《沖虛至德真經四解》Vol. 8

To the far west in the southern region lies the peculiar land of Gumang, where the Yin and Yang energies of heaven and earth fail to intermingle, making seasonal changes indistinguishable. Neither sunlight nor moonlight reaches this place, leaving no distinction between day and night. The people neither eat nor wear clothes, yet remain in deep slumber for prolonged periods, awakening only once every fifty days. They consider their dream experiences as reality, while dismissing waking perceptions as illusion.

The Central Plains region (referring to ancient China) spans both sides of the Yellow River, extending east and west across Mount Tai, covering over ten thousand square li. Here, the orderly movement of Yin and Yang manifests clearly defined seasonal transitions between cold and heat, while the distinct boundary between day and night enables proper temporal orientation. The populace exhibits varying degrees of wisdom, all creatures thrive and multiply, diverse arts flourish, and society maintains governance through ruler-minister hierarchies upheld by ritual propriety, creating vibrant social dynamics. These people regard waking activities as real, while dismissing dream visions as falsehood.

In the northern reaches of the far east lies the land of Fuluo, where the terrestrial Qi burns intensely under perpetual residual sunlight, rendering the soil infertile for proper crops. The inhabitants subsist on wild roots and berries, ignorant of cooking with fire. Their temperament grows fierce and violent, with might making right becoming the prevailing ethos - they value martial prowess over moral principles, constantly active with little rest, remaining perpetually wakeful without ever sleeping.

These regional customs differ as radically as those who mistake study for dreaming and action for slumber, yet each lifestyle proves perfectly adapted to its local environment, making mutual condemnation unnecessary. Through comparing these two extreme nations, we perceive that while their manifestations differ, the profound principles underlying them remain fundamentally identical. Those who cling to carnal desires and worldly attachments become shackled by mundane concerns, forever barred from comprehending truth.

The Zhenghe era (Northern Song dynasty) commentary explains: Yang Qi represents movement and illumination, while Yin Qi symbolizes stillness and darkness. The extreme western south suffers Yin excess, hence its people incline toward stillness and prolonged sleep; the extreme eastern north experiences Yang predominance, thus its inhabitants habitually remain active with little rest. The Central Plains, however, represent where heaven and earth unite harmoniously - where the four seasons rotate smoothly, wind and rain balance appropriately, and Yin-Yang achieves equilibrium. Here people move when movement is proper, rest when rest is needed, maintaining perfect dynamic harmony while clearly distinguishing reality from illusion. Only those who truly comprehend the great Dao and skillfully adapt to transformation can possibly attain such a state.

This scripture reveals the dialectical relationship between wakefulness and dreams, toil and ease through two contrasting stories.

Scholar Fan remarks: Chickens are alert by day and drowsy at night, while owls are drowsy by day and alert at night—such is their innate nature. Humans are no different. Between the southern regions of the western extremity and the northern lands of the eastern extremity, as well as in the central states, customs vary greatly. The experiences of dreaming and wakefulness differ completely, making their underlying principles difficult to articulate clearly.

During the Zhou dynasty, there was a wealthy merchant named Yin whose vast enterprises kept him constantly occupied. His elderly servant toiled from dawn till dusk without rest, groaning with exhaustion by day but falling fast asleep at night. This servant frequently dreamed the same delightful dream: he became a ruler, enjoying boundless wealth and honor, experiencing supreme happiness. When he awoke and resumed his labor, others would sympathize with his hardships, but he would say, "A human life spans a hundred years, divided equally between day and night. Though I toil as a servant by day, by night I reign as a sovereign in endless joy—what have I to complain about?"

Meanwhile, Master Yin himself remained perpetually anxious about his businesses, exhausting both body and mind. At night, he suffered recurring nightmares: he became a menial servant, ordered about and abused, moaning in distress until dawn brought respite. Troubled by this, a friend counseled him: "Your daytime glory and wealth far surpass ordinary men. That you dream of suffering at night reflects the natural balance of joy and sorrow. At the peak of prosperity comes decline; extreme joy begets grief. The pleasures of wakefulness may transform into the torments of dreams—how could one possibly enjoy blessings both day and night?" Hearing this, Yin lightened his servants' burdens and reduced his own worries, whereupon his condition improved.

