《沖虛至德真經四解》Vol. 13

This passage recounts the myth of Kuafu chasing the sun and draws parallels to Daoist cultivation principles.

Kuafu, overestimating his abilities, pursued the sun's shadow all the way to Yu Valley (also called Yu Yuan) where the sun sets. Thirsty, he drank from the Yellow River and Wei River, yet their waters couldn't quench him. When he sought the Great Marsh in the north, he died of thirst before arriving. His discarded staff, nourished by his corpse's essence, grew into the vast Deng Forest spanning thousands of li (as recorded in the Classic of Mountains and Seas where Kuafu's staff transformed after his death).

Lu Zhongxuan's commentary observes: Cultivators who stubbornly pursue the Dao through personal striving are like those chasing shadows that can never be caught. Only by aligning with natural spontaneity can one's form unite with the Dao. Kuafu's fatal pursuit left behind the Deng Forest's legacy, just as practitioners' forceful striving distances them from true realization.

Fan Zhixu further explains: Kuafu's journey to Yu Valley, his draining of rivers yet remaining unquenched, and his death en route to the marsh all stem from arrogant self-overestimation.

The Great Yu states: Between heaven and earth, within the Four Seas, the sun and moon's radiance, stars' movements, and seasonal transitions are all governed by the Grand Year Jupiter (Taisui). Divine spirits transform and generate myriad beings with varying forms and lifespans—only sages comprehend these principles. Sages harmonize with celestial patterns and earthly rhythms, allowing all creatures to fulfill their innate nature, whether destined for longevity or brief existence.

Xia Ge supplements: There exist realities beyond spirit-born transformations and Yin-Yang operations (hinting that the supreme Dao transcends these cosmological mechanisms).

Life arises of itself, forms take shape spontaneously, and radiance manifests naturally—all occurring without reliance on external conditions. Just as early demise doesn't require killing nor longevity demand forced cultivation—untimely death isn't caused by calamity, nor is long life attained through deliberate nourishment. Here one may eat without grains, clothe without silks, and travel without boats or carts—this realm completely follows the natural Dao.

What we call "spontaneity" (ziran) means absolute independence from external dependencies. Even sages cannot fully comprehend this state. The sage doesn't violate natural patterns, thus the myriad things operate by themselves—why should they forcibly interfere? These are the truths Xia Ge (ancient sage) imparted to King Tang of Shang.

Lu Chongxuan (commentator) explains: All formed things possess their particular natures—sages can comprehend the Dao by harmonizing with these inherent qualities. But consciousness (shen) is profoundly mysterious, requiring no external nourishment, sustained by nothing mundane, operating independently within nature's flow. How could sages possibly grasp this completely?

Zheng He (another commentator) observes: Regarding matters beyond the six directions (heaven-earth and four cardinal points), sages maintain an attitude of "acknowledging without discussing"—how could they investigate everything exhaustively? Those realities existing without external dependencies—who can truly understand their principles? Better to follow their natural course and let them unfold spontaneously. Forced comprehension would violate the sage's Dao.

Fan Yingyuan (commentator) concludes: Yu the Great's teachings operated within the limits of the formed world, while Xia Ge's discourse reached beyond formless extremities. Thus some say only sages comprehend the Dao, while others insist even sages cannot fully penetrate it. Yet fundamentally, what essential difference exists between the realms of form and formlessness?

Like when Yu was controlling floods and mistakenly entered another country—this describes those who journey beyond the world's edge, their perception transcending ordinary boundaries, hence the metaphor of "losing one's way." This land lies north of the Northern Sea, countless miles from the Central Plains, called "Ultimate North."

Lu Chongxuan clarifies: "Ultimate North" represents the profoundest subtlety—the realm of perfect stillness and wuwei. Here there are no spatial limits, no wind-rain-frost-dew, nor creatures like birds, beasts, insects, fish or plants. Perfectly level terrain stretches within towering mountain ranges. This mysterious silence transcends all boundaries of form—an expanse of absolute serenity. "Lofty barriers" (qiaozhi) symbolize the obstructive nature of formed things that hinder human understanding.

