《通玄真經(一)》Vol. 6

This passage expounds the principles of governing a state and cultivating one's person. The highest virtue (Shang De, Superior Virtue) refers to rulers who truly possess moral character. When the governing ways of the Xia, Shang and Zhou dynasties declined, and the virtue of the Five Hegemons of the Spring and Autumn period deteriorated, it became even more necessary to cultivate virtue to rectify the world. Those with meritorious deeds will be seen by the world, and those with virtue will be respected—this is what we call "Shang De."

Laozi said that the ruler is like the heart of a nation. When the heart is calm, all joints of the body remain stable; when the heart is disordered, the whole body falls into chaos. Governing a state depends on the ruler's discernment—when the ruler is perceptive, the people can live and work in peace. Cultivating one's person lies in rectifying the mind—when thoughts are upright, all parts of the body find comfort. Therefore, those who can govern themselves well will have no ailments in their limbs and bones; those who can govern a state well will maintain harmony between ruler and ministers without worries.

Laozi recalled learning from his teacher Chang Cong: seeing the tongue taught him to maintain softness (the ancient character for "tongue" also carried the meaning of "softness"); looking up at the roof beam made him sigh over time's swift passage; gazing down at the river brought lament over time's ceaseless flow; observing shadows revealed the wisdom of yielding rather than competing. Thus the sage always maintains emptiness and stillness, following nature's course, often content to stay behind rather than compete for precedence. Like stacking firewood—the later pieces naturally end up on top (this being the constant principle of things: deliberate striving for precedence ironically prevents one from leading).

Laozi illustrates his teachings with several metaphors: bells destroy themselves by making sound; candles consume themselves by emitting light; tigers and leopards invite hunters through their beautiful fur; monkeys get captured because of their agility. Thus the brave perish through displays of strength, and the eloquent become entangled through their wit. Using cleverness to display intelligence is inferior to using wisdom to appear dull (cleverness often outsmarts itself, while apparent dullness preserves). Therefore, those skilled in only one ability or versed in only one argument may handle specific situations, but cannot adapt to all changes (the valor of an ordinary man cannot command multitudes, and one-sided arguments lack universal understanding).

Laozi concludes: The great Dao takes emptiness as its root (the Dao's substance being profoundly mysterious and empty), invisible to the eye.

This passage elucidates the essential characteristics of the Dao (the Way) and how practitioners should comprehend it.

It begins by pointing out that those seemingly profound and elusive things (referred to as "the obscure and mysterious") may be used to discuss the Dao, but they are not the Dao itself. Just as a fishing trap is not the fish, words can describe the Dao but are not the Dao in its true form.

To truly grasp the Dao, one must engage in inward contemplation (reflecting on the inner self and self-examination). If practitioners do not cling to petty cleverness, they will not fall into great delusion; if they do not covet small favors, they will not commit grave folly. It is like comparing the glow of a firefly to the radiance of the sun or mistaking a common stone from Yan for the legendary He Shi Bi—such acts are manifestations of confusion and ignorance.

When observing phenomena, one should not focus on turbid, flowing water but rather on still, clear water, for stillness preserves clarity (a metaphor for how only a tranquil mind can perceive with clarity). Just as the full moon obscures starlight, showing that Yin cannot withstand Yang, or how the rising sun makes stars invisible because they cannot compete with its brilliance, this illustrates the relationship between the root and the branches: the branches must not overpower the root, just as the limbs of a tree cannot exceed the trunk. If the top is too heavy and the bottom too light, collapse becomes inevitable (a metaphor for governance or spiritual cultivation needing to prioritize the fundamental).

Finally, the analogy "a single abyss cannot harbor two dragons" is used to illustrate that the supreme Dao is singular and unparalleled, also hinting at the concentration of authority or truth.

This scripture elucidates the core concept of "single-minded devotion to the Dao" through multiple natural metaphors. Where mountains contain jade, the surrounding vegetation flourishes; where waters hold pearls, the riverbanks never dry. Just as a noble person accumulates moral cultivation (De), their radiance naturally shines forth.

