《沖虛至德真經四解》Vol. 4

Fifteen years after ascending the throne, the Yellow Emperor began to revel in the people's adoration (a mundane form of worldly joy). He indulged his senses—delighting his ears with exquisite music, pleasing his eyes with splendid sights, and gratifying his palate with sumptuous delicacies. Yet this excess left his complexion sallow, his skin coarse, his spirit dull, and his emotions—joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure—in disarray.

Overusing the mind not only fails to nurture life but actually depletes the body. As the Tang dynasty Daoist Lu Chongxuan noted: Most people mistake sensory indulgence—music, beauty, hunting, feasting—for bodily nourishment, equating material abundance with true prosperity. But sages understand such habits ultimately harm vitality. Hence the Yellow Emperor's visible distress. This passage first reveals the spirit (Shen) as sovereign of life, then demonstrates authentic nourishment through Daoist cultivation. By first exposing common delusions, it gradually guides readers toward realization.

After another fifteen years, the Emperor grew troubled by poor governance (another worldly concern born of convention). He exhausted his wisdom...

This passage recounts the Yellow Emperor's reflections on governance and self-cultivation. The Emperor lamented how his excessive reliance on intellect to govern the people had left them haggard and spiritually disoriented, ultimately disrupting their natural harmony. So-called noble men exhaust their hearts and strength, sacrificing themselves in pursuit of fame and gain, unaware that such efforts deplete their vital spirit (Shen), erode their authentic nature, and lead them further from the Dao.

The Yellow Emperor realized: whether in self-cultivation or governing the world, forced striving inevitably brings calamity. Only by following natural tendencies without artificial interference can all beings flourish spontaneously. Those obsessed with benevolence and righteousness may appear virtuous, yet fundamentally still chase reputation; while self-centered individuals are indeed petty, even those claiming to save the world may lose their original heart. Viewed essentially, both types deviate from the Dao.

True sages understand: the Dao moves all things without sharing the sage's worries ("鼓动万物而不与圣人同忧"), yet practical affairs inevitably bring concerns. When sages govern the world, they act out of necessity rather than desire. Thus the Yellow Emperor resolved to set aside state affairs—dismantling court pomp, reducing guards and lavish meals—to practice solitary cultivation in the Great Hall for three months. This wasn't complete withdrawal, but responding naturally like the seasons' rotation: does Heaven speak? Yet the seasons revolve unfailingly. This "purifying the heart and submitting the form" practice cleanses desires from the mind, allowing the body to align spontaneously with celestial patterns.

This passage recounts the legendary Yellow Emperor's experience of dreaming about visiting the Hua Xu Kingdom through fasting and mental purification, embodying the Daoist ideal of "the perfected person having no dreams."

When governing the world, the Yellow Emperor sought neither empty fame nor historical achievements. He restrained his desires and purified his mind, abstaining from personal involvement in state affairs for three months (here referencing Confucius' praise of Yan Hui: "for three months he did not violate benevolence"). During a daytime nap, he dreamed of visiting Hua Xu Kingdom—a mythical utopia where perfected individuals remain unburdened by material things, their spirits unconfined by physical forms. They roam freely with the Creator above and befriend those who transcend life and death below, maintaining constant inner peace without worries.

Commentator Fan Shi explains: Though sages govern with countless daily affairs, the Yellow Emperor's withdrawal from administration wasn't negligence, but rather avoiding energy waste on trivial matters. Leaving his palace didn't signify seeking comfort; dismissing attendants didn't indicate preferring solitude; removing ceremonial music and fine cuisine served to purify his senses. Through three months of fasting and meditation in the Grand Court Pavilion, he achieved ultimate mental clarity—thus enabling his dream journey to Hua Xu Kingdom.

The scripture reveals: Physical contact with external things forms daily affairs, while spiritual resonance generates dreams. Daytime thoughts and actions manifest in dreams, so sleep visions aren't necessarily false; nighttime dreams conversely influence waking perceptions, so daytime experiences aren't necessarily real. Only those comprehending the patterns of day-night transitions can penetrate the boundary between dreaming and wakefulness, understanding worldly gains/losses, right/wrong, nobility/meanness, and life/death are all dreamlike illusions. Like visiting the Palace of Transformations, laboring for the Yin family, or Zheng people fighting over a deer—these stories all demonstrate treating encounters as dreams, recognizing them as illusions rather than reality. The truly enlightened sages of antiquity didn't even dream while sleeping (indicating complete transcendence of mind).