At the heart of the kingdom stands a mountain called Huling, shaped like an overturned earthenware jar (danyu refers to ancient pottery). Its summit features a circular opening named the Nourishing Cave, from which flows sacred springwater called shenfen (divine fountain). The mountain spring exudes an aroma more fragrant than orchids and pepper, richer than the finest wine.

Lu Chongxuan (a Tang dynasty Daoist master) explains: This mountain symbolizes the human heart, while the water represents wisdom. The shenfen divides into four streams (lie refers to mountain waterways) from a single source, flowing down to nourish the entire land without exception—just as the vital essence (Jing) and energy (Qi) circulate through every limb and joint to sustain the whole body.

Here the climate remains mild without plagues, the people gentle without contention. Their hearts stay soft and bones never grow rigid, free from arrogance or envy. Elders and youth interact as equals, with no distinction between ruler and subject; men and women mingle freely without matchmakers or betrothal gifts. Dwelling along the waterways, they neither plow nor weave, for the warm earth makes clothing unnecessary. They live to a hundred before passing naturally, untouched by early death or illness. The population thrives beyond counting, knowing only joy without the pains of aging.

Lu Chongxuan further elucidates: The body's hundred bones and nine orifices function in harmony with nature—without strife, contention, or ostentation—as yin and yang align with the Dao's flow. These people wear no clothes, till no fields, suffer no aging, and know no mortal limits. Adepts who cultivate diligently may attain such a state.

The locals cherish music, holding hands to sing in rotating choruses all day. When hungry or thirsty, they drink the shenfen to instantly regain vitality and serenity, though overindulgence brings a ten-day intoxication. Bathing in these waters leaves skin luminous and fragrant for long duration.

Lu Chongxuan notes: Humans take breath (Qi) as life's foundation, hence their love for music. Continuous respiration mirrors unceasing song. Drinking this wisdom-spring purges distractions, thus causing inebriation; awakening, they bathe in it again, hence the lingering fragrance.

During the Zhenghe era (Northern Song dynasty), some misinterpreted this utopia—yet it differs from the sages' described realms. Between heaven and earth exist no absolute boundaries; within the six directions (up/down/four cardinal points) lie countless unknowns. As the Yijing states: "The unfathomable transformations of yin and yang are called divine (Shen)." Here, skies bear no wind, rain, frost, or dew; earth grows neither birds, beasts, nor plants. The people quench hunger and thirst, moisten skin and flesh through shenfen alone, attaining longevity—truly named "divine fountain" for its inconceivable nature.

King Mu of Zhou (the fifth ruler of the Western Zhou dynasty) once journeyed northward and arrived at a mysterious land called "Ultimate North." He resided there for three years, completely forgetting about returning to the Zhou court. Later, after returning to his palace, he spent his days longing for that place, so distraught that for months he abstained from wine, meat, and the company of women. Only after a long time did he return to normal.

This land of Ultimate North lay in the farthest northern reaches, so distant that its exact distance from the Central Plains could not be measured. There stood a peculiar mountain, at whose summit was a spring that gushed forth the miraculous "Divine Fen Water" (a spring with extraordinary properties). A single stream split into four as it flowed down the mountain. The entire land was flat and even, with a mild climate. The people neither farmed for food nor wove for clothing—yet they had both in abundance. There were no distinctions between ruler and subject, nor any rituals for marriage between men and women. The inhabitants lived along the water's edge in harmony and tranquility.

Most wondrous of all were the effects of the Divine Fen Water: drinking it brought peace to the heart and mind, while bathing in it left the skin smooth and radiant. As a result, the people suffered no illness or pain, enjoyed long lifespans, and harbored no strife or envy toward one another.

A note mentions that Guan Zhong (a famed statesman of the Spring and Autumn period) once attempted to lead Duke Huan of Qi to seek out this land, but ultimately failed to reach it. This suggests that Ultimate North was not a place ordinary people could easily attain—only those with profound Daoist cultivation could arrive there. The text uses this legend as a metaphor for the state of spiritual attainment: only those who reach a high level of practice can enter such an ideal realm.