Though an earthworm lacks strong sinews or sharp claws, it penetrates hard soil through sheer concentration. Similarly, when humans devote themselves wholly to the Dao, they need not rely on external fame or profit for fulfillment. A single cup of clear water can reflect one's eyes, while turbid rivers—however vast—cannot reveal Mount Tai. This teaches the paramount importance of purity and single-mindedness.

Orchids and fragrant herbs do not lose their scent when unworn, nor great ships sink when unoccupied. The noble person walking the Great Dao does not cease their practice when misunderstood. Just as pouring clear water into murky water creates turbidity, and muddy water contaminates when poured into clarity, the wise and foolish cannot easily coexist.

When the Yin-Yang energies (the two fundamental complementary forces) of heaven and earth fall out of balance, rainbows appear or terrestrial Qi leaks; when human internal Yin-Yang becomes disordered, illness arises. Winter cannot abruptly turn to summer, nor day and night intermingle—all things follow their natural patterns.

Only vast rivers nurture great fish; only towering peaks grow massive trees; only expansive lands accumulate profound virtue (De). As fishing requires bait and trapping needs lures, propagating the Great Dao demands suitable vessels. Forests with fierce beasts preserve their trees; gardens with venomous insects keep their vegetables untouched; states with wise ministers avert crises a thousand miles away.

Those truly penetrating the Dao resemble a wheel's hub—remaining motionless yet enabling the wheel to travel thousands of miles, cycling endlessly within the infinite source. This illustrates how realized beings, appearing to practice non-action (Wuwei), accomplish great deeds.

This scripture employs vivid natural metaphors to expound the Daoist wisdom of "guarding the Dao (the Way) while awaiting the proper timing" in state governance. Just as catching birds requires spreading the entire net—relying on a single mesh hole will never succeed—ruling a nation cannot depend solely on individual talents. The sage (referring to a ruler who has attained the Dao) understands how to accumulate the power of De (Virtue/Power) and wait for the opportune moment, like King Wen of Zhou and Emperor Gaozu of Han, who upheld righteousness when the time was not ripe and acted in accordance with the natural flow when the moment arrived.

To catch fish, one must first dredge the streams; to attract birds, one must first plant trees—where water gathers, fish will come naturally; where trees flourish, birds will perch. It is not about forcibly placing fish into deep pools or carrying monkeys up trees. Simply create the right conditions, and they will come of their own accord. So too does an enlightened ruler govern: by establishing favorable circumstances, virtuous and capable individuals will naturally gather around.

Human understanding always has its limits: the places one's feet have trodden are few, yet it is precisely because of untrodden paths that one can continue moving forward; the mind comprehends only so much, yet it is because of the unknown that one can keep gaining insight. Just as rivers drying up leave valleys empty, leveling hills fills deep pools, losing lips leaves teeth exposed to cold, and deepening waters enrich the riverbanks—all these illustrate the interdependent relationship between ruler and people. If a ruler imposes excessive taxes and levies, it is like overdrawing from a river until the mountain soil becomes barren. When the people's resources are exhausted, the ruler's position becomes precarious—this is the principle of "when the lips are gone, the teeth feel the cold."

Finally, water serves as the ultimate metaphor: when still, it becomes clear; clarity brings calmness, and calmness makes reflection effortless, allowing objects to appear in perfect form. When the water's surface reflects a single complete image without distortion, it can serve as a standard (symbolizing how a ruler's mind, like still water, perceives with perfect clarity). This mirrors how enlightened rulers maintain minds like undisturbed mirrors or placid waters, enabling them to administer affairs with impartial wisdom.

This scripture employs metaphors from natural phenomena and craftsmanship to elucidate several philosophical principles of life:

When observing things, one must look beyond appearances to perceive their essence. Just as falling leaves result from the wind's movement and murky water stems from disturbance, no change occurs without cause—every phenomenon has its underlying reason.

Even the finest jade discs (bi) and legendary swords (Mo Ye) require polishing to become treasures. Similarly, while noble individuals possess innate talents, they must still receive guidance from wise teachers to achieve greatness. Like horseflies clinging to swift steeds—traveling a thousand miles without needing their own provisions—this illustrates the importance of choosing proper support.