This passage describes an idealized "Land of Huaxu," using a dreamlike metaphor to represent the supreme state of the Dao. This realm lies west of Yanzhou (due west) and north of Taizhou (due north), though these are not actual geographical locations but rather symbolic references illustrating the characteristics of ultimate truth.

Reaching this land cannot be achieved through physical means—neither by carriage, boat, nor foot—but only through "spiritual wandering" (shenyou), a transcendent experience of consciousness. Here, "spiritual wandering" symbolizes the transcendent state attained by Daoist practitioners: arriving instantly without rapid movement, traversing the six directions (up, down, and the four cardinal points) without physical travel.

The Land of Huaxu embodies complete naturalness and non-action (wuwei): it has no rulers, and its people harbor no cravings. Neither clinging to life nor fearing death, they know no premature demise; making no distinctions between closeness and distance, they feel neither love nor hatred; recognizing no opposition between compliance and defiance, they experience no conflicts of interest. This condition reflects the fundamental nature of the Dao—transcending dualities like life and death, love and hatred, or compliance and defiance.

Those who attain this state remain unharmed by fire or water, feel no pain from blades or whips, and experience no itch from poking fingers. Maintaining "ultimate harmony" (zhihe) within, they remain unaffected by external harm. They walk upon air as if on solid ground, rest in emptiness as if on a bed, unimpeded by clouds obscuring their vision or thunder disturbing their hearing. Beauty and ugliness stir no emotions in them; mountains and valleys present no obstacles.

Through the allegory of Huaxu, this passage illustrates the state of adepts who reach the supreme Daoist realm: transcending material limitations, dissolving discriminating consciousness, and achieving absolute freedom and harmony. The phrase "returning to the root and restoring life's mandate" (guigen fuming) refers to the crucial Daoist practice of reverting to the Dao's primordial source.

When spirit naturally flows, one attains the supreme state. Those who truly accord with the Dao find nothing in existence that can obstruct them.

Commentator Lu Chongxuan explains: This parable illustrates how purifying the heart-mind and harmonizing the body allows one's spirit to unite with the Dao, achieving the state of "great accord." Spirit is the sovereign of life, yet using it improperly to nourish life can instead harm it. Ordinary people mistakenly believe satisfying desires constitutes life-nourishment, when this is precisely the root of shortening one's lifespan. Thus noble persons cultivate their innate nature while petty ones indulge their passions. Those who cultivate their nature harbor no excessive desires, maintaining natural spontaneity—neither clinging to life nor resenting death, free from partial loves or hatreds, without fears or taboos. In this way, spirit flows naturally—meaning it becomes one with the Dao. This isn't referring to some separate realm or special class of people, just as the ancients said "the way of benevolence is not distant—practice it and you arrive." Upon realization, immediate resonance occurs.

This ideal realm lies west of Yanzhou and north of Taizhou, impossibly distant from Qi, with paths so profound they have no end—only those whose spirits freely roam can reach it. There, though no rulers exist, natural order prevails; though no desires stir, natural fulfillment abounds. Life and death cannot alter them, kinship cannot burden them. They don't pursue benefit yet benefit comes; don't avoid calamity yet calamity vanishes. Utterly unattached, they remain unafraid. When mind-spirit reaches self-forgetting, they enter water without drowning, fire without burning—blades slash without pain, fingers poke without itch, as if form doesn't exist. They soar through void, recline in emptiness, neither obstructed nor falling, moving wherever they will with perfect ease. Coming and going in this state, even the transformations of yin-yang cannot fathom them—how much less ordinary people? Thus it's said "when spirit flows, one attains."

Commentator Fan Yingyuan adds: That land has no rulers yet governs itself; its people harbor no desires yet remain naturally pure. Living, they know no fear of death; dying, they feel no longing for life. Arrivals bring no joy, departures no resistance. They regard others as themselves and themselves as others—thus no special intimacies or estrangements exist. Neither angered by opposition nor pleased by compliance, they neither reject dissenters nor welcome allies. Completely transcending love-hate and profit-loss, their minds are empty without fixation, their forms free without fear. Such people could never drown even if floods filled the sky.

This scripture describes the Yellow Emperor's process of awakening to the Dao and the transcendent state attained after realization. After three months of purification retreat (referring to cultivation practices that cleanse body and mind while restraining desires), the Yellow Emperor struggled to grasp the methods for nurturing life and governing the world. Exhausted, he fell asleep and in a dream realized that supreme truth cannot be attained through ordinary thinking. Upon waking, he understood he had attained the Dao—yet found it impossible to convey this realization to his ministers in words, for the great Dao transcends conventional understanding and can only be comprehended through spiritual awakening.