Scholar Lu concludes: Those who labor physically but rest spiritually find weariness by day but peace by night. Those who strain spiritually while indulging physically enjoy pleasure by day but anguish by night. The spirit (Shen) is life's sovereign, yet people fail to nurture it to settle the body. The body houses the spirit, yet people neglect using physical ease to relax the spirit. Thus many exhaust both form and spirit. This passage illuminates how wakefulness and dreams share the same essence, with joy and sorrow each finding their place—the servant's daytime toil brings nighttime ease, while Master Yin's daytime glory brings nightly humiliation. Only by not grasping for perfection in both can each find their proper balance.

This scripture explores the dialectical relationship between life's joys and sorrows, dreams and reality, through several allegorical stories.

The text first discusses the principle of Yin-Yang balance: when the body loses this equilibrium, illness arises—such as when daytime exhaustion meets improper nighttime rest. Only by adjusting daily rhythms and quieting mental chatter can one restore physical and spiritual harmony, allowing ailments to heal. Yet it reveals a deeper truth: what ordinary people consider wakefulness may itself be another form of dreaming. Only the truly awakened can see through this grand illusion of human existence. Those obsessed with social hierarchies—whether rulers or shepherds—remain trapped by superficial appearances.

The contrast between Master Yin and his servant's dreams illustrates this further: by day a commanding master, Yin dreams nightly of being a servant, while his laborer servant dreams of being a king. This demonstrates how suffering and joy, nobility and baseness are relative—from the perspective of the Dao, all things are fundamentally equal. Deluded people remain shackled to the cycle of day and night, mistaking their limited awareness for true wakefulness.

Finally, the parable of the Zheng hunter and the deer: after a woodsman captures a deer in the wilderness and hides it, he later forgets the hiding place and assumes it was just a dream. Another man finds the deer using the woodsman's description but claims, "This is the deer the woodsman obtained in his dream." That night, the woodsman dreams of both the hiding spot and the man who took his deer. Retrieving the deer the next day sparks a legal dispute. This story reveals how people often mistake reality for dreams and dreams for reality, struggling to discern what's truly real.

The core teaching urges liberation from attachment to superficial realities, recognizing that suffering and joy, nobility and baseness, dreaming and waking are all relative concepts. True awakening lies in transcending these dualities to perceive the fundamental unity of all things through the lens of the Dao.

This passage presents a philosophical fable exploring the boundary between dreams and reality. The story tells of a man who shot a deer but later lost it, thinking it was just a dream; another man who heard about it and found the deer was then accused of theft. Their dispute escalated until brought before a magistrate.

The magistrate ruled: "If the first man truly shot the deer yet claims it was a dream, or if the second dreamed of getting the deer yet insists it's real—now that you're disputing this deer, even your families can't distinguish dream from reality. Let's simply divide the deer in half." When the ruler of Zheng State heard this, he sighed: "The magistrate himself is dreaming this deer-division!" His chancellor added: "Between dream and non-dream, even I cannot distinguish. To truly differentiate dreaming from waking—perhaps only sages like the Yellow Emperor (Huangdi) or Confucius could do so."

The commentary analyzes: Ordinary people, confused by emotional fluctuations of joy and anger, cannot even distinguish dreams from waking—let alone recognize there's ultimately no absolute boundary between them. Lu Chongxuan (a Tang Dynasty Daoist commentator) explains that so-called dreams are merely deluded thoughts; when our spirit (Shen) lacks clarity, illusory dreams arise. The deer-finder was equally confused, and litigation compounded the confusion—hence the magistrate could only muddle through with equal division. Only sages can penetrate such illusions, but in their absence, ordinary people must rely on the magistrate's confused judgment.

The Zhenghe era Daoist Canon (compiled during Emperor Huizong's reign) observes from the Daoist perspective: Fundamentally, what distinction exists between dreaming and waking? Both are transformations of the same Qi. Only when distinctions of right/wrong emerge do concepts of truth/falsity arise. Thus calling a real deer-hunt a dream, or a dreamt deer reality—such entangled judgments become impossible to unravel. Sages like the Yellow Emperor and Confucius perceive reality and illusion as one, while the magistrate attempts to judge illusion by reality's standards—naturally reaching no clarity. With no sage available to judge, people must provisionally accept the magistrate's decision.

