《南華真經義海纂微》Vol. 62

Confucius went to visit Lao Dan (Laozi). Lao Dan had just washed his hair and was waiting for it to dry, his hair hanging loose. His expression was calm, almost unlike that of an ordinary person. Confucius stood to one side and waited. After a while, he saw Lao Dan and said, “Could my eyes have deceived me? Just now, your body was rigid like a withered tree, as though you had forgotten the things around you and withdrawn from the human world, standing there alone.”

Lao Dan said, “I let my mind and spirit roam in the beginning of all things.”

Confucius asked, “What does that mean?”

Lao Dan said, “The states felt within the heart are difficult to grasp through understanding; even if one wishes to speak of them, words cannot express them. Still, I will try to explain their principle to you. The deepest Yin Qi is solemn and still; the fullest Yang Qi is intense and bright. Yin Qi descends from Heaven, while Yang Qi rises from Earth. The two Qi mingle and form a harmonious energy, and so the myriad things come into being. It seems that some force arranges the order of all things, yet its traces cannot be seen. Things diminish and grow, become full and then empty, now dark, now bright. The sun and moon take turns, and all things change. Each goes about its own work, yet its achievements cannot be seen. Life begins to sprout, and death finds its resting place; beginnings and endings cycle endlessly, and no one knows where the cycle ends. If it were not so, what could be the root of all things?”

Confucius said, “May I ask how one can roam in such a state?”

Lao Dan said, “To experience this state is to attain the utmost beauty and the utmost joy. One who experiences the utmost beauty and roams in the utmost joy is called a ‘Perfected Person’—one who has reached the highest state.”

Confucius said, “I would like to hear how this is done.”

Lao Dan said, “Wild animals that eat grass do not grieve when they move to a different pasture. Creatures that live in water do not worry when they move to a different stretch of water. Though their surroundings change a little, they do not lose the fundamental patterns of life. Joy and anger, sorrow and pleasure do not enter their hearts. All things under Heaven are one. Once you understand that all things come from the same whole, you will see that the limbs and bones will eventually turn to dust, and that life and death, beginnings and endings, are no more than the alternation of day and night. Nothing can disturb your mind and spirit—how much less such minor matters as gain and loss, good fortune and misfortune?

“Cast off the things outside yourself that subject you to others and make you dependent on them, as you would cast off mud. Know that your own self is more precious than these things. Its worth lies in itself and is not lost through change. Besides, the transformations of all things are endless, so what is there to worry about? One whose heart already contains the Dao understands this principle and can free themselves from worry.”

Confucius said, “Your De accords with Heaven and Earth, yet you still rely on words of profound truth to cultivate your mind and spirit. Among the ancient gentlemen, who could entirely do without cultivation?”

Lao Dan said, “That is not so. When water gathers and flows, it needs no human effort; its power appears naturally. The De of the Perfected Person, too, does not depend on deliberate cultivation. All things naturally find it impossible to be without them.”

“Are Heaven’s height, Earth’s thickness, and the brightness of the sun and moon simply natural? What could have been done to cultivate and bring them into this state?”

After Confucius came out, he told Yan Hui: “My understanding of the Dao is probably like a tiny gnat inside a vinegar jar! My Master”—meaning Lao Dan—“lifted the veil from my eyes, and only then did I realize how vast Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things truly are.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary: When the mind and spirit are utterly settled, one seems scarcely human. When stillness and detachment reach their utmost, one forgets one’s body and mind, and external things fall away. At first, the myriad things did not exist; suddenly, they appeared. Only by roaming before the beginning of their appearance can one understand that no one deliberately made the myriad things: they exist naturally. Confucius was bewildered within and could not speak. Wanting Zhongni to seek the Dao beyond words and ideas, he could only try to speak of Yin-Yang as an analogy for it.