After attaining the Dao, the Yellow Emperor manifested miraculous abilities: remaining unharmed by fire and water (unaffected even when metals and stones melted during great droughts, or earthen mountains scorched), becoming invulnerable to weapons, with forces unable to strike him. He could pass through solid objects unimpeded, walk on air without falling, perceive clearly without using eyes, and hear without ears. His purified mind remained undisturbed by external phenomena; he could move underwater without suffocation and traverse valleys as if walking level ground. These wondrous capacities all manifested the power of Shen (spirit) attained through Dao-realization.

Governing for twenty-eight years, the Yellow Emperor brought peace to the world comparable to the legendary paradise of Huaxushi. The text emphasizes that true statecraft lies not in cumbersome decrees ("exhausting governance that wearies form and agitates mind"), but in the ruler's purified heart and mystical union with the Dao ("purifying mind and harmonizing form, awakening to merge with the profound"). This state, while undeniably real ("containing truth and authenticity"), remains formless and traceless ("non-acting and without shape")—unattainable through ordinary means and incommunicable through language.

Finally, the Yellow Emperor "ascended in transcendence" (dengxia, meaning attaining the Dao and rising to heaven), with public mourning lasting over two centuries. Commentator Lu Zhongxuan notes: True governance arises when the ruler's spirit resonates with cosmic principles ("spirit unites with truth in harmony"), acting with the effortless naturalness of spring breezes and nourishing rain—never through hollow reputations or restrictive regulations. The "governance by false prestige" where rulers and subjects mutually deceive can never achieve the pristine perfection of primordial simplicity.

All things in the world grow through natural transformations, and customs likewise evolve with them. Such changes occur spontaneously, often eluding people's awareness of their underlying causes. Precisely because transformation happens subtly and imperceptibly, ordinary folk find its profound mysteries unfathomable when they contemplate them.

Fan Yingyuan (a Song Dynasty Daoist master) observed: Once a person acquires physical form, they become burdened by external matters and lose their true self. Turning inward to observe one's own body reveals its fundamental emptiness; yet deliberately pursuing physical cultivation only binds one further to the body. Looking outward to observe myriad phenomena shows their essential void-nature; yet striving to govern external things only entangles one more deeply. This persistent distinction between "self" and "external objects" creates increasing distance from the true Dao.

The supreme Dao is profoundly mysterious, its ultimate state being undifferentiated chaos. Attempting to pursue it through worldly emotions ultimately proves futile. Those who truly understand the Dao attain knowledge through "non-knowing"; those who genuinely attain the Dao achieve it through "non-attainment." Knowing fundamentally transcends knowing, attainment fundamentally transcends attainment—how could such principles ever be conveyed to others?

Genuine comprehension of this truth allows the mind to remain serene and detached, the Qi to return to stillness, harmonizing with nature's patterns without selfish interference—thereby bringing natural peace to the world. After millennia of cultivation, transcending worldly attachments leads to immortal ascension. Like the Yellow Emperor who laid down his bow and ascended to heaven, all would follow such a state—who would remain entangled by external matters?

Examining Zhuangzi's records: The Yellow Emperor initially sought to restrain human hearts through benevolence and righteousness, later seeking the Dao from Guangchengzi (the legendary immortal). This illustrates how only by abandoning worldly cleverness can true governance be achieved. The Yellow Emperor embodied this principle—the notion of "restraining human hearts" should be understood as allegorical. This passage's essence resonates with that teaching.

Mount Lieguye (recorded in the Classic of Mountains and Seas) stands on a riverine island between sea and river, inhabited by a divine being. His mind's profound stillness earned him the title "divine man." He inhaled wind and drank dew, abstaining from grains—yet if he consumed no grains, why mention wind and dew? This metaphor describes his breath cultivation's state of undifferentiated unity with all things.

His heart resembled still depths, his form pure as a maiden's. Having reached the ultimate state of supreme softness and emptiness, his heavenly nature became perfectly unadulterated—unattainable through forced cultivation. Neither deliberately drawing near nor keeping distance ("wei" implying closeness), he treated all things equally, like straw-dogs used in sacrifices, bestowing impartial grace.

"Immortals" (xian) embody eternal youth, while "sages" (sheng) denote governance and pacification. The divine man required neither intimidation nor anger—sincere people willingly served him. How could this involve actual master-subject relations? Rather, it signifies each finding their proper place according to natural hierarchy, illustrating different realms of attainment.