Fan Yingyuan (a Southern Song Daoist) adds: Those truly awakened to Dao transcend worldly concerns, undisturbed by gain or loss. Deer—being herd animals (lacking independence) and fleet-footed (lacking stillness)—embody impermanence; their gain and loss resemble dreamlike illusions. The finder considers it real, while others see it as dream. When recounted at home, it becomes another dream. This mirrors Liezi's "dream of the deer in the banana grove," revealing all phenomena as ultimately empty.

This scripture explores the boundaries between dreams and reality, the nature of perception, and the wisdom of healing mental afflictions through vivid stories and metaphors.

The text begins with the allegory of "chasing deer in a dream": In dreams, people mistake illusory deer for reality, and upon waking, they doubt whether waking life is yet another dream. This confusion between illusion and reality sparks futile debates. Like trying to analyze dreams while still dreaming, it only leads to deeper bewilderment. Only realized beings like the Yellow Emperor (Huangdi) and Confucius, who have attained the Dao (the Way), can truly discern the boundary between dreaming and waking states.

Next comes the story of Yangli Huazi from the Song state who suffered from "chronic forgetfulness": He would forget by evening what he had taken in the morning, forget to walk while on the road, and forget to sit when at home. His family tried divination, shamanic rituals, and medicine—all to no avail. Finally, a Confucian scholar pointed out that such an ailment couldn't be predicted through divination—because divination responds to the mechanisms of changing phenomena, while Huazi's mind had become still like dead ashes. Nor could it be resolved through prayer—because prayer addresses inner guilt, yet Huazi had already relinquished all attachments. Least of all could medicine cure it—because medicine treats physical ailments, while Huazi's illness resided in his spirit (Shen).

The Confucian scholar proposed "transforming his consciousness": By making Huazi experience basic needs (exposing him to cold to seek clothing, starving him to seek food, confining him in darkness to seek light), they could reawaken his fundamental instincts. The profundity of this treatment lies not in forced change, but in reactivating forgotten life perceptions through natural responses.

This story recounts how Hua Zi suffered from a peculiar "amnesia" and was later cured by a Confucian scholar. Through this parable, the original text explores the distinction between the Daoist state of "sitting in oblivion" (zuowang) and ordinary worldly cognition.

The Confucian first removed Hua Zi's defensive weapons as a test. He joyfully informed Hua Zi's son: "The illness can be cured, but my method must remain confidential." He then dismissed all bystanders and stayed alone with Hua Zi for seven days—no one knew what transpired between them. Indeed, the Confucian's therapeutic approach wasn't limited to a single method, and thus a chronic condition was suddenly healed.

The text observes that shamanic medicine proved powerless, while only the Confucian could effect a cure. By first helping Hua Zi recall his forgotten state, the scholar demonstrated that this mindless condition couldn't be achieved through divination or medicine. The Confucian's skill surpassed even historians and shamans because he understood how to guide patients through various means. The underlying message suggests that the forgotten state Hua Zi originally experienced was already approaching the truth of the Dao (the Way).

Commentator Lu Zhongxuan explains: Laozi said "the pursuit of learning increases daily, while the pursuit of the Dao decreases daily." Hua Zi had cultivated the Dao to the point of self-oblivion, yet the Confucian used knowledge to enhance cognition. Enhanced cognition leads to disputes over right and wrong, while self-oblivion transcends gain and loss. How could divination or medicine cure this? The Confucian tempted Hua Zi's mind with various methods and disturbed his thoughts with judgments, causing him to lose the state of "sitting in oblivion."

Upon awakening, Hua Zi became furious—he expelled his wife and children, seized his weapons, and attempted to kill the Confucian. When apprehended by Song state officials and questioned, he lamented: "When I was in oblivion, I existed without awareness of heaven and earth. Now suddenly I remember decades of gains and losses, sorrows and joys—countless disturbances overwhelm my mind. I fear my thoughts may remain forever chaotic like this. Can that brief state of oblivion ever return?" Even this superficial resemblance between illness and truth could provoke such transformation—how much more so genuine realization of the Dao?