This passage recounts a story from the Spring and Autumn period in the state of Qi. Duke Huan of Qi wished to visit a legendary mystical land. Guan Zhong (courtesy name Yiwu, respectfully called Zhongfu) supported this idea, but Xi Peng vehemently opposed it.

Xi Peng admonished: "Your Majesty rules over the vast territory of Qi, with its multitudes of people, majestic mountains and rivers, abundant resources, flourishing rituals, and splendid attire. Your court is filled with enchanting beauties and loyal ministers. At your command, a million-strong army stands ready; with a wave of your hand, feudal lords obey. Why envy that illusory realm, abandoning Qi’s ancestral land to chase after barbarian tribes? Guan Zhong has grown senile—how can you heed his advice?"

The commentary observes that worldly gentlemen value superficial pleasures like population, rituals, attire, and sensual delights—the trappings of wealth and status.

Hearing Xi Peng’s words, Duke Huan hesitated and relayed them to Guan Zhong, who replied: "This is beyond Xi Peng’s understanding. His vision is confined to Qi—how could he grasp the grandeur of that realm? That’s why I regard him as a child. My concern is that the land might be even more wondrous than the legends. What is Qi’s prosperity worth clinging to? Why heed Xi Peng’s words? The difficulty in reaching that land has nothing to do with his objections."

The commentary elaborates: Xi Peng’s insight falls short. Guan Zhong said, "From what I’ve heard, I fear that land may surpass even the legends. If it could truly be reached as described, what value would worldly pleasures hold? What significance would rituals or loyal ministers have?"

The Daoist perspective is then introduced: The Dao (the Way) permeates all things, manifest or hidden. Letting go of attachments transcends distinctions between "being" and "non-being." Sages perceive the Dao, comprehending the subtleties of both existence and emptiness. Thus, those clinging to national wealth do not understand the Dao—but neither do those who abandon the people to chase illusory realms. King Mu of Zhou (implicitly referencing Duke Huan), Guan Zhong, and Xi Peng all missed the true essence.

Finally, Xi Peng’s character is assessed: He neither flattered superiors nor belittled inferiors. He felt ashamed of falling short of the Yellow Emperor’s virtue yet compassionate toward those beneath him. In matters of state, he upheld his own standards.

This scripture illustrates through regional comparisons that all things follow their own natural patterns, without need for artificial uniformity.

In the scorching south, people customarily wear their hair loose and go about naked; in the frigid north, they wrap their heads in cloth and don fur robes; in the civilized central plains, they wear ceremonial caps and flowing gowns. Across the nine provinces, some till the land, some trade goods, some hunt, and some fish—just as one wears furs in winter and light hemp in summer, or rides boats on water and carts on land. These are all habits formed by following innate tendencies, not requiring deliberate study.

Shen Dao (a Legalist scholar of the Warring States period) said: Those who control floods use dikes and plugs—methods that work even among barbarians, for they learn from water itself, not from Yu the Great. Records from the Zhenghe era note that southerners go bare and loose-haired due to heat, northerners bundle up due to cold, and central plains folk dress formally due to refinement. Though one person's needs rely on countless craftsmen's labor, all arise spontaneously.

The Fan commentary observes: Loose hair in the south, wrapped heads in the north, and caps in the center—these are customs diverging by place. Farming, trade, hunting, fishing—these are talents diverging by skill. Winter furs, summer hemp; boats for water, carts for land—these are tools diverging by function. All are unalterable patterns formed naturally, followed by people unknowingly in accord with their inherent nature.

The text then cites two extreme cases: East of Yue lies the land of Zhexiu, where firstborn sons are cooked and eaten to "benefit younger brothers," and widowed grandmothers are abandoned as "ghost wives unfit to cohabit." South of Chu dwells the Yanren people.... Such seemingly bizarre customs are viewed locally as perfectly reasonable.

The core message is that all things possess their own natural Dao (the Way), just as Yu the Great mastered flood control, King Mu of Zhou wandered widely yet returned to the proper path, and Duke Huan of Qi sought the Dao but never grasped it. Regional lifestyles are natural adaptations to local conditions.