This scripture describes the state of harmony between realized adepts and the natural world. When cultivation reaches its highest stage, there is no need for deliberate giving, yet all things naturally flourish; no effort is required to gather, yet nothing is lacking. Yin-Yang (the complementary polar forces of the universe) remain balanced, the sun and moon follow their regular courses, the four seasons alternate in proper order, winds and rains come in due measure, all beings grow according to their seasons, and harvests abound year after year.

In such a condition, the land never becomes barren, people do not die prematurely, nothing in creation is deficient, disasters do not arise, and even spirits and deities cannot manifest supernatural phenomena. This occurs because Heaven and humanity are unified in harmony, Yin-Yang operate in orderly cycles, day and night maintain their proper divisions, and calamities naturally vanish. As Laozi said, when the world is governed by the Dao (the Way), even spirits lose their power to manifest.

Lu Zhongxuan (a Tang dynasty Daoist master) explains that this refers to the state where one's spirit (Shen) merges with the Dao. Realized adepts do not rely on grains to sustain life but nourish body and mind through breathing techniques that circulate vital energy (Qi). Their hearts resemble still water without ripples, their forms remain as pure as unwed maidens, untroubled by emotions or entangled in judgments of right and wrong. Desireless and unattached, they emulate Heaven and Earth in not deliberately displaying benevolence—bestowing no favors yet harmonizing Yin-Yang so all things grow naturally. Even spirits cannot disturb this state, which is the true mark of Dao-realization.

The Zhenghe (a Song dynasty Daoist text) elaborates that "divinity" (Shen) denotes the wondrous capacity to transform and nurture all things. True divinities transcend physical form, thus mastering creation without being burdened by it. They inhale wind and drink dew, abstaining from grains; their minds are tranquil as deep pools, their bodies chaste as virgins, abiding in undivided concentration. Neither seeking closeness nor distance, they command reverence even from immortals and sages; neither fearing nor angering, they direct spirits at will. Such individuals walk with the Dao—serenely practicing non-action (Wuwei) yet perfectly attuning Yin-Yang so nothing in creation suffers harm.

Fan Yingyuan (a Song dynasty Daoist scholar) adds that "divinity" describes the marvelous functioning of the Dao in nurturing existence. While all things belong to the periphery of the Dao, those who embody divinity stand beyond creation, undisturbed by external phenomena. Thus, only genuine divine beings can dwell in places like Mount Guyé (a legendary abode of transcendents), breathing wind and sipping dew, utterly free from worldly sustenance.

This passage describes the state and manifestations of a cultivator who has attained the supreme realm of the Dao.

Those nourished by the five grains do not deliberately pursue longevity, for their hearts are like deep springwater—serene, noble, and never overflowing outward. Their forms remain as pliant as maidens, never contending with others. Neither forcing intimacy nor affected aloofness, they remain unswayed by personal preferences, and thus the immortal-sage's state arises naturally within them. Without fear or anger, their detachment isn't feigned but flows from genuine inner authenticity.

The Dao cultivator remains untethered by external things. Without deliberate charity, all things find sufficiency; without hoarding wealth, personal lack never arises. The power of Dao (De) masters yin-yang perfectly, harmonizing them without disorder or calamity. It influences sun and moon, maintaining their radiance without eclipse or dimness. Applying Dao to seasonal cycles brings orderly progression like the four seasons; regulating qi through Dao ensures balanced winds and rains. Thus without artificially harmonizing the six qi (yin, yang, wind, rain, darkness, brightness) to nurture creatures, all beings grow in due season; without forcibly extracting heaven-earth's essence to aid crops, harvests flourish year after year.

Lands remain free of disasters, people dwell in peaceful prosperity. None die prematurely, all completing their natural lifespans. All creatures follow their innate nature without suffering illness; spirits and deities manifest no eerie disturbances. Such a realm—if not the most miraculous Dao under heaven—what else could achieve it?

The text then recounts how Liezi (eminent Daoist figure) studied under Lao Shangshi and befriended Bo Gaozi. After mastering these sages' Dao methods, he could ride the wind home. Zhuangzi describes Liezi wind-riding with such grace that he'd only return after fifteen days, earning him the name "Yu Kou" (Wind-rider). Lu Zhongxuan explains: when spirit lingers on material forms, the body meets obstructions; when spirit unites with true Dao, all senses penetrate reality. This penetration reveals distant vistas; without obstructions, one rides winds, clad in feathered robes, leaping on scaled or furred creatures—all following natural principles, not forced marvels.

