《沖虛至德真經四解》Vol. 11

In the region of Puze in the state of Zheng, there were many virtuous sages—individuals of lofty De (Virtue) who lived in reclusion. Meanwhile, the area of Dongli produced numerous talented officials skilled in governance and state affairs. Lu Zhongxuan explains: those who cultivate sublime De are called "worthy" (xian), while those proficient in administration and law are called "talented" (cai).

Among Puze’s recluses was a man named Bo Fengzi (here, "yi" refers to disciples). While passing through Dongli, he encountered Deng Xi, a renowned debater of Zheng famed for his paradoxical arguments, which none could refute. Deng Xi had once composed the Bamboo Annals for the statesman Zichan. Glancing back at his disciples with a smile, Deng Xi said, "Shall I tease this visitor a little?" (In ancient times, playful mockery was called "wunong.") His disciples eagerly agreed.

Deng Xi asked Bo Fengzi, "Do you understand the principle of 'nourishing nourishment'?" (Lu Zhongxuan notes: Zhang Zhan interprets the first "yang" as "to uplift" and the second as "itching.") He then elaborated: "Those who can only love and nurture others but fail to sustain themselves are akin to pigs and dogs. Only those who nurture others for their own use possess human capability. Your kind—well-fed, clothed, and living in comfort—owe it all to the rulers’ efforts." Here, he subtly mocked Bo Fengzi as livestock while elevating himself as the ruler. He added, "Living in groups by age, penned like animals—how are you any different from pigs and dogs?" Bo Fengzi remained silent—not out of inability to retort, but from disdain for such provocation.

At this, one of Bo Fengzi’s attendants stepped forward and said, "Have you not heard, sir, of Qi and Lu’s many master artisans? Some excel at construction, others at metallurgy; some are virtuosos of music, others masters of calligraphy; some command armies, others preside over rituals. Yet despite their talents, none become chancellor—for each specializes, and thus each lacks. When skill is too refined, it creates gaps; when abilities are equal, none can lead. Thus, those who assign posts may lack expertise, those who employ talent may lack capability, and the truly skilled often go unused."

This passage explores the fundamental distinction between leadership and individual capability through a dialogic format. In the debate between Deng Xi (a representative figure of the School of Names during the Spring and Autumn period) and Fu Gu and Xiahou Xuan (eminent scholars of the Three Kingdoms era), Deng Xi posits that the key to achieving merit and fame lies in one's aspirations rather than mere knowledge. Fu Gu and others counter that knowledge is the true foundation, just as lush branches and leaves cannot exist without solid roots.

The text suggests that true practitioners of the Dao excel at harnessing the unique strengths of various talents, much like assigning chickens, dogs, oxen, and horses their respective roles, or ensuring scholars, farmers, artisans, and merchants each fulfill their proper functions. This kind of governance cannot be achieved through personal dominance, and the passage criticizes those who judge superficially and attempt to "block a chariot with a mantis' arm" as overestimating their capabilities.

Using bodily organs as metaphors, the author illustrates that while ears, eyes, nose, and mouth each have specialized functions, they are ultimately governed by the "true sovereign" (referring to the original spirit [Shen] that rules body and mind). Just as governing a state requires coordinating diverse affairs like construction, metalwork, music, literature, military operations, and ancestral rites, an overemphasis on utilitarian skills while pursuing comprehensive abilities may lead to the loss of fundamental principles. The crux lies in wuwei (non-action)—by not forcing action, one can accomplish all things, allowing those in positions not to flaunt their wisdom and those being utilized not to boast of their abilities. This represents the true art of governance.

Deng Xi failed to comprehend this principle, taking pride in his administrative skills, which earned him the ridicule of true masters who deeply understood the Dao (the Way). The fictional enlightened figure Bo Fengzi's silent non-response, conversely, demonstrates the higher realm of "wordless debate." The passage concludes by distinguishing between "virtue" (De) as an ethical evaluation and "talent" as a measure of capability, implying that genuine leadership requires both qualities.

This passage recounts two stories about Bofengzi and Gongyibo, revealing the wisdom of Daoist "Wuwei" (non-action).