“Yin and Yang meet, and Heaven and Earth are thereby opened and formed”: this describes the union of Yin and Yang. There is no trace of anything behind the scenes prescribing or directing the myriad things; nor have the myriad things ever held fast to a fixed state. Thus, understanding that things are as they are by nature is to know that no human effort is responsible for them. Life arises before anything has yet gathered; death returns things to dispersal. This is what is meant by: “Meet it, and you cannot see its beginning; follow it, and you cannot see its end.” The most beautiful state has no notion of beauty; the greatest joy has no notion of joy.

Life and death are merely minor changes. One who understands these changes without losing the constant root of the Dao will not let joy, anger, sorrow, or pleasure enter the heart. Understand that the body is like a servant, and you can regard it as if it were discarded clay. If one understands that life and death both belong to the self, then what one cherishes is the self; but if the self, too, changes along with everything else, there can be no question of remaining unchanged. Those who have already realized the Great Dao are freed from these bonds. This is called “hanging release”: escaping an upside-down plight and attaining liberation.

Lao Dan held that Heaven, Earth, the sun, and the moon did not attain their present states through cultivation or deliberate making; they are so naturally. Confucius said that, compared with Lao Dan, his own completeness was like that of a tiny gnat in a jar beside Heaven and Earth.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: The myriad things have never begun to exist. So which of our movements and rests, words and silences does not roam within the beginning of all things? Inner bewilderment is beyond what knowledge can recognize; being unable to speak is beyond what words can express. If one forces oneself to speak, one may fall short of the utmost Dao.

Yin and Yang unite and communicate, forming harmony, from which the myriad things arise. This principle ranges from the span of a year down to a single day; it applies to external things and the body within alike. Some power prescribes the myriad things behind the scenes, yet its trace cannot be seen; the waxing and waning, the changes of the myriad things, are simply like this. Life arises and death returns things to dispersal; neither has a boundary, and both are likewise so. This is perhaps what was previously called “the beginning of the myriad things.”

What people under Heaven consider beautiful and joyful does not represent the utmost in beauty and joy. Only by grasping this principle does one attain the most beautiful and joyful state. When wild animals change their mountains and forests, or fish change their waters, these are only small changes; they have not lost their fundamental surroundings of mountain, forest, or water. Understand this and roam freely within it, and there will be nothing among the myriad things under Heaven that does not return to unity. Then, as for life and death…

A person who is alive can naturally experience changes in bodily condition. How, then, could gain and loss, calamity and fortune disturb the mind and spirit? Those who understand the value of life will not, even when their bodies undergo minor changes, dismiss the body and lose what is truly precious. The transformations of the myriad things are endless; how could they burden my heart? Those who have attained the Dao understand precisely this.

The commentator Yidu explains: “‘The beginning of things’ refers to the time before their material forms had taken shape. Try to discuss what things were like then, and it is probably impossible to say all there is to say. The solemn Qi of the north and the blazing Qi of the south—when Yin and Yang Qi converge, each also contains a Qi of balanced harmony, and from this the myriad things come into being. Dalü is a Yin tone, yet it arises at the hour of Si, which belongs to Yang; Huangzhong is a Yang tone, yet it arises at the hour of Hai, which belongs to Yin. Yin and Yang contain one another, wax and wane, and transform. The myriad things grow, yet they do not know the underlying principle, nor can they see the traces of Yin-Yang transformation. The movements of the sun and moon and the succession of the seasons all express this principle: life emerges from the formless and, in the end, returns to the formless. Amid the transformations of life and death, who is in command? If it is not Yin and Yang, what could it be?”

The most beautiful state under Heaven does not take outward beauty as beauty; the most joyful state does not depend on outward pleasures. What one gains is renewed day by day, and what one appreciates has no fixed, unchanging form. To settle the utmost beauty within oneself and roam freely amid the utmost joy of the myriad things—this may be called the perfected person.

Life and death are minor changes; the Dao is the great constant that endures. Beasts change their forests, and fish change their waters. People dwell within the Great Dao, responding to change and transforming along with things, yet never losing themselves. If life and death are regarded as minor changes, what is there in joy, anger, sorrow, or delight to dwell on? All things under Heaven receive the Dao in common. Those who understand their shared origin cannot have their mind and spirit disturbed by life and death, much less by gain and loss, calamity and fortune.