Lu Zhongxuan remarks: Hua Zi wished to return to his true nature but found no path, hence his displaced anger toward his family and the Confucian.

When Zigong heard of this, he found it strange and reported it to Confucius. The sage replied: "This is beyond your understanding," then instructed Yan Hui to record the incident. Actually, Zigong should have been capable of grasping this principle—Confucius spoke thus to enlighten him through this very occasion.

This scripture explores the relationship between the state of "forgetting" and Daoist cultivation through several classical allusions. The text mentions how Zigong (a disciple of Confucius), despite being erudite and eloquent, strayed from the Dao by over-pursuing knowledge; while Yanhui (Confucius' most virtuous disciple) was chosen to record essential teachings precisely because he could achieve "sitting in oblivion" (zuowang, a meditative state of self-forgetting), illustrating that true enlightenment requires transcending intellectual cleverness.

Zhenghe Zhenren (a Daoist practitioner) asserts that genuine freedom comes from forgetting distinctions between right and wrong, relinquishing attachment to the physical body, abandoning cleverness, and allowing one's innate nature to manifest spontaneously, silently merging with the Dao. This seemingly dull state actually aligns with the Great Dao, though ordinary people find it incomprehensible. Sages (those who have attained the Dao) are not troubled by external matters like common people, yet worldly folk mistake Huazi's (a cultivator) "illness of forgetting" (a state of transcending mundane affairs) for actual sickness, disturbing his spirit with various methods—an act that ultimately harms rather than helps.

Fan Zhenren further explains: The state of Song (a Spring and Autumn period kingdom) corresponds to the Fire phase, symbolizing brightness and restlessness; the "illness of forgetting" actually represents a temporary return to one's original nature, mistakenly perceived as pathology by the unenlightened. Ancient cultivators revered the "forgetting mind" (wangxin, the state beyond distracting thoughts), and Songzi's "illness of forgetting" approached the true essence of Dao-realization. The authentic Dao is singular and pure—forgetting what was gained by morning by evening (transcending gain and loss), forgetting walking while on the road (transcending action), forgetting sitting posture indoors (transcending form), until even the concept of time dissolves (transcending temporality). How could such a state be called illness? If this were truly sickness, then who would be the subject doing the forgetting? Clearly, the real affliction lies with those who ignorantly judge what they don't understand.

This scripture presents a parable about losing one's original nature. In the state of Lu, there was a man named Hua Zi who suffered from amnesia. His family tried every possible method to cure him without success. First, they consulted diviners for prognostication, then invited shamans for prayers, and later sought physicians for treatment—all to no avail. The Confucian scholars of Lu also came forward with various suggestions, yet none proved effective.

The text points out that when a person harbors no doubts in their heart, divining fortunes becomes meaningless; when one has committed no transgressions, beseeching spirits serves no purpose; and when free from illness, taking medicine is futile. To cure such amnesia, one must begin by transforming the heart-mind. Thus, through experiencing cold, hunger, and darkness, Hua Zi's instinctive needs for warmth, food, and light were reawakened. Like the legend of chiseling seven openings into primordial chaos, once perception is opened, the forms of all things in the world become manifest.

After regaining his memory, Hua Zi became furious instead, driving away his wife and children and even chasing after the Confucian scholars with weapons. He felt that the care and demands of these close ones had been excessive. During his forgetfulness, he had been unaware of life and death, gain and loss, sorrow and joy, likes and dislikes—but now he was constantly troubled by such matters.

Zi Gong consulted Confucius about this incident. Confucius believed that Hua Zi was merely indulging in erudition and debate, while Yan Hui had attained the profound state of "sitting in forgetfulness" (a meditative state of self-oblivion). Hua Zi's forgetfulness was not true forgetfulness—during his illness, he was completely unaware, yet upon awakening, he flew into a rage, indicating he had not yet reached the state of forgetting both self and things, merging with the Dao.