Bofengzi had a disciple named Deng Xi, who excelled in sophistry, always offering ambiguous arguments and endless rhetoric. Bofengzi saw this as the limitation of debaters and thus responded with the method of "nurturing without contention." The so-called "nurturing without contention" means avoiding direct argumentation. As the Daoist saying goes: "The clever are always toiling, the wise are always worrying, while those who practice Wuwei have no desires—they eat their fill and wander freely." Those who truly comprehend the Dao (the Way) abandon cleverness and return to the state of Wuwei. They eat when it's time to eat, rest when it's time to rest, never acting with deliberate effort. Bofengzi used this seemingly simple, almost animal-like way of living to counter Deng Xi's sophistry.

In the lands of Qi and Lu, there were many skilled craftsmen: artisans adept at working with wood, earth, metal, and leather; performers proficient in music, calligraphy, and mathematics; generals skilled in military strategy; and ritual masters versed in temple ceremonies. Each had their own expertise, yet none could master all arts. This illustrates the principle that "the clever are always toiling, the wise are always worrying." The world abounds with talented individuals, each specializing in their own field, much like the eyes, ears, nose, and mouth each have their functions but cannot interchange. Only the sage can perceive the complete truth of heaven and earth and understand the great Dao of the ancients. Thus, the sage does not seek to know what everyone knows but excels at employing those who do; they do not strive to do what everyone can do but excel at utilizing those who can. Why should they, like ordinary people, exhaust themselves exchanging skills all day? This is what Laozi meant by "skillfully employing the strengths of others."

The other story tells of Gongyibo, renowned for his great strength. Tangxi Gong recommended him to King Xuan of Zhou, who then invited him with great ceremony. Yet when Gongyibo arrived, he appeared as frail as a scholar. The king, puzzled, asked, "How strong are you, really?" Gongyibo replied, "My strength is enough to break the leg of a spring grasshopper and surpass the wing of an autumn cicada." The king grew angry: "I can tear apart rhinoceros hide and hold back nine oxen by their tails, yet I still feel my strength is insufficient. How can you, who can only handle grasshoppers and cicadas, be famous for your strength?" Gongyibo sighed deeply and said, "Your Majesty asks well. My teacher, Shangqiuzi, possessed strength unmatched in the world, yet his own family didn’t know it—because he never used brute force unnecessarily."

Both stories illustrate the same point: true wisdom lies not in flaunting strength or cleverness but in understanding the subtle power of Wuwei. Like Shangqiuzi, who possessed unparalleled strength yet never showed it off, or Bofengzi, who countered complex sophistry with the simplest way of living, Daoism values not superficial ability but inner cultivation.

This passage expounds the Daoist wisdom of "overcoming hardness with softness" in navigating life. Its core message reveals that truly profound individuals often appear effortless because they understand the principle of following natural tendencies.

By employing the gentlest methods to master all things, one encounters no resistance—hence observers cannot perceive their true skill. Just as when a minister serves his ruler to perfection, he may remind the sovereign: Ordinary people constantly seek to see what others cannot see, pursue what others cannot obtain, and accomplish what others cannot achieve; whereas the wise do precisely the opposite, deliberately choosing the simplest paths.

While the masses chase superficial rewards like fame and wealth, those who embody the Dao (adepts of the Way) wander freely in realms others neglect, thereby becoming invincible. It resembles how those learning to observe begin with the firewood cart before their eyes, or how students of listening start with resonant bell tones—when inner comprehension is achieved, external challenges cease to feel difficult. As the ancients said, "One who can effortlessly lift autumn down can also hear thunderclaps"—this illustrates the principle.

True masters of the Dao remain obscure in reputation, for the supreme Way is profoundly simple, and mystical skill leaves no visible traces. Those adept at nurturing life first cultivate their spirit (Shen); when spiritual abundance is attained, the power of Wuwei (non-action) naturally manifests, and all external matters become accessible. This state arises from inner refinement, imperceptible to outsiders.

The text observes: When a minister's fame spreads among feudal lords, it actually violates the teaching of "concealing one's clumsiness" passed down by masters. Yet compared to those who flaunt brute strength, those who skillfully employ subtle force without revealing their edge represent higher wisdom. Like Zhuangzi's metaphor of "hiding mountains in lakes and boats in gullies"—when truly powerful individuals relocate them at midnight, the ignorant remain completely unaware. King Xuan mistakenly thought this referred to physical strength, when in fact it describes the transformative power of the great Dao.