The proverbs "When the cunning hare dies, the hunting dog is stewed" and "When high-flying birds are gone, fine bows are stored away" demonstrate that withdrawing after achieving success follows natural law. Truly wise individuals understand timing, retreating at the appropriate moment to preserve themselves.

Human nature originally lacks anger or forced action—such emotions and behaviors arise from external stimuli. Thus, cultivation requires returning to original purity, achieving the state of "seeing the formless" and "hearing the soundless"—remaining undisturbed by appearances while maintaining inner clarity.

Finally, the text parallels returning birds to nests, rabbits to burrows, foxes dying with heads turned toward birthplaces, and cicadas clinging to trees—all natural tendencies toward returning to origins. This subtly suggests humans too should reclaim simplicity and return to their fundamental nature.

All things follow their inherent nature (nothing deviates from its fundamental principles). Though water and fire naturally oppose each other, when separated by a cauldron (ancient cooking vessel), they harmonize to create delicious flavors. Though blood relatives are naturally affectionate, when slander intervenes, even fathers and sons may grow suspicious. (This shows that while natures may oppose, proper application brings harmony; when petty men sow discord among kin, estrangement arises—the wise must remain vigilant.)

Pigs and dogs don’t discriminate bowls—they eat from any vessel. Though they grow fat, death draws near. (A metaphor for petty men chasing immediate gain: though temporarily prosperous, they inevitably fall. The virtuous hold to principle and await their moment: though temporarily obscure, they ultimately prevail.) The phoenix soars a thousand ren high—none can force it to land. The hard zhui wood, though sturdy, cannot carve itself into rafters. (Those with lofty vision overlook trivialities; gazing too far may obscure what’s near.)

Build a mountain on high ground, and it stands firm; dig a pond in lowland, and it becomes a deep pool where fish and turtles gather. (Follow nature’s patterns, and success comes without strain; work with things’ tendencies, and fulfillment requires no force.) Ditches fill with rain but dry in drought, while rivers and seas, fed by profound sources, never exhaust. (When storing, don’t overflow; when flowing, don’t run dry—their foundation is deep.)

The turtle has no ears but keen eyes; the blind lack sight but hear acutely. (All things have unique strengths—none can replace another.) Murky water washes feet; clear springwater cleans hat tassels. (Both clarity and turbidity have uses, just as sages and ordinary folk each serve—the key is deploying them appropriately.) Raw silk becomes fine gauze: some forms hats for the head, others socks for the feet. (Things find their purpose when used rightly.)

Metal overcomes wood, yet one blade cannot fell a forest. Earth contains water, yet a handful of soil won’t dam a river. Water quenches fire, yet one ladle won’t save a cartload of burning wood. (A metaphor for limited individual power: one person’s integrity can’t rectify collective faults; one mind’s wisdom can’t enlighten the deluded masses.) Winter thunder or summer hail marks disorder in the natural rhythms of heat and cold.

This scripture reveals profound principles for navigating life through natural phenomena and everyday observations.

Just as frost and snow may blanket the earth with apparent solidity (the term "麃麃" refers to snow trampled by deer herds), they melt away when the sun emerges. Winter thunderstorms and summer hailstorms demonstrate how even the regular patterns of cold and heat can become disordered. Virtuous people naturally gravitate toward goodness just as foolish ones incline toward evil—this tendency is as inevitable as moisture gathering to form rain.

Fragrant orchids and angelica often wither before the first frost arrives, while toads (legendary creatures believed to ward off weapons) meet their end precisely on the fifteenth day of the fifth month (ancient people believed killing toads on this day could create talismans for protection). This illustrates how useful things often invite misfortune, making obscurity the safer path for self-preservation. When a tree's vital essence (Jing) leaks outward, its branches wither; fruits out of season cannot be eaten, just as ill-gotten wealth inevitably brings calamity.

Which decays first—the tongue or teeth? Which remains straight—a rope or an arrow? Hard things may seem strong yet break easily, while soft things appear bent yet retain their true nature. A crooked shadow comes from a misaligned object; a muddled echo stems from impure sound. The finest physician cannot save one already dying, nor can the most loyal advisor preserve a doomed state.