This scripture passage primarily discusses regional variations in funeral customs and recounts Confucius encountering two children debating the distance of the sun, illustrating the sage's attitude toward differing viewpoints.

In the western region of Qin, there was a place called Yi Qu (also known as Kang Qu), where people had a unique way of handling their deceased relatives: after a loved one passed away, they would cut off the flesh and discard it, burying only the bones, believing this to be the proper way to fulfill filial piety. Meanwhile, in the eastern regions of Yue and the southern parts of Chu, the practice was to pile the corpse on firewood and burn it, allowing the smoke to rise—a ritual called "ascending to the beyond" (Dengxia)—also considered an act of filial devotion. These customs were enforced as local decrees and became ingrained traditions.

Lu Zhongxuan (a commentator) observed that what everyone accepts as right becomes taken for granted, and habit turns into nature. Yet these practices actually violate fundamental human ethics and should not be upheld as exemplary. Fan Yingyuan (another commentator) added that remote regions, due to isolation, developed their own distinctive customs and laws, which cannot simply be judged by a universal standard.

The passage then recounts a story of Confucius traveling eastward and encountering two children arguing about the sun’s distance: one child claimed that the sun appears as large as a carriage canopy in the morning but as small as a plate at noon, suggesting it is closer in the morning and farther at noon. The other argued that since mornings are cool and noon is scorching, the sun must be farther in the morning and closer at noon. Confucius could not determine who was correct, prompting the children to mock him, saying, "Who said you were so knowledgeable?"

Lu Zhongxuan explains that the sage (Confucius) was not ignorant of the answer but recognized the futility of such debates. Sages focus on illuminating the Dao (the Way) and benefiting the world—when circumstances allow, they bring prosperity to all; when constrained, they cultivate their own virtue. Engaging in endless disputes over every question would only exhaust the mind. The children’s debate might well have been a process of mutual enlightenment. This reflects the wisdom of "what lies beyond the six directions, the sage acknowledges without disputing" (remaining silent on matters beyond human comprehension).

This scripture explores the philosophy of "universal equilibrium" through everyday phenomena. At sunrise, observers standing at the periphery of sunlight perceive the sun as enormous; at noon when light bathes all things equally, those immersed in illumination see the sun's true size. Just as candle flames appear large from afar but small up close, this follows natural principles where debate proves meaningless.

Master Fan explains: The sun's apparent circular journey from east to west remains bound to concrete form; what seems like a complete revolution still obeys mathematical constraints. Once confined within the categories of form and measurement, natural variations in perceived distance and size inevitably arise. Confucius refrained from hasty judgments precisely because he understood this truth—some matters should be preserved without forced resolution.

"Universal equilibrium" constitutes the supreme principle of existence. Were all things perfectly balanced, truth would manifest spontaneously. Even concrete objects demonstrate this ("connected to formed matter"). When suspending heavy weights with hair strands, if each strand bears equal force, even the finest hair won't snap; breakage occurs precisely through uneven distribution. Though ordinary people may doubt this principle, enlightened minds comprehend it—Mozi upheld this identical view.

Master Lu further clarifies: The highest truth inherently contains equilibrium, requiring no forced pursuit. Like hair suspending weights, conformity with natural law automatically creates balance. People consider this impossible only because they fail to grasp its inevitable logic.

Emperor Huizong of Song (Zhenghe era reign) adds: The alternation of Yin-Yang constitutes the Dao, perceived differently by benevolent and wise observers. Like the dazzling light of sun and moon, each person sees differently—form suggests distant smallness and proximity largeness, while temperature feels hot near and cool far. Thus the sun's essence fundamentally transcends measurement by distance.

Master Fan concludes with the classic metaphor "a thousand jun suspended by one hair": When massive force distributes evenly across each strand, this principle becomes manifest. The story of Zhan He (a Warring States period Daoist scholar) further confirms this truth.