The passage concludes by noting that accumulating countless small victories into great triumph is a state only sages can attain. This resembles how water (the softest substance) wears through stone—appearing gentle yet conquering all hardness without resistance.

This passage speaks of how true strength lies not in brute force, but in the wisdom of "non-exertion" (wuli). Those who possess genuine power are the ones who learn what ordinary people cannot grasp, perceive what common eyes cannot see, and undertake what most would never attempt. When a person can relinquish preconceived knowledge and reach the state of "no-seeing" (wujian), they discern what lies in the shadows; when they abandon habitual hearing and attain "no-hearing" (wuwen), they perceive the sound within silence. True Virtue (De) remains unmanifested—deliberately flaunting fame runs counter to the teachings of the Dao (Dao).

Fan Yingyuan explains: Breaking a spring grasshopper’s leg or tearing an autumn cicada’s wing may seem feeble, yet this exemplifies the subtle function of the soft and weak; rending rhinoceros hide or dragging nine oxen by their tails may appear mighty, but such hardness leads only to death. The eternal way to prevail in the world is through softness, while the path to constant defeat lies in rigidity. Gongyi Bo’s master possessed unparalleled strength yet remained unknown to all—this is because he embodied the enduring Way of victory while never resorting to brute force.

The principle of the world is this: Only by seeing what others cannot see can one discover what eludes ordinary perception; only by doing what others will not do can one attain what most never obtain. Just as learning vision does not require first discerning a cartload of firewood, and cultivating hearing need not begin with perceiving the strike of a bell, one must start with what is easy and progress step by step. Gongyi Bo became renowned among feudal lords for his strength, seemingly contradicting his master’s teaching—yet he understood the wisdom of applying power, unlike those who rely on forceful contention and inevitably meet defeat. Zhuangzi said: Those who truly wield strength do so by leveraging the wisdom of "non-exertion." This is like Shangqiuzi (a legendary sage), who never spoke of using force yet grasped the essence of power more profoundly than even Gongyi Bo.

Prince Mou of Zhongshan was a virtuous nobleman from the State of Wei. As the son of Marquis Wen of Wei, he authored four treatises and was later regarded as a Daoist figure. When Wei conquered the Zhongshan region, this fiefdom was bestowed upon Prince Mou, earning him the title "Prince Mou of Zhongshan."

This prince enjoyed befriending worthy scholars while showing little interest in state affairs, particularly admiring Gongsun Long (a famous debater from Zhao during the Warring States period). Confucian scholars like Yuezheng Ziyu mocked him for this. Prince Mou retorted: "Why do you ridicule my admiration for Gongsun Long?" Ziyu replied: "This Gongsun Long acts without masterly guidance, studies without like-minded companions, and shows no reverence for ancient sages. Though eloquent, his arguments defy reason; his thoughts wander without doctrinal anchor, indulging in novel yet empty assertions. He seeks only to bewilder minds and refute others - no different from another sophist like Han Tan."

Prince Mou's countenance darkened: "How dare you slander Gongsun Long so? Cite concrete examples." Ziyu then illustrated: "I mock how he deceived Kong Chuan (a descendant of Confucius). Gongsun Long claimed that a truly skilled archer could make each subsequent arrow's tail connect with the previous arrow's head when firing continuously. When the first arrow hits the bullseye, the next arrow's tail remains on the bowstring, appearing as a single unbroken shaft."

(Note: This dialogue reveals the contrasting Warring States attitudes toward logicians between Confucian and Daoist schools. As a Daoist figure, Prince Mou appreciated dialectical wisdom, while Confucian scholars criticized the Logicians' theories as empty sophistry. The "connected arrows" analogy was Gongsun Long's famous metaphor for his "Separation of Hardness and Whiteness" logical theory.)

The text describes the extraordinary archery skills of master archers and related philosophical discussions.