If you make musicians play the yu (an ancient instrument) while craftsmen finger the holes, though they may keep rhythm, nothing great can be achieved—for the guiding force is lost. The deaf don't sing because they hear no music; the blind don't observe because they see no colors. Straight paths elude travelers in dense forests, and winding trails defy linear steps—all demonstrating how a thing's root determines its manifestation, and without this root, purpose remains unfulfilled.

When walking through the woods, one need not strictly follow the field paths—what matters is smooth passage; when facing danger, one need not rigidly adhere to convention—what’s crucial is turning peril into safety. The vastness of the ocean comes from its ability to embrace all rivers (as streams continuously flow into it, inexhaustible and thus achieving its greatness). There are never two suns in the sky, nor two alpha males in a fox pack; the divine dragon has no mate, fierce beasts roam alone, and phoenixes never appear in pairs (these are all solitary and transcendent beings, thus becoming rulers among beasts and birds).

Just as in building a house, a single rafter cannot block the sun, and a lone spoke of a wheel cannot move swiftly—this illustrates how things must work together to function. When drawing a bow to shoot, an arrow cannot fly without the bowstring, yet only one in ten arrows truly hits the mark (just as even the wisest ruler cannot achieve greatness without ministers. Many seek office, but a ruler who genuinely thirsts for talent is one in a million).

Hungry horses in a stable remain silent, but once fodder is tossed nearby, they scramble (just as those lacking food and clothing will fight over provisions, and those craving fame and position will contend for opportunities. Thus, the noble yield their stipends, while the petty vie for rank). A three-inch bamboo tube without a bottom can never be filled, even with all the water in the world; yet a ten-dan vessel, once stoppered, is full after a hundred dou (this metaphor speaks to the insatiable greed of those who, like bottomless containers, can never be satisfied).

Sawing wood along an inked line ensures a straight cut; weighing with a scale prevents error. Ancient laws must adapt to the times, and punishments should be meted out with restraint. Acting in harmony with the Dao is called discernment; acting against it is called chaos (following principles prevents transgression, and balancing priorities ensures appropriateness. Since past and present differ, laws and institutions must evolve—governing requires adapting to the times, while clinging to old ways brings disorder). Farmers toil diligently to sustain the noble, while fools offer opinions for the wise to sift (though farming is arduous, it embodies the Dao).

This passage illustrates principles for human conduct through multiple metaphors. First, it discusses the importance of learning: those who truly understand principles handle matters with the clarity of distinguishing jade, while the confused must deliberate carefully. Just as a hundred stars cannot match the brightness of one moon, and ten open windows admit less light than a single door, quality surpasses quantity. King Wen of Zhou obtaining Jiang Ziya (Lü Wang) and Emperor Gaozu of Han securing Zhang Liang (Zifang) demonstrate that true talent lies not in numbers but in excellence.

Next, animal metaphors reveal limitations: a viper cannot serve as feet, nor a tiger as wings, showing that people and things have inherent constraints—no one masters everything. A six-foot mat may be easily stepped over by an ordinary person lying down, yet poses difficulty for a tall person standing upright, highlighting how differing abilities shape outcomes.

The text then addresses karma: those who assist in sacrifices receive offerings (get to taste), while mediators in fights may get hurt (suffer injury)—illustrating how good deeds bring blessings and encountering evil invites misfortune. Like being struck by lightning under an ominous tree or facing justice for shielding wrongdoers, consequences follow actions.

Finally, natural phenomena serve as metaphors: the sun and moon’s light obscured by clouds, rivers muddied by silt, orchids stunted by autumn winds—just as human goodness is eroded by desire. Dust in the eye will inevitably blur vision. These examples emphasize how external disruptions and inner cravings corrupt innate purity, underscoring the difficulty of maintaining an untainted heart-mind.