Zhan He was a native of the state of Chu, renowned throughout the land for his extraordinary fishing skills. Using a single strand of silk as his fishing line, a needle as fine as an awn as his hook, a slender bamboo rod, and grains of rice as bait, he could land fish so massive they filled entire carts (the "Family Sayings" record these were kun fish of enormous size capable of loading a whole wagon).

When fishing in hundred-zhang deep torrents, his silk line never snapped, his hook never straightened, and his rod never bent. The secret lay in his fragrant bait attached to that delicate hook, sinking into the dark riverbed silt, moving with the currents and adapting flexibly to the water's flow. He allowed his tackle to drift naturally until fish took the bait, only then retrieving the line—thus ensuring consistent success.

When King Chu heard of this marvel, he summoned Zhan He to inquire about his method. Zhan replied: "I once heard a late minister say that in ancient times, the divine archer Pu Juizi (note: legendary master of fowling) could bring down two birds from the azure clouds with a single shot from his supple bow and fine string, riding the wind's power. The key was perfect concentration and balanced force. I modeled my fishing technique after this, spending five years mastering it. When I stand by the river with my rod, my mind holds no distractions—only the fish exist. My casts are perfectly weighted, undisturbed by external things. To fish, my hook appears like naturally gathering foam in water, swallowed without hesitation. This embodies the principle of using softness to conquer hardness, lightness to control weight. Should Your Majesty govern the realm thus, holding all-under-heaven would become as effortless as holding something in your palm—what difficulty could remain?" King Chu praised: "Well spoken."

Here, fishing wisdom becomes a metaphor for governance. Lu Zhongxuan (possibly a commentator) explains: When sages govern the world, they first discern the innate nature of all things, then establish teachings to guide. People follow unconsciously in daily life, just as the supple bowstring rides the wind or the delicate hook drifts with currents—control emerges naturally. Those cultivating the Dao preserve life's wholeness (Quanzhen), and all beings naturally submit. Governing the realm follows the same principle.

Edicts and punishments represent forceful domination over weakness, whereas the Dao (cosmic foundation) wears softness as its garment and values subtlety as its mystery. Thus nothing escapes its embrace. Hundred-zhang depths can be measured, azure clouds' heights touched, yet the Dao encompasses and upholds all existence. Those united with it need only maintain primordial simplicity—the myriad things return of their own accord. Just as fine silk lands giant fish, the minuscule Dao governs the vast world.

The Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing (Scripture of Perfect Virtue in the Void) records three profoundly allegorical stories. The first tells of catching cart-sized fish with a slender fishing line while simultaneously shooting down two birds in flight—a metaphor illustrating how the sage governs the world with effortless mastery, handling weighty matters with apparent ease.

The second recounts Fan Li's insight: when the King of Chu learned fishing methods from Zhan He, he grasped principles of statecraft; when the Yellow Emperor consulted a shepherd boy about grazing, he understood the essentials of ruling the world. This reveals the fundamental unity underlying all phenomena.

The third is the famous heart-exchange parable: Gonghu of Lu and Qiying of Zhao, both afflicted by illness, sought treatment from the legendary physician Bian Que. After curing their physical ailments with herbal medicine and acupuncture ("yaoshi"), Bian Que diagnosed their congenital "heart diseases": "Gonghu, though resourceful, lacks decisiveness (strong shen but weak qi); Qiying, though resolute, lacks deliberation (weak shen but strong qi). Exchanging your hearts would balance these qualities." With their consent, Bian Que administered anesthetic wine, performed China's earliest recorded heart transplant—opening their chests, swapping the organs, and applying miraculous medicine ("shenyao"). Upon awakening, each returned to the wrong household: Gonghu claimed Qiying's wife, and Qiying claimed Gonghu's, with neither family recognizing their transformed husbands. Only after consulting Bian Que was the confusion resolved.

Lu Zhongxuan (Tang Dynasty Daoist commentator) explains: the physical body is but an insentient vessel, while the shen (spirit) governs life. Ordinary people cling to bodily forms, unaware that behavior stems from inner consciousness. Like the heart-swapped men—physically unchanged yet existentially displaced—this fable, though seemingly fantastical, gains credence when considering historical accounts like Hua Tuo's abdominal surgeries. It reminds us that reality transcends conventional understanding, warning against narrow judgments.