When these divine archers shoot, the next arrow strikes the tail of the previous one the moment it hits the target, appearing as if they form a continuous line. Kong Chuan was astonished upon witnessing this, but Yang Youji (also known as Long) remarked that this was not yet the most refined technique. Hong Chao, a disciple of Pang Meng, once grew angry with his wife and shot at her eye using the legendary "Wuhao" bow of the Yellow Emperor and fine arrows from Qi, fletched with feathers from Wei. When the arrow reached her eye, she did not even blink—it simply fell lightly to the ground without stirring a speck of dust. This demonstrates perfect control over the arrow's force, akin to how a powerful crossbow's bolt, by the end of its flight, cannot even pierce the thinnest silk.

Gongzi Mou said that the words of the wise are inherently beyond the comprehension of the foolish. Master archers can align the tip of the next arrow precisely with the tail of the previous one, maintaining the same force and angle, ensuring unerring accuracy. It is like someone who always rolls the highest number in dice—Wang Yan (Yifu) remarked that there was nothing mystical about it; it was simply a matter of applying the same technique every time.

A true master of archery can precisely judge the force of the bow and the distance, where hitting the mark depends entirely on the harmony of mind and hand. Even the clumsiest person, blindfolded, could achieve the same if they grasped the principle—the arrow would exhaust its force at the right moment, its depth controlled by distance. Just as Pao Ding carved an ox with effortless precision or the artisan Shi wielded his axe with mastery, excelling in a craft does not require sagehood; perfecting a single path can lead to the ultimate attainment.

Finally, Lu Zi concluded that maintaining the same force in every shot ensures perfect accuracy. When the arrow reaches its target, its force is spent, and thus it falls without disturbing the dust. All of this serves as a discourse on the principle of mastering a skill to its highest possible level.

This passage examines several philosophical propositions by Gongsun Long (a representative figure of the School of Names during the Warring States period), interpreted through the commentaries of Yue Zhengziyu and Lu Zhongxuan:

The discussion on "intention is not the true mind" suggests that the authentic mind should be quiescent and thought-free. Once conceptual thinking arises, the essential nature of mind is lost. Ordinary people typically notice only surface-level thoughts while failing to recognize the existence of fundamental mind.

The explanation of "pointing never reaches" reveals that when pointing at objects with a finger, one can never truly touch their essence. Only by relinquishing subjective cognition can one achieve the state of unity between self and object. Like Hui Shi's statement "pointing cannot reach," any concrete indication fails to attain ultimate truth.

Regarding "things are inexhaustible" in the material world, objects appear infinitely divisible. Just as a foot-long stick halved daily could theoretically divide endlessly, this demonstrates that the nature of things is limitlessly divisible - true "being" can never be exhausted.

The interpretation of "shadows don't move" explains that shadows are produced by light - when the light source remains stationary, shadows are actually continuously regenerated. All things undergo imperceptible transformations, just as a flying bird's seemingly still shadow is in fact a succession of new shadows appearing consecutively.

Concerning "a hair can pull a thousand jun" - a fine strand of hair can haul immense weight because the force distribution is perfectly balanced. This illustrates that when complete equilibrium is achieved, seemingly fragile things can generate tremendous power, much like accumulated feathers reaching sufficient quantity can break a cart axle.

These discussions showcase Daoist contemplation on the essence of phenomena, emphasizing the importance of transcending superficial appearances to recognize eternal truths. Through dialectical analysis of everyday occurrences, they reveal the profound principles of "ultimate equilibrium" and "inexhaustibility" underlying all things.

This passage primarily discusses several famous propositions put forth by Gongsun Long of the School of Names (an ancient Chinese logical school), presenting intellectual confrontations of that era through dialogic form.

Regarding the proposition "A white horse is not a horse," the explanation states: whiteness describes color while horse describes physical form—these belong to different conceptual categories. The School of Names argued that "white horse" cannot be simplistically equated with "horse," highlighting the distinction between an object's attributes and its essential nature. Many contemporaries attempted to refute this view but failed to grasp its deeper significance.

The statement "An orphaned calf never had a mother" appears even more perplexing at first glance, meaning that by definition an "orphaned calf" implies the absence of a mother. Such propositions seemingly defy common sense yet reveal inherent contradictions within linguistic logic.

The debate between Prince Mou and Yuezheng Ziyu demonstrates how people entrenched in certain viewpoints often struggle to accept differing perspectives. Yuezheng Ziyu even employed crude analogies ("suppose it emerged from another orifice") to mock his opponent, causing Prince Mou to withdraw after prolonged silence—illustrating how rational discourse becomes untenable when emotions override reason.