This scripture expounds the wisdom of human conduct through multiple metaphors. In dim surroundings it's hard to discern brightness; dwelling in places of desire inevitably leads to contamination—just as orchids struggle to preserve their fragrance amidst frost and snow, and water sources cannot remain clear when mixed with mud and sand. A golden seal worn by a sage becomes noble, while ordinary earth is valued as treasure by the capable—what matters is how things are used. Those who lack understanding treat gold and jade as dung, while the skillful can transform clay into jewels.

Giving silver and gold to the weak is less helpful than offering a foot of plain cloth (the "weak" here refers to foolish and feeble individuals—providing valuables may harm them, just as placing petty men in high positions inevitably leads to disaster). A wheel hub must be hollow to accommodate thirty spokes working in unison; if only a single axle were used while the other spokes were discarded, how could the carriage travel far? Governing a state likewise requires relying on numerous talents to achieve lasting stability.

Citrus fruits grow in specific regions, reeds cluster together, beasts of the same kind roam in company, and birds of like feathers fly in flocks (things of the same category naturally attract one another). To understand the Nine Provinces yet refuse to travel a thousand miles, or to desire ruling over myriad people without the foundation of governance and moral instruction—this is impossible. The wicked will ultimately be caught, and those who move in packs will be struck down ("提提" refers to moving in groups, pronounced "shí").

Thus, what is truly pure appears as if stained, and great De (Virtue) seems incomplete (the most brilliant illumination appears humbled, and supreme Virtue appears insufficient when it does not proclaim itself). When a nobleman drinks to excess, it shames him more than when a petty man beats a warning on his earthen jar—though neither is commendable, the gentleman's lapse is more regrettable. Human nature favors wearing silk, but in battle one must don armor—acting appropriately according to circumstances is true wisdom (wearing padded robes in cold weather and armor in combat—adapting to situations reflects human nature). Thirty spokes share a single hub, each fitting into its dedicated slot without interference, just as ministers attend to their respective duties (this principle mirrors the earlier wheel metaphor).

This scripture elucidates the principles of employing people and natural laws through multiple metaphors. The centipede's numerous legs move without hindering one another, just as the soft tongue and hard teeth work in perfect harmony—this illustrates how a skilled leader can assign different talents to appropriate roles. Stones are naturally hard, and angelica flowers inherently fragrant, just as the wise possess discernment and fools remain benighted; these innate qualities manifest from youth and become increasingly evident with time.

Assistance and guidance, gratitude and deference, gain and loss, acceptance and refusal—these behaviors may appear similar yet differ as heaven from earth. Like plants that bloom prematurely only to wither before bearing fruit, those who violate natural laws ultimately fail. To dirty one's nose with dust yet powder the forehead, or treat foot ailments when the hands are afflicted—these are cases of reversing priorities.

The text concludes with three striking metaphors on environmental influence: burning incense to purify a hall while corrupt rats (symbolizing treacherous officials) infest the court; attempting to stay dry while plunging into water; seeking fragrance while reeking of foul odors—even master craftsmen could never accomplish such contradictions, implying that governance will inevitably fail when employing unworthy individuals, regardless of policy excellence.

This scripture reveals profound truths about governing a nation and cultivating personal virtue through vivid analogies.

Attempting to govern well while associating with flatterers is like jumping into water hoping not to drown, embracing foul objects yet expecting fragrance, or smoking out rats only to burn down your house—such actions inevitably invite disaster. Winter ice may be broken and summer trees bent, but opportune moments are fleeting (time is precious and fortune transient, warning noble persons to seize the right moment for action). When trees flourish, they regrow despite daily harvesting, yet a single night of autumn frost brings withering (illustrating how achieving merit cannot afford missed opportunities).

An erected target draws arrows; lush forests invite axes—not by anyone's summons, but by circumstance's compulsion (the target doesn't seek arrows yet they come; trees don't seek cutting yet axes arrive). A puppy dares bite a tiger, a hen dares fight a fox—all because gratitude makes one forget to measure their strength.

