《南華真經循本》Vol. 18

This passage explores the wisdom on the essence of life from the "Perfect Understanding of Life" chapter in the Zhuangzi (also known as Nanhua Zhenjing). Those who truly comprehend the truth of life do not pursue things detrimental to it. The phrase "wu yi wei" (无以爲) resembles Confucius' saying "useless like this" in the Analects, referring to matters devoid of genuine value.

Those who understand the true nature of fate do not force what intellect cannot alter. People seeking to nurture their bodies often rely on external things, yet some possess abundant resources but fail to maintain health. Though life cannot exist without physical form, there are those whose bodies remain intact while their vitality dissipates. Life comes unbidden and departs unhindered—how lamentable! Ordinary people believe preserving the physical form safeguards life, but if nurturing the form proves insufficient to sustain life, what purpose do worldly endeavors serve? Though these efforts may be futile, we cannot abandon them, for we remain bound by our physical forms.

To transcend the burdens of physical form, the best approach is to "abandon the world" (free oneself from worldly attachments). Detachment brings freedom from burdens; without burdens, one attains mental tranquility; with tranquility, one can renew life in harmony with the Creator (natural laws). The Creator both bestows and reclaims life—maintaining this dynamic constitutes mutual fulfillment with the divine.

Achieving this state of "renewal" (更生) brings one near the Dao. What worldly matters warrant attachment? Why cling to life? Shedding mundane concerns relieves the body of toil; transcending attachment to life and death preserves spiritual energy. When form remains whole and spirit undiminished, one merges with nature. Heaven and earth are like parents to all things—their union creates form, their separation returns to the source. Preserving form and spirit intact allows alignment with natural transformations; refining spirit to its utmost enables assistance in nature's workings.

Liezi (a Daoist sage) asked Guan Yin (a Daoist realized master): "How do perfected beings dive without drowning, tread fire without burning, and walk atop all things without fear?" Guan Yin replied: "This comes from maintaining pure Qi (vital energy)—it transcends cleverness or bravery. Know this: all with form and sound belong to the realm of objects. What true difference exists between objects? The key lies in transcending appearances."

This scripture presents two illustrative stories that demonstrate the Daoist concept of "spiritual wholeness" (Shen quan) - a state of complete mental focus and unity.

The first part describes how a drunkard falling from a carriage escapes serious injury because his intoxicated state renders him oblivious to fear of life and death. In this condition of self-forgetfulness, external harm cannot touch him. The sage attains an even more perfect state of spiritual wholeness than drunkenness, achieving unity with the natural Dao (the Way), making him invulnerable to external forces. Just as an avenger wouldn't break his enemy's sword, nor would an angry man blame a tile dislodged by the wind. The key lies in abandoning artificial striving and instead following nature. Opening to one's natural disposition (Tian) nurtures Virtue (De), while clinging to human effort invites misfortune.

The second part recounts Confucius encountering a hunchbacked old man in Chu who caught cicadas with a bamboo pole as effortlessly as picking things up. The old man revealed his secret: after five to six months of practice—first balancing two balls atop the pole without dropping them, then three, and finally five—he achieved this mastery. When catching cicadas, his body stood firm as a tree stump, his arm motionless as a dead branch, his gaze fixed solely on the cicada's wings, undistracted by all else. Confucius marveled, declaring this the principle of "undivided concentration approaching the divine" (yong zhi bu fen, nai yi yu shen) - where single-minded focus yields supernatural skill.

Both stories demonstrate that when one achieves complete concentration, with spirit undisturbed by external things, one attains unity with the Dao and manifests extraordinary capabilities.

This dialogue conveys the core principles of health cultivation and Daoist practice through vivid metaphors.

In the discussion about boating, Confucius explains: Skilled swimmers quickly learn to row because they're already familiar with water's nature; those who can hold their breath underwater for long periods can operate boats without prior experience. This is because they've completely adapted to the aquatic environment—they perceive deep abysses as level ground and treat capsizing as casually as a carriage backing up. No amount of danger can disturb their inner peace. Another gambling analogy follows: When wagering with pottery shards, one remains relaxed; with belt hooks, tension arises; with gold, the mind becomes clouded. Though the skill remains the same, excessive concern about external gains and losses makes the inner self clumsy. Those who overvalue material things inevitably lack inner cultivation.