(Note: "Fuzang" refers to internal organs; "yaoshi" denotes herbal medicine and acupuncture; "shenyao" indicates potent elixirs or divine remedies.)

This passage from the Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing Sijie elucidates the principles of self-cultivation. The human mind governs emotions, while the body itself lacks awareness. Thus, Daoist practitioners prioritize nurturing the spirit (Shen).

Imbalance in either the body or the mind leads to problems. Physical ailments can be treated with medicine, but rectifying mental and spiritual disharmony requires specialized cultivation methods. "Will" (zhi) acts as the commander, while "vital energy" (Qi) resembles the soldiers. Will directs strategy, and Qi determines decisiveness. An imbalance between the two creates issues: those with excessive will but insufficient Qi excel at planning but hesitate in action; those with weak will but excessive Qi lack deliberation and tend toward stubborn impulsiveness.

The mind governs the five senses. By adjusting the inner state to harmonize will and Qi, one avoids these pitfalls. The "primordial spirit" (Shen) is a subtle and profound presence. Sages use the wondrous Dao to harmonize the world, viewing the smooth and the rugged as one.

The commentator Fan cites Mencius to explain: Will is the leader, Qi the follower. Will directs the heart, while Qi is driven by will. Any imbalance between them disrupts mental equilibrium. Just as an army needs both generals and soldiers, excessive will without sufficient Qi is like having commanders without troops, leading to indecision; weak will with excessive Qi resembles having soldiers without leadership, resulting in reckless actions. Without proper regulation, how can such states be corrected?

The text later mentions the ancient physician Hua Tuo's remarkable skill in abdominal surgery, illustrating that these principles of bodily and mental regulation are not abstract.

A parable follows: The ancient musician Hubo played the qin so masterfully that birds danced and fish leaped upon hearing it. When the Zheng state's musician Shi Wen heard of this, he abandoned his family estate to study under the master Xiang. Yet after three years, he still couldn't even properly tune the strings. Master Xiang said, "You may return home." Putting down his qin, Shi Wen sighed: "It's not that I can't tune the strings or master the melodies—my heart isn't focused on the strings, nor is my will directed toward the music." Only by relinquishing attachment to technical skill could he truly grasp the essence of qin artistry.

Through this musical analogy, the passage demonstrates that Daoist cultivation likewise requires transcending superficial forms to apprehend the inner spirit. Just as regulating body and mind shouldn't merely address symptoms but target the root, one must grasp the fundamental principle of "nourishing the spirit" (yang Shen).

This passage recounts the story of the ancient qin master Shi Wen learning to play the zither, demonstrating the supreme state of unity between "mind, hands, and instrument."

It first explains the highest realm of qin playing: when the mind is free from distractions, and external movements perfectly harmonize with the instrument, only then can one begin to play. Only when the mental state, technique, and instrument are in perfect alignment can harmonious music be produced. The commentary by a certain Lu notes that ordinary people focus only on physical practice of technique, unaware that true mastery requires using the spirit (Shen) to command the music. If the mind and instrument do not resonate, even skillful playing will lack profundity. To reach the pinnacle of qin artistry, one's spirit must commune with the instrument's principles.

After completing his training, Shi Wen demonstrated his skill to his teacher Shi Xiang. By playing seasonal musical modes out of their natural time, he created astonishing phenomena of displaced seasons:

In spring, playing the metal-associated Shang mode (autumn tone) summoned the eighth-month Nanlü pitch, bringing cool winds that caused plants to bear fruit; in autumn, playing the wood-associated Jue mode (spring tone) activated the second-month Jiazhong pitch, with warm breezes making flowers bloom; in summer, playing the water-associated Yu mode (winter tone) called forth the eleventh-month Huangzhong pitch, bringing sudden frost and frozen rivers; in winter, playing the fire-associated Zhi mode (summer tone) stimulated the fifth-month Ruibin pitch, with blazing sunshine instantly melting solid ice.