The Zhenghe Jing adds: perfect movement leaves no tracks, like wind-riding which shows no traces yet still relies on something. Only the numinous realm achieves true "arriving without going." Finally, Yin Sheng's story illustrates perseverance in seeking Dao: after months receiving no transmission from Liezi despite repeated requests, his angry departure was halted, and months later he returned to continue pursuit.

Yin Sheng (Zhang Yiyin) asked Liezi: "Why do you always come and go in such haste?" Liezi replied: "When you previously sought my guidance, I did not answer you, and you harbored resentment. Now you've returned, yet still fail to understand." Liezi continued: "I had thought you were enlightened, but unexpectedly you remain so superficial. Very well, I shall tell you what I learned from my teacher."

Liezi recounted: "In those years studying under my teacher (Lao Shangshi) with my companion (Bo Gaozi), for the first three years I dared not entertain thoughts of right and wrong in my heart, nor speak of gain and loss with my lips. Only then did my teacher grant me a passing glance." This illustrates that when one harbors thoughts of profit yet dares not speak them—concealing true intentions—the teacher merely glances briefly.

"After five years, I gradually reached the stage where I could naturally contemplate right and wrong and discuss gain and loss. Then my teacher finally smiled." This shows that only when inner thoughts and outward speech achieve harmony without forced concealment does the teacher express approval.

"After seven years, I attained complete freedom of mind, where thoughts no longer distinguished right from wrong, and words no longer calculated gain and loss." This describes a higher stage of cultivation where one transcends worldly distinctions of right/wrong and profit/loss.

Fan Yingyuan (commentator) explains: The true Dao cannot be conveyed through verbal questions and answers. Ancient practitioners sometimes asked repeatedly without receiving responses—Liezi ignored Yin Sheng's ten inquiries precisely to encourage self-realization. Yin Sheng's resentment at receiving no answer reveals his shallowness, forcing Liezi to reluctantly share his learning journey.

Lu Zhongxuan (another commentator) adds: Through this account, Liezi demonstrates cultivation's gradual progression. Three years of focused practice merit but a glance; five years bring breakthrough from rigid concentration to earn a smile; seven years achieve higher realization. This entire process traces the cultivator's path from deliberate restraint to natural mastery.

This passage describes how a Daoist practitioner gradually relinquishes concerns of right/wrong and gain/loss, ultimately achieving unity with the Dao (the Way).

In the initial stage of practice, after three years of study, the practitioner (Liezi) no longer dared to entertain thoughts of right and wrong in his mind, nor spoke of gain and loss with his mouth. Only then did his teacher (Master) glance at him briefly. This indicates the practitioner had begun developing discernment, with the Dao manifesting in these subtle awakenings.

After five years, the practitioner no longer consciously avoided thoughts of right/wrong in his mind nor speech about gain/loss, though he hadn't yet fully transcended these concerns. The teacher then smiled at him, showing the practitioner's heart could now resonate with the Dao beyond words.

After seven years, the practitioner completely released mental constraints - no longer distinguishing right from wrong in thought, nor calculating gain and loss in speech. The teacher then invited him to sit side by side, indicating their spiritual states had become harmonized.

By nine years, the practitioner reached greater refinement: neither thoughts nor speech distinguished between personal and others' concepts of right/wrong or gain/loss. He no longer perceived the teacher as separate, nor others as distinct friends. Inner and outer became unified - thoughts purified, speech naturally aligned with the Dao.

The ultimate state emerges: though thinking throughout the day, it feels thoughtless; though speaking constantly, it feels wordless. Deliberately pursuing "no-thought" or "no-speech" would paradoxically indicate incomplete attainment. The supreme Dao (the Way) acts through spontaneous wuwei (non-action), beyond striving. Here, even distinctions between "self/other" and labels like "teacher/disciple" dissolve completely - this is the state of perfect inner-outer communion.

In the space between one's arms, the thoughts that arise in the mind may seem to emerge from "thought" itself, yet in truth they flow naturally from "non-thought" (the unconscious natural state). The words spoken from the mouth may appear to originate from "speech," yet they manifest spontaneously from the realm of "non-speech" (the wordless state). Viewed this way, what can truly be called right or wrong? What can be deemed beneficial or harmful? When the distinction between self and other is forgotten, and both dissolve into the great Dao (the Way), how could one remain attached to concepts like teacher or friend?

Ancient cultivators followed specific stages of practice: beginning with initial cultivation, progressing through five phases, reaching a turning point at the seventh stage, and ultimately attaining perfection at the ninth stage. Some achieved liberation from life and death after just nine days of practice; others realized the "suspicion of beginnings" (insight into the primordial source) only after nine generations of transmission; while some required nine years of arduous cultivation to reach profound mystical states. This is because at this stage of Daoist practice, one transcends the limitations of numerical progression.