These propositions, while appearing counterintuitive, fundamentally explore the relationship between names (concepts) and reality (substance). Through such dialectical exercises, the School of Names exposed logical paradoxes embedded in everyday language, akin to Zeno's paradoxes in ancient Greece. The commentator Lu's closing observation notes how emotional escalation inevitably terminates productive philosophical discussion.

This passage discusses two core ideas: first, it emphasizes the importance of having proper teachers and companions in learning, and second, it critiques the hollow nature of sophistry.

The text begins by stating that political and moral education must rely on proper transmission from teachers, as solitary study tends to lead to bias. Just as excessive speech often results in running out of words, it is better to maintain the Middle Way. Those who are skilled in debate often deviate from this principle, and while various schools of thought and techniques each have their uses, boundless arguments ultimately lack foundation. The analogy of archery is used: a true master archer aims for precision, such as "the next arrow splitting the tail of the previous one," or the unflinching composure to not blink even when an arrow flies right before their eyes—this is the true essence of archery.

Next, it sharply criticizes the sophistry of figures like Gongsun Long (a logician of the School of Names). Though they could out-argue others with propositions like "separating hardness from whiteness" or "uniting similarity and difference" (classical debating topics of the School of Names), they failed to win genuine conviction. Just as shadows do not move on their own but are merely the result of shifting objects, or how a single strand of hair can pull a thousand jun (a unit of weight) through accumulated subtle force, these debates may seem clever but are ultimately tricks meant to confuse the mind.

The text mentions critiques from Zhongshan Gongzi Mou (a Warring States period thinker) and Xunzi (a Confucian scholar) against Gongsun Long’s theories. Gongsun Long lacked proper teachers in his conduct, had no peers in his studies, and his words were grandiose yet impractical. His fondness for novelty and absurd claims served only to unsettle others’ minds and silence their arguments. His boasts—like the archery feat of "the next arrow splitting the tail of the previous one" or the legendary archer Hong Chao not flinching when an arrow flew before his eyes—were nothing but empty sophistry.

Through the metaphor of archery, this passage reveals that true skill lies in grasping fundamental principles, not in superficial tricks. At the same time, it warns later generations to be wary of flashy but insubstantial sophistry and to pursue genuine learning and self-cultivation.

This passage presents two core stories illustrating Daoist philosophy.

First is the debate techniques of Gongsun Long, a representative of the School of Names. His arguments appear ingenious, like wind whistling through various holes to produce different sounds, yet ultimately lack substantive meaning. Prince Mou initially admired Gongsun Long's talent, but Zhuangzi used the metaphor of "a frog at the bottom of a well" to reveal how such sophistry might impress at first but cannot withstand deeper scrutiny.

The second story recounts Emperor Yao's governance. After ruling for fifty years, Yao remained uncertain whether his people truly supported him - precisely because he had attained the state of "governing through Dao (the Way)." True governance means allowing all things to develop naturally, without deliberately pursuing the reputation of being a ruler. When Yao traveled incognito, he heard children singing an ancient folk song: "Establish our thriving people, never violating your ultimate principle" - making him realize that the highest form of leadership follows nature's course rather than using artificial knowledge to alter the inherent nature of things.

Finally, Yao abdicated in favor of Shun, embodying the Daoist principle of "withdrawing after success is achieved." True sages never cling to power. Like heaven and earth operating the four seasons and sustaining all things, they practice Wuwei (non-action). When governing, they neither deliberately display authority nor fear losing power, completely aligning with natural laws and resolving potential problems before they even arise.

All things flourish and accomplish their work, then naturally withdraw—this is the manifestation of selflessness. The truly selfless neither begrudge relinquishing high positions nor refuse to accept great responsibilities.

When Emperor Yao governed the world, he neither felt he possessed anything nor that he ruled over others. Precisely because he did not feel he held power, he was unconcerned whether the world was at peace; precisely because he did not feel he ruled others, he cared not whether the multitudes revered him. When questioned by his close attendants, court officials, or the common folk in the countryside, all replied they knew nothing of these matters—such was the breadth of Emperor Yao's virtue, so vast that the people could not praise it in words.