Finally, the text cites the example of a man named Feng from the state of Qin, whose son demonstrated how misdirected intelligence can lead to confusion. As a child, this boy was exceptionally bright, but as he grew older, he developed a disorder that made him mistake singing for weeping, white for black, fragrance for rot, and sweetness for bitterness. His actions inverted right and wrong, and his perception of heaven and earth, the four directions, fire and water, heat and cold—all became completely disordered.

Through these examples, the scripture reveals how excessive attachment to external knowledge and sensory perception can lead to the loss of one's original nature. True wisdom lies in maintaining inner emptiness and stillness, harmonizing with the Dao.

This passage reveals the fundamental difference between "delusion" and "awakening" through a parable. The story tells how a man named Yang complained to his father that the gentlemen of Lu (a state renowned for its ritual propriety during the Spring and Autumn period) were exceptionally talented. His father then took him to visit Laozi (Lao Dan).

Laozi said: How do you know your son is the deluded one? Nowadays, all people under heaven are blinded by judgments of right and wrong and calculations of gain and loss—it's like when everyone suffers from the same illness, no one recognizes it as a disease. The delusion of one person cannot sway an entire household; the delusion of one household cannot sway an entire village; the delusion of one village cannot sway an entire state; the delusion of one state cannot sway all under heaven. But if the whole world is steeped in delusion, then who remains to point it out? If everyone under heaven were as clear-minded as your son, it would be you and your father who appear deluded instead.

Laozi further observed: Those gentlemen of Lu, who spend their days eloquently discoursing on humaneness and righteousness while sharply distinguishing right from wrong, are precisely the most deeply deluded ("the pinnacle of delusion"). How could they possibly help others break free from confusion? You'd be better off packing your bags and returning home early.

Later commentators (Lu and Zhenghe) added: This chapter illustrates that standards of right and wrong can never be absolutely fixed—what is often called "correct" is merely the majority suppressing the minority. The world has too many ordinary people and too few awakened ones, so the masses end up mocking those who are enlightened as madmen. As Laozi said, "When inferior people hear of the Dao, they laugh heartily at it"—if common folk don't ridicule it, it isn't the true Dao. Trying to correct others using worldly standards of right and wrong only takes one further from the Dao. Those Confucian scholars of Lu, when confronted with the genuine practice of "forgetting form to preserve spirit" (忘形保神), are actually the most profoundly deluded.

The passage concludes: The more sharply distinctions between right and wrong are drawn, the more the great Dao (Dao) diminishes. You have your right and wrong, I have mine—just like singing and weeping, black and white, fragrance and stench, sweetness and bitterness. When everyone under heaven affirms themselves while condemning others, who can truly arbitrate? The common people have been lost in delusion for so long that each privately considers themselves enlightened while calling others deluded—how could we possibly discern clearly? This is the truth Laozi sought to impart to that father.

Do you understand why you are lost? Who can truly distinguish between joy and anger, sorrow and happiness, music and beauty, fragrance and stench, right and wrong? It is like when the Mystic Pearl (symbolizing the true essence of the Dao) is lost—even Wuwang (the state of no-mind and no-form) becomes confused upon obtaining it. How can ordinary people comprehend this affliction of being lost?

Fan Shi said: Benevolence is the original nature of the human heart. In youth, acting according to one's innate nature is called childlike purity, akin to the primal state of heaven and earth. But as one grows older and contracts this affliction of being lost, one's original understanding loses its function, preparing to enter the formless realm of the Dao. This is like the north symbolizing winter, called "wang"—"wang" being where all things return and are stored. From being lost to the state of "wang," one nearly touches the ultimate emptiness, yet simultaneously encompasses all existence in the world. It is called an affliction because worldly people consider it abnormal.

Hearing song yet mistaking it for weeping—this is not due to a lack of hearing but to losing the ability to distinguish sounds. Seeing white yet perceiving it as black—this is not due to a lack of sight but to losing the ability to discern colors. Smelling fragrance yet taking it for rot—this verges on losing the sense of smell. Tasting sweetness yet finding it bitter—this verges on losing the sense of taste. Taking wrong for right—this is entering a state where the Dao has boundaries but distinctions of right and wrong have not yet arisen. Fundamentally, when the mind is inverted, the four directions of heaven and earth, water and fire, cold and heat all become disordered. This is the realm where all things merge into undifferentiated unity.