When cultivation reaches its highest state, the eyes perceive like ears, the ears hear like a nose smells, the nose discerns like a mouth speaks—all senses become interconnected without obstruction. This occurs because practitioners no longer deliberately employ sensory functions but allow them to operate naturally, thus achieving a state of seamless unity.

At this stage, the spirit (Shen) becomes perfectly still while the physical form dissolves—bones and flesh seem to melt away. One feels no bodily support, no awareness of where the feet tread, like withered leaves drifting on the wind, indistinguishable whether the wind carries them or they ride the wind. The eyes, ears, nose, and mouth originally had distinct functions, but when spiritual concentration reaches its peak and bodily sensations vanish, vision and hearing no longer depend on eyes and ears, nor do smell and taste rely on nose and mouth. The five viscera, six bowels, limbs, and skeleton all become like motionless corpses, merging completely with all things. What then supports the form? Where do the feet stand? Do I ride the wind or does the wind ride me? Who could possibly discern?

Spiritual stillness means unwavering stability; the dissolution of form means absolute freedom from obstruction; the melting of bones and flesh signifies complete forgetting of physicality. When the body is forgotten and consciousness transcends all attachments, one roams with the Qi (vital energy) of heaven and earth, rising and falling with the clear wind.

Three years of practice brings freedom from confusion—thus at the beginning, my teacher understood me with a single glance. After five years, delusion no longer obscured me—thus we shared knowing smiles. After seven years, burdens could no longer entangle me—thus I sat as equals with my teacher. After nine years, even distinctions between right/wrong and benefit/harm became meaningless, achieving the state where self and object are both forgotten. Here the senses interpenetrate—indistinguishable whether wind carries me or I ride the wind—what need remains for deliberate effort?

If after just days at your teacher's side you repeatedly voice complaints and discontent, it shows your body refuses even to receive Qi, your joints reject even the earth's support. If you persistently cling to this body with emotional attachment, even muscles and bones will repel each other, until the entire form...

This passage describes the ultimate state of attainment in Daoist cultivation. The core idea is that truly realized individuals (zhiren, "perfected persons") transcend physical limitations and merge completely with nature.

The text begins by explaining Liezi's legendary ability to ride the wind. The key lies in "forgetting the body" — as Laozi taught, humanity's greatest suffering stems from obsession with physical form. When one forgets bodily existence completely, even the weight of a single limb ceases to be a burden, let alone the challenge of riding wind currents. Those who reach the pinnacle of cultivation abandon even mental attachments — how could they possibly be troubled by resentment?

The passage then employs sensory metaphors: Daoist adepts experience complete harmony among eyes, ears, nose and mouth, their inner stillness resembling dead ashes, their relaxed forms like withered trees, bones and flesh seemingly dissolved. Their movements resemble leaves floating on wind — so natural that one cannot discern whether the wind carries them or they command the wind. Zhuangzi's observation that this still relies on external support actually refers to preliminary cultivation methods.

Through dialogues between Liezi and Guan Yin (a Daoist sage), deeper insights emerge: Perfected persons never fail when moving unseen because their empty, tranquil minds embrace all things. They walk through fire unharmed and tread emptiness unafraid — not through forced effort, but through the natural support of all existence. Guan Yin clarifies this stems from preserving the pure Qi of one's innate nature (xian tian ben xing), utterly unattainable through cleverness or brute force.

The essential teaching: Maintain your original nature without dissipation, and no external force can harm you. This state isn't achieved through calculation or risk-taking, but through returning to one's fundamental nature and merging with the Dao.

This passage describes the state of those who have attained the Dao. True adepts (zhiren) do not merely discuss abstract principles, but achieve their realization through accumulating virtue (De) and cultivating body and mind. They can walk through fire without being burned and ascend heights without fear, because they maintain their pure original nature, preserve their innate spirit (Shen), and unite with the great Dao. Such a state cannot be reached through clever techniques or mere courage and determination.

The text then cites an apparent transcription error ("Ji Yu" likely being a miswriting for "I") to explain: All things possessing form, sound, or color are "objects," from sages to insects. Viewed purely by external appearance, all things fundamentally have no essential difference. Why then do distinctions of high and low, noble and base exist among things? Xiang Xiu (a Wei-Jin period Neo-Daoist philosopher) held that only those unencumbered by external things and maintaining their natural mind can transcend such distinctions.