Finally, when plucking all four strings simultaneously, auspicious signs immediately appeared: gentle winds stirred, propitious clouds drifted, sweet dew fell from heaven, and sweet springs bubbled from the earth. Shi Xiang, overcome with emotion, beat his chest and stamped his feet, marveling that this artistry surpassed even the legendary musician Shi Kuang's performance of "Qingjiao" (a melody said to summon wind and rain) and the climate-regulating pitch-pipe techniques of Zou Yan.

The commentary clarifies these phenomena didn't literally alter the seasons, but rather used qin sounds to evoke seasonal sensations within listeners, demonstrating music's numinous power. Just as Shi Kuang's Qingjiao performance genuinely stirred wind and clouds through music's resonance with celestial Qi (vital energy), it proves that perfectly harmonious music can communicate with heaven and earth.

In the northern lands where the soil was fertile yet the climate too cold for crops, Zou Yan (a Yin-Yang School philosopher of the Warring States period) could adjust the seasons by playing his pitch pipes, warming the earth to make crops flourish. Such mastery reached such perfection that even court musicians would follow him with their zithers to learn his art.

Lu Zhongxuan (a Tang dynasty Daoist) explains: When one's cultivation attains complete harmony with innate nature, every action silently aligns with the rhythms of Yin-Yang and the cycle of seasons. At this stage, neither water nor fire can harm such a person—how much less could ordinary climatic changes like wind, rain, heat or cold? The Book of Changes states: "When acting precedes celestial timing, even Heaven will not oppose it"—such is the realm where even spirits must comply. The wonder of altering seasons through musical tones lies precisely in transcending nature's seasonal patterns.

Emperor Huizong of Song (whose reign name was Zhenghe) elaborates further: The most sublime music can harmonize the four seasons and nurture all beings. As the seasons alternate and all things cycle through growth, the essential mystery lies in the mutual transformation of Yin and Yang Qi. Opposites like life-death, void-fullness, and waxing-waning all interconvert through music. This music isn't confined to fixed forms, but rather induces Qi transformations through sound, naturally producing corresponding effects. For example:

• Playing the Shang mode (one of the five tones) in spring summons the Nanlü pitch (one of twelve temperament tones), invoking autumn's breath
• Playing the Jue mode in autumn activates the Jiazhong pitch, bringing spring's vitality
• Playing the Yu mode in summer calls forth the Huangzhong pitch, generating winter's chill
• Playing the Zhi mode in winter stimulates the Ruibin pitch, evoking summer's warmth

Such music can even reverse seasonal sequences, mastering creation's mysteries. When all musical temperaments blend harmoniously, auspicious signs appear: benevolent winds whisper, propitious clouds drift, sweet dew descends, and sweet springs bubble forth. Since all things between heaven and earth share the same essential Qi, when sounds and Qi resonate, even birds, beasts, fish and insects will dance in response.

Fan Yingyuan (a Song dynasty Daoist) adds: The qin zither is the noble person's instrument—exquisitely crafted and profoundly meaningful. Its tones hold arcane efficacy: initially restraining the Shen (spirit), ultimately leading to enlightenment through the instrument. Though the music arises within arm's reach, it resonates throughout heaven and earth. When the Yellow Emperor played the Qingjiao melody, spirits gathered and phoenixes flocked to shade the sun; Emperor Yao's qin music drew celestial beings; Emperor Shun's Southern Wind song civilized the realm. How could these compare to mere musicians like Huba making birds and fish dance? The qin's construction—silk strings vibrating on wood—mirrors how fire needs wood to crackle and blaze, just as the divine manifests through form. Such mysteries truly defy measurement.

This passage reveals the state of "attaining the Dao" through several musical parables, showing that true mastery lies not in superficial techniques but in transcendent inner realization beyond physical form.