"To nourish the multitudes, none fails to align with the Dao" speaks of a people well-fed and content, each abiding by their natural destiny. "Unaware and unknowing" describes how, when the people are prosperous, they naturally follow the principles of Heaven. That the people take such a state for granted—this is the highest art of governance.

Fan's commentary states: Those who deliberately seek to govern may fail to rule well, while only those who do not treat the world as their private possession can truly govern. Without striving to stand apart, people will naturally revere them sincerely. We hear of "preserving the world through tolerance," but never of "governing the world"—whether governing or not, the mind remains unattached. When a noble man must govern the world, he invariably takes non-action (Wuwei) as his foundation. The divine man dislikes crowds, for where people gather, contention arises—whether revered or not, the mind remains unattached. The world gladly supports such a ruler without weariness, for this reverence arises from an irrepressible sincerity within.

Thus, though Yao ruled for fifty years, he knew not whether the world was at peace or whether the people revered him. The people lived naturally and freely, unaware of the emperor's authority. Asked why this was so, his attendants, officials, and common folk could not explain—yet it was simply so. Only upon hearing the children's song in Kangqu—"To nourish the multitudes, none fails to align with the Dao; unaware and unknowing, they follow Heaven's decree"—did he understand: to nurture the people in perfect accord with the Dao, complying with Heaven's will without conscious effort—is this not the highest form of governance, one that leaves no trace?

The "Si Wen" chapter praises Hou Ji with the line "To nourish the multitudes, none fails to align with the Dao," while the "Huang Yi" chapter extols King Wen with "unaware and unknowing, they follow Heaven's decree." Liezi cites these verses in praise of Emperor Yao, directly attributing them to "ancient poetry." When Yao summoned Shun to his court and abdicated the throne to him, he exemplified the ideal of withdrawing after achieving his work.

The essence of Yao and Shun's abdication lies in following nature's course. Shun accepted the imperial throne without refusal because the time was ripe and the response was natural. When Yao ruled as emperor, he considered magnificent palaces contrary to his true heart; when Shun ruled, he possessed the world yet never claimed it as his own. Their transfer of power followed inherent natural patterns. Yet historical records describe Yao subjecting Shun to various tests, and Shun receiving Yao's abdication due to his widely recognized virtue (De) — but were these surface formalities truly the source of their greatness?

Guan Yinxi (Laozi's disciple) said: Those with profound cultivation never cling to personal views; their minds are empty and unattached — why would they need to forcibly grasp anything? All phenomena naturally reveal their essence, like water flowing with the terrain (nourishing below yet evaporating upward), still as a mirror (reflecting all without retaining traces), responding to external things like an echo (answering naturally without active sound). This is the highest state of nurturing the spirit (Shen).

The Dao (the Way) is like all things themselves: things may deviate from the Dao, but the Dao never abandons them. Those aligned with the Dao naturally comprehend it. Truly enlightened individuals need not strain to hear with ears, see with eyes, force with strength, or scheme with cunning. Only by relinquishing such artificial efforts can one merge with the Dao. Forcing sensory and intellectual pursuit of the Dao only leads further astray.

To reach this state, one must release attachment to the body, discard cleverness and artifice, and empty the mind to nurture the primordial spirit (Shen, innate spirituality). Thus one naturally realizes the Dao. Observe how it seems ahead yet suddenly appears behind; when employed, it fills heaven and earth; when unused, none know where it hides — how could the Dao have distinctions like front and back, more and less? It simply manifests according to need. This method of nurturing the spirit is profoundly subtle — neither substantial nor void. Those who value it transcend all things; those who disregard it never contend with creation.

This scripture explores how the essential key to cultivating the Dao lies in transcending attachment to both "intentional pursuit" (youxin) and "unconscious neglect" (wuxin), thereby attaining a state of natural harmony with the Dao.

If practitioners deliberately strive for attainment (youxin), they will instead distance themselves from the great Dao; if they completely abandon effort (wuxin), they will likewise struggle to approach the truth. Genuine cultivation of the Dao requires transcending these two extremes—neither clinging to "being" nor fixating on "non-being"—allowing the mind to return to its natural and authentic state. As the commentary by Lu Zhongxuan explains: The Dao itself has no distinction between near and far; such divisions arise solely from the human mind.