When Tian Kaizhi met Duke Wei of Zhou, he shared his teacher Zhu Shen's approach to health preservation: Nurturing life is like herding sheep—pay special attention to stragglers and urge them forward. Two examples illustrate this: Shan Bao lived as a mountain recluse, maintaining an infant's complexion at seventy, yet was eaten by a tiger; Zhang Yi busied himself with social engagements and died of internal fever at forty. The former cultivated his inner self but neglected external protection, while the latter pursued external connections at the cost of inner health. True health preservation requires balancing both aspects, supplementing wherever deficiency exists.

Confucius concludes: Neither completely conceal yourself nor excessively display yourself—stand like withered wood in the middle state. Only those who achieve this equilibrium can reach the highest realm. The term "standing like firewood" (chaili) refers to maintaining the Middle Way without leaning to either extreme.

This passage presents two allegorical stories that explore how people often overlook genuine dangers.

The first story observes that people fear perilous roads—if told one in ten travelers dies on a certain path, fathers and brothers will warn each other and only venture forth in groups, which seems wise. Yet the true dangers lurk in daily life: between bed mats (referring to excessive sexual activity) and within food and drink (indicating gluttony). People remain unaware of guarding against these, which constitutes the greater error.

The story then employs a sacrificial pig as metaphor: The ritual officer, robed in ceremonial attire, tells the pig, "Why fear death? I'll fatten you for three months, purify you with ten days of fasting, bathe you for three days, lay white reeds, and place your shoulders and rump upon carved vessels." Yet from the pig's perspective, it would prefer eating husks in its pen. Humans, conversely, chase after grand carriages and official caps in life, ornate coffins and lavish hearses in death. Where lies the difference between human and porcine choices?

The second tale recounts Duke Huan of Qi encountering a ghost while hunting. As Guan Zhong drove his chariot through marshlands, the duke suddenly grasped his minister's hand, claiming to see a ghost. Returning home, he fell ill from fright and secluded himself for days. The wise man Huangzi Gao'ao explained: "This stems from stagnant Qi—when Qi disperses without returning, it causes weakness; when accumulated above without descending, it brings irritability; when trapped below without ascending, it induces forgetfulness; when congested in the heart region, it breeds illness." When the duke asked whether ghosts truly exist, Huangzi cataloged various spirits: the Ji ghost dwells in hearths, the Thunder ghost lurks behind doors, the Bei'e Guilong haunts the northeast, the Yiyang ghost the northwest, water shelters the Wangxiang, hills host the Shanxin, mountains conceal the Kui, wilderness wanders the Panghuang, while marshes hide the Weiyi snake spirit. Upon describing the Weiyi—"purple-bodied, crimson-headed, standing clasping its head at thunder chariots' sound; its beholder becomes hegemon"—the duke laughed heartily: "This is what I saw!" Instantly cured, he straightened his robes and sat up.

Both stories reveal how people often fear superficial dangers while neglecting life-damaging threats; sometimes terror springs from mental knots—untangling cognitive blockages brings natural healing.

Zhuangzi conveys the principle of "following nature" through these allegorical tales:

The story of training a fighting cock: Ji Shengzi was training a rooster for the king. After ten days, when the king inquired, he said it wasn't ready yet—the bird still put on false bravado. Another ten days passed, and the cock still reacted to external noises. After thirty days, it retained its sharp gaze and aggressive demeanor. Only after forty days did the bird become as steady as a wooden statue, utterly undisturbed by its surroundings, causing other roosters to flee at the sight. This illustrates how true mastery requires no ostentation—inner cultivation naturally commands respect.

Confucius' encounter at the Lüliang waterfall: Beneath a three-hundred-foot cascade where even turtles couldn't swim, a man moved effortlessly through the torrent. Thinking him suicidal, Confucius sent rescuers, only to see the man emerge hundreds of paces downstream, singing with hair flowing. When asked his secret, the swimmer said there was none—he simply followed the water's nature: diving with whirlpools, surfacing with currents, completely yielding to the water's ways without forcing. Born to land, he was at peace on land; raised in water, he became one with its flow. This embodies the principle of "being at ease with the timing and following the natural course."