The story of Shi Wen learning the qin illustrates this: Initially obsessed with fingering techniques and strings, he eventually set aside his instrument with a sigh upon realizing the essence wasn't in the strings themselves nor the audible manifestations. When he reached this understanding, merely lightly plucking the strings could summon seasonal transformations—playing the gong mode brought auspicious signs: favorable winds soaring, propitious clouds drifting, sweet dew descending, and sweet springs bubbling forth. Such harmonious tones could attract divine blessings, surpassing even Shi Kuang's qingjiao melody that summoned wind and rain or Zou Yan's pitch pipes that made grains flourish. No wonder Master Xiangzi was moved to stamp his feet and beat his chest in amazement.

Xue Tan's story with Qin Qing offers profound insight. Before completing his vocal training, Xue arrogantly believed he'd mastered the art and prepared to leave. Qin Qing didn't stop him, but during the farewell by the city gates, he sang with such poignant intensity that the trees trembled and the clouds stood still. Only then did Xue realize his inadequacy, immediately apologizing and begging to continue his studies—never again mentioning departure.

The legend of Han E, the Korean songstress, is particularly striking: When singing for her livelihood at Yongmen in Qi, her melodies lingered around the beams for three days after she left. Once wronged by an innkeeper, she moved an entire street's residents to three days of tearful mourning through her plaintive wails, leaving them unable to eat. Later, her joyful singing had the same crowd dancing with elation. Thereafter, Yongmen locals became renowned for expressing emotions through song—all imitating Han E's style.

Finally, the account of Yongmen Zhou from the Warring States period shows his dual mastery—not only of the qin but also of using lamentations to move Lord Mengchang. As Lu Zhongxuan's commentary notes: All six human faculties (eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and mind) can access the Dao, producing wondrous resonance beyond mere mental effort. Like when Huba played the se and made fish leap while birds danced, these stories demonstrate sound as a medium for spiritual communion.

While the Zhenghe era records describe music's physical power—"vibrating trees and halting clouds"—Han E's transformative songs that moved whole streets to either joy or sorrow reveal sound's deeper, soul-stirring potency.

Grief can shake the human spirit and alter one's thoughts—this is the wondrous realm that music can achieve. Fan's example illustrates: When Qin Qing (an ancient master singer) struck the rhythm and sang with full voice, the sound resonated through mountain forests, even halting passing clouds; Han E's (another legendary singer) exquisite melodies moved every elder and child in the neighborhood. This occurs because genuine emotions within naturally manifest outwardly, creating inevitable resonance. How much more profound, then, are expressions that arise from the depths of one's heart?

Bo Ya excelled at playing the qin, while Zhong Ziqi was a master of appreciation. When Bo Ya played melodies evoking mountain ascents, Zhong would sigh, "How magnificent! Like the towering Mount Tai." When the music shifted to flowing water, Zhong remarked, "How vast! Like surging rivers." Whatever Bo Ya conceived in his heart, Zhong Ziqi grasped perfectly. Once, caught in a storm at Mount Tai's northern foothills, Bo Ya took shelter beneath a cliff. Stirred by melancholy, he played his qin—first crafting a tune of ceaseless rain, then composing a melody of crumbling mountains. Each phrase he played, Zhong Ziqi comprehended entirely. Setting down his qin, Bo Ya marveled, "Extraordinary! Your listening mind mirrors my intentions completely!" This reveals how their spirits had merged beyond distinction.

Lu's commentary explains: Sound originates from inner feeling—when the heart stirs, corresponding sound emerges. Thus all sensory perceptions ultimately transform into mental awareness. A skilled listener can discern meaning even in a cough, let alone artistically refined music. The Zhenghe scholars held: Intent shapes music; all music springs from the human heart. Moved by external things to resonate—thus can music reveal hearts. But those who listen only with ears hear sound without understanding music; those who listen with heart grasp its deeper meaning through the music. This explains Zhong Ziqi's ability to perceive music's subtleties.

Fan further elaborates: The Dao (the Way) fundamentally transcends hearing—what can be heard is not the true Dao. Within soundless realms exist realities beyond auditory reach. What Bo Ya played and Zhong Ziqi heard remained at the level of form and sound. Yet even these tangible expressions of mountains and streams—each performance fully revealed their essence to Zhong. What sound could possibly elude such perception?