The commentator Lu further explains: All formed things are "objects," essentially being material forms (rūpa) with no inherent precedence or hierarchy. People create distinctions of value because they are deluded by emotions. Only those who can forget physical form, preserve their original spirit, and generate wisdom through stillness practice can penetrate spiritual illumination (surpassing ordinary states). Such practitioners attain formless, imageless realms beyond birth and death.

If one clings to investigating the transformations of physical forms, how can they reach ultimate truth? Those who truly attain the Dao do not deliberately pursue form's beginnings and endings, yet thereby maintain nature's authentic purity. The highest truth is never hidden—it is only people's attachments that obscure it. Dao-realized individuals follow spontaneity, leaving no traces. They respond to celestial principles with unattached minds, wandering with all things. Though appearing to have beginnings and endings, they actually transcend such distinctions.

In conclusion: Dao-realized individuals possess complete virtue (De), thus never exceeding proper measure ("not indulging their degrees"); their actions follow nature, leaving no traces ("without beginning"); constantly returning to the root, they thereby wander with all things through beginnings and endings. All this describes the supreme state of unity with the Dao.

This scripture primarily discusses how practitioners of the Dao achieve communion with all things through cultivating their inner nature and nurturing vital Qi. The core teaching holds that when one maintains pure innate nature, consolidated vital energy, and profound De (Virtue), they not only attain personal realization but also facilitate the unimpeded flow of all existence.

When adepts preserve their heavenly endowment intact (tianshou quan) with spirit unimpaired (shen wu xi), external disturbances cannot penetrate. Like a drunkard who falls from a carriage yet remains unharmed—because in that unconscious state his spirit is completely relaxed (shen quan), free from fear or pain—the text uses drunkenness as a metaphor for the "no-mind" state achieved through cultivation. This isn't literal intoxication, but the natural Wuwei (non-action) state attained through practice.

The text mentions "the harmony of converging Qi" (chongqi zhi he), referring to the harmonious blending of Yin-Yang energies inherent in human nature. Ordinary people, however, often lose this innate quality through worldly distractions. True adepts preserve this pristine Qi, reaching a state of supreme emptiness and stillness—unattainable through mere cleverness or technique. Such practitioners move freely among all things without harm, like being underwater without drowning, in fire without burning, or at great heights without fear.

The conclusion emphasizes maintaining this "spiritual wholeness" (shen quan) like the drunkard—indifferent to life and death, fortune and misfortune, remaining unshaken by accidents. Yet the text cautions that this isn't actual drunkenness (as commentator Xiang Xiu notes, intoxication merely brings temporary unconsciousness, not the natural no-mind state of cultivation), but rather the perfected spiritual condition achieved through sustained practice.

This passage explains how perfected individuals (zhiren, "ultimate persons") attain invulnerability to external harm through maintaining spiritual purity.

Xiang Xiu elucidates that those who fully align with the Dao of heaven naturally achieve wuwei (non-action) and effortlessly follow the fundamental principles of the cosmos. The sages (referring to Dao-realized beings) harmonize their shen (spirit) with the heavenly Dao, rendering them impervious to external harm. Guo Xiang further clarifies that this occurs because sages do not seek anything beyond their inherent nature, hence the description "hidden in heaven."

Lu Zhongxuan employs the metaphor of a drunken man: though intoxicated and seemingly detached from ordinary consciousness, the drunkard's complete immersion in the wine's influence makes him free from worry and fear, with life and death unable to harm his form or spirit. If one can maintain such absolute spiritual purity, external phenomena naturally cannot inflict harm.

The perfected Zhenghе (a Daoist practitioner of supreme attainment) embodies the wondrous state of preserving spiritual integrity. The path of pure simplicity involves single-mindedly guarding one's original shen (primordial nature), maintaining its wholeness to achieve complete unity with it. Thus, the ultimate person can dive underwater without drowning, tread fire without burning, and walk among all things without fear—all through preserving pure primordial qi rather than relying on cleverness or courage.

The text emphasizes that external forms and reputations are mere appearances, while the true Dao is formless and unchanging. The ultimate person comprehends this principle, maintaining unified nature, nurturing qi without depletion, and preserving De (virtue/power) without dissipation. Thereby connecting with the Creator (cosmic origin), they preserve heavenly nature intact, leaving no gaps in their spirit for external things to penetrate. Just as a drunkard feels no fear when jostled in a carriage, the ultimate person moves through the world unharmed by external phenomena—both states resulting from preserving pure qi and spiritual wholeness.

