《通玄真經纘義》Vol. 6

In the sixth volume of the Tongxuan Zhenjing (Scripture of Pervading Mystery), titled Shangde Pian (Chapter on Supreme Virtue), the Southern Valley Master Du Daojian expounds on the principles of governing a state and cultivating the self.

The ruler is like the heart of a nation—when the heart is calm, the entire body is at peace; when the heart is disordered, the hundred bones fall into disharmony. Thus, those skilled in self-cultivation harmonize their limbs, while those adept at governance ensure that rulers and ministers each fulfill their proper roles. De (Virtue/Power) is divided into the Dao of Heaven and the Dao of humanity: nourishing all things is the De of Heaven, while caring for the people is the De of the ruler. When a ruler possesses De, their mind becomes expansive, their Qi (vital energy) settles into tranquility, and they naturally govern both themselves and the state well. Those of true supreme De never boast of their virtue—yet they are the ones who truly preserve it.

Laozi once studied under the ancient sage Chang Cong. Observing how the tongue, though soft, endures while the hard teeth decay, he understood the principle of embracing gentleness. Watching the shifting shadows of trees, he grasped the wisdom of yielding and retreating. Thus, sages abide in the world with emptiness and stillness, practicing Wuwei (non-action), like stacking firewood—those placed last end up on top. Just as tigers and leopards are hunted for their beautiful stripes, and monkeys are captured for their agility, those who flaunt their strength or argue cleverly often bring ruin upon themselves. True wisdom lies not in displaying talent but in knowing how to conceal one’s sharpness—only then can one adapt to all circumstances.

The Dao takes emptiness and nothingness as its essence—it cannot be seen or grasped. "Profound darkness" merely describes the state of the Dao, not the Dao itself. Cultivating the Dao requires turning inward to contemplate the self, so enlightenment does not depend on scale. Just as water must be still to reflect an image, the mind must be clear to illuminate the Dao. