverness could dictate outcomes, unaware of the inherent natural principles at work.

Thus, the hegemonic achievements of Duke Huan of Qi and Duke Wen of Jin were dismissed by Confucius, and even Zichan's benevolent governance drew his criticism. Figures like Ji Liang, who revered sacrificial rites and divine healers, remained unshaken in their convictions even in matters of life and death; Duke Jing of Qi wept inexplicably at the sight of his capital, revealing his inability to discern even basic cause and effect. These are all expressions of destiny—and the difference between understanding and not understanding this principle lies precisely here.