Yang Zhu told his father that most gentlemen of Lu were skilled in various arts because they personally practiced benevolence and righteousness, clearly distinguishing right from wrong, thereby fragmenting the wholeness of the Dao. His father, passing through Chen on his way to Lu, met Laozi (Lao Dan) and told him of his son's condition because Laozi took profundity as his root and simplicity as his guiding principle, embodying the vastness of the Dao. At that time, the whole world was confused by right and wrong, blinded by profit and loss—many suffered the same affliction, yet none were aware of it. Who, then, is truly lost? Who is truly awake?

From the individual to the family, from the family to the village, from the village to the state, from the state to the world—there is none who is not utterly lost. Who can correct this? If everyone in the world were like your son, you would instead be the one who is lost. Moreover, joy and anger, sorrow and happiness, sounds and sights, scents and flavors, right and wrong—these are matters where the majority and minority influence each other, and there is no fixed standard. Whom shall we appoint to judge them? Those who share the same views? If their views are the same, how can they judge impartially? Those who hold opposing views? If their views differ, how can they reach a fair verdict?

This scripture explores the theme of human delusion and returning to one's true nature through two illustrative stories.

The first story reflects: When your views and mine are in constant disagreement, how can we determine what is truly correct? The more we try to dispel another's confusion, the more we may end up deepening their perplexity. Rather than persisting in such efforts, it is better to relinquish attachment and return to the fundamental truth. Laozi himself acknowledged that even his words could be misleading—precisely to break people's fixation on language.

The second story tells of a man from Yan who grew up in the state of Chu. In his old age, while journeying back to his homeland, he passed through the state of Jin. His companions deceived him, claiming that Jin's city walls, ancestral shrines, houses, and graves were those of his native land. Believing them, the man wept bitterly in sorrow. Later, upon realizing the deception, he felt deeply ashamed. Yet when he finally reached Yan and beheld his true homeland, his emotions were no longer as intense. This illustrates how human sentiments shift with experience—past joys and sorrows inevitably fade.

Lu Chongxuan's commentary observes: Human nature is originally similar, but diverges due to differing habits and influences. The man from Yan, having left home young, became accustomed to life in Chu and thus failed to recognize his true homeland, falling easily into deception. This mirrors how modern people often cling to illusions while neglecting the vital principle of cultivating the spirit (Shen) and returning to their authentic nature.

Fan Yingyuan adds: Human nature is eternal and unchanging, yet chasing external things leads to confusion. Some seek to recover their original heart-mind through worldly knowledge, only to become more bewildered, mistaking externalities for their true self. Like the man of Yan, who lost his innate nature by leaving home young and struggled to recognize his homeland in old age, we too must discern where our true "spiritual home" lies.

This passage recounts a story about Kuang (a person's name). While traveling through the State of Jin with companions, Kuang was deliberately tricked—when his companions pointed to Jin's city walls claiming they were Yan's, Kuang's expression immediately darkened; when they identified Jin's earth-god shrine as Yan's, he sighed deeply; when houses were presented as his ancestral home, tears welled up; and when burial mounds were called his forebears' graves, he broke down in uncontrollable sobs.

Later, his companions revealed these were all Jin's landmarks. Kuang felt profound shame but consequently fell into confusion, forgetting his true origins. Yet when he actually reached Yan and beheld its walls, shrines, and his ancestors' genuine former dwellings and graves, his grief proved far less intense. This illustrates the principle that "understanding comes only through direct experience."

People like Kuang, though temporarily lost, ultimately awaken—unlike those who muddle through exhausting journeys without finding their way home. The text references Xu Wugui's (a Daoist figure) teachings about the Yue people and Zhuangzi's allegory of the ancient capital, both conveying similar truths.

(The story subtly allegorizes how Dao cultivators must discern fundamental reality, avoiding deception by external appearances. Genuine awakening requires personal practice, not mere imagination or others' words. It also satirizes those easily swayed by outer circumstances while neglecting inner truth.)