The sage prizes the Dao and values the body only after it. If one prizes only the body, one remains vulnerable to worry and distress. People all know that the body is more precious than a slave, but they do not know that the body itself may also become a great burden. If they understand that the Dao is more precious than the body, they can preserve what is truly precious within themselves, unchanged by life and death. The myriad things between Heaven and Earth transform without end; how could they burden the mind and spirit? Only those who have attained the Dao can understand this.

After hearing these profound truths, Confucius asked Laozi: “Why can one whose De is in harmony with Heaven and Earth still not forget words?” Laozi replied that this is the nature of water, and that the De of the perfected person is the same. The height of Heaven, the thickness of Earth, and the brightness of the sun and moon all have their roots in nature. Why, then, would they need deliberate embellishment? Though I have spoken these words, it may rightly be said that I have said nothing.

The commentator Bixu goes on to explain “like withered wood, casting off things”: it means rejecting attachment to external things as a withered tree does, gathering and containing one’s Jing (essence), nurturing one’s Shen (spirit), and thereby transcending worldly affairs.

Only Zhuangzi speaks of “mourning the loss of one’s mate.” He enters the realm of emptiness and stillness, roams where all things begin, and never departs from the root of the Great Dao.

Try to grasp it with the mind, and the mind is at a loss; try to explain it in words, and speech is blocked. Only by leaving the mind behind and forgetting words can one come close to the Great Dao.

The cold, killing force of Yin descends, while the bright, flourishing harmony of Yang rises. Yin and Yang of Heaven and Earth interact and harmonize, and all things are wondrously brought into being. It seems as though some ordering principle governs them, yet its traces cannot be seen. The waxing and waning of all things follow their own patterns, and the alternation of light and darkness between day and night has its regular course. It seems as though someone is making these things happen, yet the workings of creation cannot be seen. When things come to life, they sprout amid a dim and indistinct mystery; when they die, they return to a profound and distant darkness. The Great Dao has no beginning, so no one knows where it starts; it has no end, so no one knows when it will cease. If not the Great Dao, what could be the fundamental governor of all things?

Confucius then asked, “How can one understand the Way of forgetting words through study and travel?” What is there to gain from studying the Great Dao? One need only grasp the most beautiful and joyful state within one’s nature. From the perspective of this state, life and death are like a wild animal moving from one forest to another, or a fish swimming from one stretch of water to another: merely temporary changes. What is there to worry about?

The world is vast, embracing all things as one. Seen from the perspective of what all things share, even the parts of one’s own body are like decaying things. The life and death spoken of here are like waking and sleeping—how much less should other things trouble us? Thus, being a whip-bearing charioteer or riding in a splendid carriage, wearing the robes of the powerful, is like a fish changing its waters or a wild animal changing its forest. This is what is meant by “the outer changes along with change, while the inner remains unchanged.” What is precious lies within: nothing has ever truly left oneself, and joy is therefore inexhaustible. What is there to worry about?

For example, when one draws water from a spring to drink, the water naturally nourishes one; no one has deliberately made it so. The virtue of a perfected person extends broadly to all things, without being fashioned or cultivated through deliberate effort. It is like the height of Heaven, the depth of Earth, and the brightness of the sun and moon: what need is there for human adjustment? Thus Confucius used his limited understanding, like a tiny insect in a small jar, as a metaphor for recognizing the vastness of Heaven and Earth as a whole.