Those who enter water to save others for profit will themselves drown by that profit. Boats float yet can sink; fools know not moderation (as vessels rely on water to float yet may perish by it, so people thrive by profit yet may die by it—only restraint prevents calamity). Driving a steed relentlessly when it refuses to advance, pulling without cease—this mirrors rulers who show no compassion for their people's exhaustion (when subjects reach utter weariness yet lords remain avaricious, it's like exhausting a horse that cannot travel far).

Still waters surely conceal waves; balanced scales surely hide bias; straight rulers surely contain error. Without compass and square, one cannot fix circles and squares; without plumb lines, one cannot rectify curves. Those who use tools must also keep tool-like discipline in heart (though superiors establish just laws, subordinates still transgress—not because rulers lack systems, but because ministers abandon standards).

Though Mount Tai stands mighty, turning away makes it invisible; though autumn down is minute, focusing reveals it clearly (with correct orientation, the smallest becomes visible; with wrong direction, the largest disappears). Bamboo and wood contain fire yet won't burn without drilling; earth holds water yet won't flow without digging (symbolizing how potential requires proper methods to awaken).

This scripture elucidates essential principles of Daoist cultivation and worldly conduct through vivid analogies:

Trees conceal fire within them, just as earth and water hide within water's depths. Without active inquiry and excavation, one cannot uncover their true essence. The principles of Dao cultivation reside within the human body itself, yet without study they remain obscure. Consider how even the swiftest arrow cannot fly beyond two miles, while a lame turtle persevering in its crawl may journey a thousand miles; how accumulated clumps of earth eventually form mountains. The value of learning and practice lies in steadfast persistence, not in initial speed.

Standing by the riverbank longing to catch fish proves less fruitful than returning home to weave a proper net. Dao cultivation resembles fishing—the crucial preparation happens within. Just as tuning a bow requires adjusting its frame before pursuing power, or taming a horse demands first gentleness before speed, so too must a person establish sincerity before cultivating talent. Understanding these three principles allows one to grasp the essentials of handling all matters.

The most skilled blacksmith cannot melt wood to forge implements, nor can the finest carpenter carve ice. Certain things inherently resist forced outcomes, and the noble person wastes no effort on them. We cannot command rivers to cease their waves, only teach people not to ford dangerous currents. Claim no innocence—like the clay pot destined to fall into the well (illustrating humanity's inevitable errors).

Those who critique my conduct seek connection, while those scrutinizing my wares desire trade (revealing how motives manifest through words and deeds). A single move cannot display wisdom, nor one plucked string convey profound sorrow (showing fragments cannot reveal wholeness). One ember burns a finger, yet ten thousand stones of charcoal ten paces away prove harmless—demonstrating how identical things produce vastly different effects through accumulation.

Where glory and wealth flourish, worry and gauntness inevitably follow—just as silken robes above necessitate coarse hemp beneath (warning how elite extravagance begets commoners' hunger). Great trees sink roots deep into mountain stone; towering peaks rest upon broad foundations (symbolizing how rulers must root themselves in the people). These metaphors collectively teach that both Dao cultivation and governance require grasping fundamentals, valuing gradual accumulation, and comprehending intrinsic connections.

Laozi teaches that a drum must not hoard its sound to produce resonance, and a mirror must not conceal forms to reflect images clearly. (This means drums and mirrors fulfill their functions precisely by not clinging to sounds or shapes.) Metals and stones can produce sounds, but remain silent without being struck; pipes and flutes can create music, but stay mute without being played. (These instruments require external activation, just as humans—though endowed with innate De (Virtue/Power)—cannot attain fulfillment without cultivation.)

Thus, the sage stores wisdom deep within, never forcing it upon external things. They respond only when events arise and engage only when phenomena appear. (The sage speaks with purpose and acts with foundation.) The celestial bodies move ceaselessly, cycling perpetually to endure; the wheel's parts each find their place, enabling long journeys through rotation. (The Dao's operation is mysteriously inexhaustible.) The Dao's movement remains constant and flawless, never erring. When heavenly Qi descends and earthly Qi ascends, the interplay of Yin-Yang allows all beings to flourish in harmony. (If a ruler governs like the unwavering celestial motion, ensuring smooth exchange between heaven and earth, all things prosper, ministers align, and the realm finds peace.)