Fan Yingyuan provides a more fundamental explanation: tracing the origin of form, heaven/earth and I share the same birth; investigating the beginning of all things, the myriad phenomena and I are one substance. Since all things share this essential unity, the apparent distinctions between "carriage" and "objects" ultimately have no fundamental difference.

This scripture illustrates the Daoist concept of "preserving wholeness without deficiency" through two parables. The first story tells of a drunkard who, due to his muddled consciousness, remains unharmed by the jolts of a carriage ride because he has forgotten the very existence of the carriage and the ground. Similarly, if one can maintain the integrity of their innate nature undisturbed by external things, they become like the sage who remains unharmed. The so-called state of "being concealed in heaven" is actually an absolute condition that transcends dualistic concepts—where even the notion of "heaven" ceases to exist, let alone any idea of "concealment."

The second story recounts how Lie Yukou (Liezi) demonstrated his archery skills to Bohun Wuren. He could draw his bow to full tension, balance a cup of water on his elbow without spilling a drop, and release arrows with mechanical precision in rapid succession. Yet Bohun Wuren pointed out that this was merely "shooting with intention"—the true mastery lies in "shooting without intention." He challenged Liezi to perform atop a high mountain cliff, where, standing at the edge of an abyss, he could remain composed and shoot without any awareness of technique. This reveals that only when the mind is free from fear and attachment can one attain the supreme state of unity with the Dao (the Way).

Both stories convey the same principle: clinging to external forms and techniques leads to the loss of one's authentic nature. Only by forgetting the self and harmonizing with spontaneity can one achieve the perfect state of "the shot that is not a shot." Just as the drunkard's chaotic consciousness paradoxically protects him from harm, the Daoist practitioner must likewise embrace "self-forgetting" to preserve the wholeness of their innate nature.

This passage, through the dialogue between Bohun Wuren and Yukou (Liezi), expounds the Daoist cultivation state of "forgetting form and preserving spirit" (wangxing quanshen).

Bohun Wuren asked Yukou to demonstrate his archery skills while standing at the edge of a cliff. Though Yukou was usually a master archer, the perilous environment terrified him—he collapsed to the ground, drenched in sweat. Bohun Wuren pointed out that a true perfected person (zhiren) can gaze up at the azure heavens and peer down into the yellow springs, their spirit remaining unaffected by external circumstances. Yukou, however, was overly concerned with his physical safety, which hindered his spiritual cultivation.

The text contrasts two realms: one is "shooting with shooting" (she zhi she)—being fixated on the skill itself—while the other is "shooting without shooting" (bu she zhi she)—the realm of the Dao that transcends technique. Though Yukou was highly skilled in archery, his panic in the face of danger revealed he had not yet attained the state of "forgetting form and preserving spirit," where one lets go of bodily awareness and fully merges into spiritual realization.

Bohun Wuren held that a true Dao-realized individual possesses a spirit so abundant that they remain composed in any environment. Yukou’s reaction proved he was still attached to the safety of his physical form—this very fear obstructed his approach to the Dao. The text uses the metaphor of a "wooden figurine" (xiangren) to describe those who may be focused but fail to comprehend the Great Dao.

The master archer Fan explained: Drawing the bow to its fullest extent represents the pinnacle of archery technique; balancing a cup of water on one's elbow demonstrates perfect equilibrium. When arrows are released in rapid succession—each new arrow nocked before the previous one has even hit its target—the archer becomes as focused as a wooden puppet, with spirit (Shen) concentrated to an extraordinary degree. This is what we call "appearing like a wooden rooster." Such archery skill is indeed remarkable, yet it still doesn't represent the highest attainment.

The true zenith is what we term "the shot that is not a shot" (non-deliberate archery). Imagine standing atop a towering peak, treading on perilous cliffs, facing a chasm hundreds of feet deep—placed in extreme danger yet maintaining perfect inner stillness, where every casually released arrow finds its mark effortlessly. This embodies the essence of "the shot that is not a shot."

Extending this principle, we see that perfected beings (Zhiren, the highest adepts) can gaze upward to fathom the heights of the azure heavens and peer downward to measure the depths of the Yellow Springs. Though their spirit roams freely through the eight directions, their vital energy (Qi) remains unshaken. Their state of being is vast and indomitable, filling the space between heaven and earth. Those who attain such realization—how could external phenomena possibly startle them into fear?

(Note: The "wooden rooster" symbolizes supreme concentration; "the shot that is not a shot" refers to the natural state beyond technical mastery; "Zhiren" is the Daoist honorific for one who has realized the Dao)