True wisdom emerges through silent contemplation and alignment with innate nature, while genuine ability manifests in relinquishing selfish desires and refraining from forced action. When understanding reaches its ultimate state, it surpasses emotional entanglements; when ability attains perfection, it returns to wuwei (non-action).

The scripture employs vivid metaphors to illustrate this: Mechanical passivity, like piling up clods of earth, may appear free of selfish intent, yet it does not embody the true principle of Daoist cultivation. Authentic sages emulate the movement of the Dao—adapting like water to its surroundings, reflecting reality like a mirror, and responding naturally like an echo. In action, they follow the patterns of phenomena; in stillness, they preserve their original essence; in response, they act in accordance with circumstance.

The crucial point is this: The Dao constantly responds to all things yet never contrives, while humans often distance themselves from it through their own doing. Thus, practitioners should relinquish forced striving, allowing the mind to become as clear as still water or a polished mirror—thereby naturally merging with the Dao.

This scripture explores the essential characteristics of the Dao (the Way) and methods for its realization. The core teaching is that the true Dao cannot be grasped through sensory perception or intellectual reasoning.

It first clarifies that the Dao permeates all things yet remains unmanifest. You cannot hear it with ears, because what's audible cannot be the true Dao; you cannot see it with eyes, because what's visible equally fails to represent the genuine Dao. The Yellow Emperor (an ancient sage revered in Daoism) taught that realizing the Dao requires neither specific locations nor formalities, nor deliberate planning. Those who truly understand the Dao neither strain in forced pursuit nor scheme with cunning calculation.

Visible forms and audible names cannot reflect the Dao's true state. Attempting to pursue the Dao through sensory observation or intellectual analysis proves futile. The Dao seems ahead yet suddenly appears behind, demonstrating its immeasurable nature; it fills heaven and earth yet remains ungraspable, showing its uncontrollable quality. Those who attain the Dao-state must practice "forgetting the mind" — even relinquishing the thought "I'm realizing the Dao." Whether deliberately pursuing or deliberately not pursuing, both still harbor attachment.

True attainment of the Dao occurs spontaneously, like one's original nature revealing itself without deliberate effort. This awareness transcends ordinary knowledge; such action surpasses intentional doing. If action stems from ignorance, how can it be true capability? If emotion arises from incapacity, how can it be genuine practice? The Dao appears non-active (Wuwei), yet in reality accomplishes all things. Like clods of earth and grains of sand that seem inert yet contain the mechanisms of creation.

The perfected person (one who attains the Dao) accumulates no external possessions, maintaining inner emptiness to fully manifest the Dao. They follow all things without interference, their movement and stillness resembling flowing water and clear mirrors, their responses echoing like sounds in empty valleys. Whatever state things naturally present, they let them remain so without imposing personal will. This reveals the profound mystery of how the Dao interacts with all things — the Dao never distances itself from humanity; people distance themselves from the Dao. When humans harmonize with the Dao, the Dao naturally harmonizes with them in turn.

The Dao (the Way, referring to the cosmic origin and ultimate truth) operates everywhere, neither preceding nor following. When you try to look for it ahead, it actually lies behind; when you turn to pursue it, it moves before you again. The Dao fills the entire cosmos, permeating heaven and earth, yet its beginning and boundaries remain invisible. When it withdraws, it retreats into profound obscurity without leaving the slightest trace.

Those who deliberately seek its mysteries will find the Dao distancing itself from them, for it cannot be attained through forced pursuit. Conversely, those who do not strive artificially will find the Dao drawing near, though neither can it be gained through complete passivity. Only those who awaken to it in silent contemplation can truly attain the Dao; only those who follow their inherent nature can accomplish the Great Way.

The Dao inherently exists within every person and has never been lost. Therefore, the ancient masters who attained the Dao understood its principles but refrained from boastful speech—this constitutes true wisdom that paradoxically knows all things. They possessed capability but abstained from forced action—this constitutes true ability that paradoxically accomplishes all things.

As for those artificial practices akin to piling up clods of earth or accumulating dust, obscured by the principle of wuwei (non-action, or effortless action), how could these possibly be considered the genuine Dao?