Yanzhai says: To take one’s stand in the unique Great Dao is to go beyond the bounds of the worldly. “Where all things begin” means the time before there were any things at all. The four lines beginning “Yin and Yang rise and descend” describe the Great Dao as manifested in the changes of Yin and Yang. Their interaction and harmonization mean that with Yin alone, things cannot be born, and with Yang alone, things cannot be completed. It seems as though something maintains order, yet its traces cannot be seen; the waxing and waning of things and the alternation of light and darkness between day and night seem to happen of their own accord, yet the workings behind them cannot be seen. These statements about having no beginning or end all speak of creation. “The most beautiful and joyful” praises the mystery of the Great Dao. When fish change waters and wild animals change forests, they do not lose water or vegetation. People share the same world; how can they imagine themselves different from all other things? Once we understand that all things come from Heaven and are no different from one another, life and death will no longer disturb us—how much less anything else? The original text continues beyond this point.

Good fortune and calamity, life and death come and go like servants; one may disregard them as one would a clod of earth. If you regard yourself as precious and external things as base, then once you understand that the Dao is precious because it is within you, how could changes in external things harm the inner beauty and joy you possess? The myriad things in the world change without end; there is no reason to trouble your mind over them. Ordinary people simply do not understand this. Only those whose own being accords with the Dao understand the principle.

The phrase “ultimate words” continues the discussion from above: even Laozi could not entirely leave words behind in cultivating his inner self, so who can escape them? The answer is this: river water does not run dry when it is drawn, because it does not act with deliberate intent; everything follows its natural course. The virtue of the Perfected One is like Heaven, Earth, the sun, and the moon: it is entirely natural. Why, then, would one need to force it?

“Beginning of things” refers to the original state of the myriad things: without names, it is the beginning of Heaven and Earth—that is, the Taiji (Supreme Ultimate), the source from which all things have yet to divide. It appears in serene stillness from Heaven and shines brightly from Earth: when Taiji moves, Yang arises; when movement reaches its limit, it turns into stillness. From stillness, Yin arises; when stillness reaches its limit, movement begins again. This cycle continues without end, as though some power were directing it, though no form of that power can be seen. This is what is meant by “the wise above know that creation has no creator; those below know that things create themselves”: the discerning understand that creation has no tangible ruler, while those with a more limited understanding know that things come into being naturally.

To understand the beginning of the myriad things is to understand one’s own beginning. Even the beginning of Heaven and Earth is no different. To realize this ultimate beauty is to wander freely in ultimate joy; this is the furthest reach of the human way.

The life and death of the myriad things include both their emergence and their return. Is human life and death not worth investigating deeply? In the lesser principles of change, things are born and die; but the deeper, constant Dao cannot be destroyed. What cannot be destroyed is the numinous, lucid ground of being: at rest, it is called “nature,” containing emptiness and appearing full; in motion, it is called “mind,” entering the turmoil of the world and appearing deficient. Those who understand this principle can pass through change while comprehending what is constant. This is called “clarity.”

When it exists, it is like the moon reflected in water; when it changes, it is like the wind passing through the sky. Why worry that water may turn to ice or marshland may change? The world belongs to all things together. How could the limbs and bones of the body belong to me alone, or be perceived by me alone? A servant is low in status and may be cast aside; the body is precious, yet it cannot last forever. How, then, could gain and loss, good fortune and calamity unsettle the heart?

Water is clear of its own accord. This is a metaphor for the Perfected One’s virtue: it does not depend on deliberate embellishment, and all things naturally come into accord with it. Heaven’s role is to bring life to all things and cover them; Earth’s role is to form and support them; the sage’s role is to preside over education and transformation. Perhaps this is why the sage becomes “complete in all things”—whole in virtue and able to understand the myriad things.

The central point of this chapter is that life moves from emergence toward return. When the sages of old spoke of this, they often left their meaning unstated. Perhaps this was because…

People must turn back and seek to deepen their genuine understanding. Only after seeing how things actually are can they avoid being misled by appearances.

Life and death continually transform into one another. Between life and death, no one can escape death, whether their understanding is keen or they are foolish. People often strive to live in comfort and plenty, then arrange for an elaborate burial after death. Yet few know where life first comes from or where it ultimately returns. To know where it returns, one must investigate where it began. At first, this may sound bewildering, as though there were no way to get a hold of it. But if one studies the meaning of the scriptures carefully and compares their accounts, they can offer insight.