The story of Qing the carpenter making chimes: Qing's musical instruments were so exquisite they seemed divinely crafted. When Duke Lu asked his secret, Qing replied he was merely an ordinary artisan—except that before working, he would fast and calm his mind: for three days forgetting rewards, five days forgetting fame, and after seven days even forgetting his own body. Only then would he enter the forest to select wood, instantly recognizing the perfect material. This demonstrates how eliminating distractions and focusing wholeheartedly leads to miraculous craftsmanship.

These stories collectively reveal: by relinquishing deliberate striving and conforming to the inherent nature of things, one attains the highest achievement. Whether in cockfighting, swimming, or instrument-making, the true Dao (the Way) lies in dissolving subjective attachments to merge completely with nature.

This passage comes from the Zhuangzi's "Full Understanding of Life" chapter, which conveys Daoist wisdom of "following nature" through several parables.

The story about crafting musical instruments reveals that true masters first allow the wood to assume its natural form before fashioning it into bell stands. This approach aligns the Dao of nature with natural materials, resulting in creations that seem divinely inspired. Similarly, when the charioteer Dongye Ji demonstrated perfect control—advancing, retreating, and turning with precision—his very pursuit of perfection exhausted his horses and led to failure.

The legendary craftsman Chui could draw perfect circles freehand, surpassing compass-drawn ones because his fingers had become one with the tool, requiring no conscious thought. This resembles forgetting one's feet yet feeling perfectly comfortable in shoes, or forgetting one's waist yet finding the belt perfectly fitted. When the mind remains undisturbed, unentangled by external things, and in harmony with nature, one attains the supreme state of "forgetting comfort within comfort"—where even the awareness of ease disappears.

The story of Sun Xiu carries deeper meaning: this man complained about his unrecognized talents until the Daoist sage Bian Qingzi counseled him. Those who embody the Dao forget their physical organs, transcend worldly troubles, and wander in carefree joy. But you parade your intelligence like holding up the sun and moon—how could you complain about Heaven's way when remaining physically intact is already fortunate?

These stories collectively demonstrate how forced striving backfires. Only by following nature and relinquishing self-conscious grasping can one achieve true unity between person and tool, between heaven and humanity.

This passage elucidates the proper way to guide others. Zhuangzi (known as the Perfected of Southern Florescence) employs a vivid analogy to illustrate the point: if someone were to abruptly explain the supreme virtue (De) of the "ultimate person" (至人) to ordinary individuals, it would likely frighten them and only deepen their confusion.

A disciple raises a counterargument, suggesting that regardless of who is right or wrong, the listener is already seeking answers due to their inherent perplexity. But Bianzi (Zhuangzi) disagrees, recounting the story of a ruler of Lu who tried to care for a bird: the king treated the bird with the highest honors, offering it the grandest sacrificial feast (太牢, Taillao) and performing the most solemn ancient music (九韶, Jiushao). Yet the bird, overwhelmed, refused to eat or drink. This exemplifies the mistake of raising a bird according to human customs. The proper approach would have been to let the bird dwell in the forests, roam freely across lakes and rivers, and forage as nature intended.

Bianzi then extends the metaphor: when people of narrow understanding (款启寡闻之民, meaning those whose vision is as limited as peering through a tiny hole) are suddenly confronted with the realm of the ultimate person, it is akin to transporting a tiny mouse in a grand carriage or entertaining a small bird with the booming sounds of bells and drums. How could they not be terrified?

Annotations: "款启" (kuǎn qǐ) refers to a narrow perspective, like viewing the world through a small aperture; "太牢" (Taillao) denotes the highest-grade sacrificial offerings in ancient times; "九韶" (Jiushao) is the most revered classical music of legend. This story teaches us that guiding others must be a gradual process, tailored to their level of understanding—never imposed beyond their capacity to comprehend.