When noble persons govern, petty ones naturally recede—this is the Dao of heaven and earth. (Dismissing deceit and employing the virtuous aligns with cosmic law.) Should heavenly Qi fail to descend or earthly Qi to rise, disrupting Yin-Yang circulation, all beings wither; with petty ones dominant and noble ones withdrawn, crops fail and De (Virtue/Power) lies hidden. (This occurs when rulers neglect De (Virtue/Power), letting treachery reign and exiling wisdom, causing decay and famine.)

The Dao of heaven reduces excess to supplement deficiency; the Dao of earth levels heights to fill lows. (Such is the law of cosmic balance.) The Dao of spirits and deities follows the same principle. (Here the text omits specifics about spiritual operations, implying all universal laws obey this equilibrium.)

This scripture elucidates the principles governing celestial movements and the sage's governance. At its core lies the concept that the Dao (the fundamental cosmic principle) generates all things through the harmonious interaction of heaven's and earth's Yin-Yang forces, and that sages emulate this natural order in ruling the world.

The Dao of heaven operates through giving without taking: like the sky's canopy sheltering all creatures, or the sun, moon, and stars illuminating all quarters without demanding recompense. Thus all beings instinctively turn their shen (spirit) toward the celestial way. This represents the highest De (virtue/power), known as "supreme virtue." The Dao of earth functions through both giving and taking: while the earth nurtures all growth, it ultimately reclaims physical forms (bones returning to soil), manifesting what we call "secondary virtue."

In governance, sages must emulate both heaven and earth:

First, they should mirror heaven's illuminating quality. Just as the text describes through the "four clarities" (celestial clarity, solar/lunar clarity, ruler's clarity, and minister's clarity), a nation thrives only when the sovereign is wise and officials are enlightened, creating transparent governance.

Second, they should embody earth's encompassing generosity while establishing proper hierarchies. As deep terrain gathers flowing water, only a ruler with profound De can unite the people's hearts.

Yin-Yang harmony constitutes the key to universal prosperity: when Yang qi dominates, all things flourish (chang); when Yin qi returns, all things settle (zhan). This alternation mirrors day-night cycles, forming nature's harmonious rhythm. Imbalance occurs when excessive Yin qi suppresses Yang (Yin harming things while Yang submits voluntarily), disrupting equilibrium.

Regarding personal cultivation, the scripture reveals the Dao is never distant from human life. By cultivating inner authenticity (perfecting De through self-cultivation) while nurturing external creation (sustaining De through interaction with things), one achieves unity with the Dao. This integrated approach of internal-external cultivation later became foundational to Daoist practice.

This passage elucidates the manifestation of Yin-Yang principles in both nature and human affairs. When Yang Qi (representing light, growth, and noble virtue) ascends, all things flourish; when Yin Qi (symbolizing darkness, decline, and petty forces) dominates, the world falls into chaos. Just as abundant rain brings lush growth while drought causes withering in nature.

The sages, understanding this cosmic pattern, align their actions with the Yang principle. Those who conform to the innate nature of things will be embraced by them in return, while those who oppose it will be rejected. Yang energy requires accumulation to become effective, just as Yin energy needs gathering before transformation can occur. Thus, sages particularly emphasize the cultivation of De (Virtue/Power) – accumulating virtuous deeds brings blessings, while piling up misdeeds leads to ruin.

In governance, if the ruler (Yang) fails to honor worthy subordinates (Yin) – like Yang energy refusing to descend and nourish the earth – decrees cannot be implemented. Wise sovereigns like Emperor Shun humbly seeking counsel from Bochengzi, or King Wen of Zhou honoring Jiang Ziya as his teacher, understood this principle of "the ruler lowering himself to ministers." Conversely, elevating petty men to high positions causes all things to withdraw and hide, just as creatures rest after sunset.

Thunder's vibration awakens dormant life, just as gentle rain nurtures unfolding growth. Similarly, the virtuous actions of noble individuals can transform all things. Using natural phenomena as metaphors for sage-like influence, this illustrates how celestial movements and human governance share the same fundamental Dao.