The Nanhua Zhenjing (the Daoist name for the Zhuangzi) also says: “If we examine the beginning of life, originally there was no life. There was not only no life, but no form and no Qi (vital energy); everything was mixed together in a dim, indistinct state. Later, transformation brought forth Qi; Qi transformed and formed the body; the body came to life; and life, through further transformation, returned to death. These transformations cycle in turn, like the changing seasons.” The text also says, “Those who are good at dealing with life are also good at dealing with death.” The mysteries the ancient sages did not explain openly have already been described in detail by the perfected person. The only concern is that people may not seek them out.

This principle can be understood in the heart, but words cannot express it fully. It is like the Chan Buddhist inquiry into the state before one’s parents gave birth to one, and into the state after the elements that make up the body, such as wind and fire, have dispersed. Even if a teacher’s guidance helps one find the way in, in the end one must realize it for oneself. This is what is meant by the saying, “Once it is spelled out, it is no longer right.” Students should strive to understand it through their own insight.

Zhuangzi visited Duke Ai of Lu. The duke said, “There are many Confucian scholars in Lu, but few who understand the Dao you speak of.” Zhuangzi replied, “There are few Confucian scholars in Lu.” The duke said, “Everyone in the whole state of Lu wears Confucian robes. How can you say there are few?” Zhuangzi replied, “I have heard that Confucian scholars who wear round hats understand the workings of Heaven, those who wear square-toed shoes understand the lay of the land, and those who wear sashes and jade pendants can make decisions when matters arise. A gentleman may possess a certain moral ability without wearing the corresponding clothes; those who wear such clothes do not necessarily understand the Dao behind them. If you do not believe me, why not issue an order throughout the state: ‘Anyone who wears these clothes without understanding this Dao shall be put to death’?”

Duke Ai issued the order. Five days later, no one in Lu dared to wear Confucian robes. Only one man still wore them, standing outside the palace gate. The duke summoned him at once and asked him about affairs of state. The man answered deftly, adapting to every turn of the conversation; nothing could stump him. Zhuangzi said, “In a place as large as Lu, there is only one true Confucian. Can you still say there are many?”

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: “Those whose inner being is filled with De (Virtue/Power) do not deliberately adorn their outward appearance.”

Lü Huiqing’s commentary says: “Zhuangzi often has Confucius seek instruction from people such as Laozi, thereby showing that the wisdom and sagacity celebrated by the world cannot exhaust the Great Dao. What is said here…” (The original text ends here.)

In this way, learners have no means of understanding the true significance of honoring Confucius.

The commentator Yidu quotes Yangzi as saying, “One who understands Heaven, Earth, and humanity is called a Ru; such a person is a true Ru.” Having the Dao within is fundamental; wearing Ru clothing outwardly is a matter of form. Without either one, a person cannot be called a Ru. Only a sage can put their own nature into practice and so be worthy of the clothing they wear. Those who have not attained sagehood, yet wear Ru robes and caps, are what the world calls Ru scholars. The whole state of Lu was full of people dressed as Ru, but there was only one true Ru: Confucius. This shows just how worthy of reverence Confucius is.

The commentator Bixu says, “To assist a ruler, one Kui—the worthy minister of the legendary Shun—is enough. Why, then, would reviving Ru teachings require the help of three thousand disciples?” Put a tiger’s skin on a sheep, and people will surely mistake it for a tiger. People of great De may seem foolish, but does that mean no one understands them?

The commentator Yanzhai says: The point of this passage is that many people wear Ru clothing, but none of them understand the Dao.

Nanhua, or Zhuangzi, lived in an age rare for its turbulent times and remarkable talent, yet he found himself amid a corrupt era. There was no one then with whom he could speak as an equal, so he could not give voice to the exceptional ideas he held within. He therefore discussed the ancient rulers above, Confucius and Laozi in between, and figures below, from Yang Zhu and Mo Di to Jie and Zhi—the legendary tyrant and robber. He examined the truth of people’s words and actions and distinguished the subtle differences between their inner selves and outward conduct, with the clarity of a mirror revealing the finest detail. Some say that most of what Zhuangzi wrote was meant to mock Confucius. They have read his words without exploring his intent. This chapter ends by saying, “The whole state of Lu is full of people dressed as Ru, but there is only one true Ru.” I believe no one honored Confucius more than Nanhua. Read Su Shi’s “Record of the Zhuangzi Shrine” and you will see that I do not speak without grounds.

Baili Xi, a minister of the state of Qin during the Spring and Autumn period, did not care in his heart for rank or salary. So when he was put in charge of feeding cattle, he made them fat and strong; later, he persuaded Duke Mu of Qin to look past his humble origins and appoint him to govern the state. The legendary Shun, ruler of Youyu, did not care in his heart about life or death, and so was able to move others.

When Duke Yuan of Song planned to have a picture painted, all the painters came. After bowing to the ruler, they stood, licking their brushes and preparing their ink; half of them were still waiting outside the gate. One painter arrived late, unhurried and at ease. After bowing, he did not stand waiting but went straight back to his lodgings. Duke Yuan sent someone to see what he was doing. The painter had taken off his clothes and was sitting with his legs spread, his body exposed. The ruler said, “Good. This is a true painter.”

The commentator Guo Xiang says: One who is content within can handle external affairs well; therefore, their manner is calm and their mind settled.

The commentator Lü Huiqing says: From Baili Xi’s appointment to govern, a small matter, to the legendary Shun’s ability to move others, a great one, none of this would have been possible if their hearts had been constrained by external things. The painter’s removing his clothes and sitting with his legs spread shows that he truly knew how to paint.

Titles and stipends are small matters; life and death are the great matters. Being able to set titles and stipends aside is nothing remarkable. Only when one can set life and death aside as well can one say that nothing is beyond one’s capacity.

When the mind is preoccupied with self-importance, the spirit and Qi become scattered. When the mind is full, one’s outward manner appears calm and unhurried. Self-importance unsettles the spirit: even when one wants to accomplish something, others may think one is unwilling to accept it. An unhurried manner steadies the spirit: even when one acts, there is a quality of Wuwei (non-action). This is the principle by which the ruler called the Primal Lord, in this passage, chose a court painter and recognized the true artist.

Bixuzi’s commentary says: Baili Xi awaited the right time and the workings of fate, and once made his living tending cattle. From watching how he worked, people could tell that when serving his parents he was able to forget his own safety; they thus recognized his filial devotion. Those eager to secure an appointment often have not yet mastered their learning. Those who are composed and at ease must have perfected their craft. If this holds true even for humble tasks, how much more must it hold for subtle principles?

Yanzhai says: When Baili Xi tended cattle, how could he have been thinking of winning titles and stipends? Precisely because he sought neither fame nor profit, Duke Mu recognized his worth and, moved by what he saw, appointed him. The court painter had no thought of seeking recognition. He loosened his clothes and stretched out, painting as he pleased—a phrase describing ease and freedom in the act of painting. The Primal Lord therefore recognized that his work came from his true nature.

Baili Xi had no desire for titles and stipends and devoted himself to tending cattle, so Duke Mu of Qin appointed him to govern. The painter did not boast of his skill, but painted freely and with abandon, so the Primal Lord recognized his work as genuine. When the mind is empty and still, things naturally come to it; when the mind is full, one’s outward manner can be calm and composed. That is the principle at work. Today, people who practice an art are anxious that others will not know their abilities, while those who appoint people value only outward displays. No wonder their choices fall short of true excellence.

On closer examination, the phrase “he fed the cattle, and the cattle grew fat” should read “he fed the cattle and grew fat.” It means that although Baili Xi lived in a lowly position and did manual labor himself, he was content with the Dao and forgot his poverty, so his body and mind became at ease and well nourished. It does not mean that the cattle he fed grew fat.