The transformations of Yin and Yang follow fixed patterns, just as virtuous individuals act in accordance with natural principles without excess (the dignity of the virtuous resonates like spring thunder, while their governance resembles a gentle breeze—both harmonize with the natural Qi of balance). When thunder shakes the earth, all things unfurl; when fierce winds sway the trees, grass and foliage wither. Similarly, those with De (Virtue) distance themselves from wrongdoing and draw near to goodness, and the people naturally follow (like the masses who followed King Tai of Zhou when he moved from Bin). Without wind, fire cannot blaze; without exemplars, the people lack direction—just as flames require fuel to endure, the words of the virtuous must be rooted in sincerity. With truthful speech, what endeavor could fail? (Flames persist with fuel; words spread through trust. The words and deeds of the virtuous are as unstoppable as the turning of the seasons.)

Rushing rivers erode mountains, excessive Yang transforms into Yin, and accumulated Yin reverts to Yang. Thus, desires must not be indulged, and pleasures must not be pursued to excess (the Dao of Heaven dictates that what rises high must eventually fall; only by restraining desires and preserving harmonious Qi can one align with cosmic principles and avoid extremes). Even in anger, one should not speak harshly; even when vexed, one should not show it in expression—this is true mastery of balance (though anger may arise within, it is subdued by the methods of the Dao, preventing harsh words or visible fury). Fire burns upward, water flows downward, and the sage’s way of engaging with the world follows the principle of resonance—drawing near to the upright and vigorous (referring to loyalty and integrity) brings harmony to the world, while aligning with the devious and weak (referring to flattery and deceit) leads to its decline.

Laozi said: Accumulating thin soil builds towering mountains; gathering small streams forms vast rivers and seas. The noble person cultivates themselves diligently each day, growing brighter over time, while the petty person indulges their desires and ultimately invites calamity (the noble refines themselves in pursuit of the Dao, becoming ever more luminous, while the petty act recklessly and end in ruin). Though the consequences of actions may not appear immediately, one should guard against wicked thoughts as if fearing disaster and pursue goodness as if racing against time. With a heart inclined toward the good, even mistakes bring no regret; with a heart harboring malice, even superficial loyalty invites misfortune. Therefore, blaming others is inferior to self-reflection, and demanding perfection from others is inferior to strict self-discipline. Sound determines the echo; like attracts like; reputation arises from one’s own conduct (all outcomes are ultimately self-invited).

This passage expounds the principle of karmic retribution and the importance of personal cultivation. The text states: How can one blame others when holding a sharp blade that wounds oneself? Thus, the noble person pays particular attention to subtle matters (meaning fortune and misfortune depend not on the scale of events, but on one's orientation toward goodness). If one practices virtue, blessings will naturally follow; if one acts unvirtuously, calamity will befall them—neither outcome can be blamed on others. Unvirtuous conduct is like cutting oneself with a knife or scorching oneself with fire—who else can be held responsible?

All things contain both Yin and Yang aspects. When these two Qi (vital energies) harmoniously blend, this harmony resides at the core of existence. Just as a tree's fruit grows from its heartwood, grass seeds form along stems, and birds/beasts reproduce through eggs or wombs—all originate from this principle of Central Harmony. Some lifeforms reproduce without eggs or wombs, yet still require proper conditions to grow (indicating different species follow distinct growth patterns while adhering to natural laws). Level ground prevents water from flowing; balanced scales avoid tipping (metaphors showing equilibrium prevents deviation). All transformations in creation have inherent causes—nothing occurs without reason.

Laozi said: When mountains reach sufficient height, they generate clouds and rain; when waters attain proper depth, they nurture dragons. When a noble person's cultivation reaches its culmination, their De (Virtue) radiates in all directions. Those who accumulate merit in secret will receive visible rewards; those who practice goodness quietly will ultimately gain illustrious fame (just as high mountains inevitably bring rain, and realized beings necessarily bestow blessings—nothing is received without first being given). Planting millet won't yield broomcorn; sowing resentment can't reap kindness (illustrating the law of karmic retribution—one cannot exchange virtue for enmity).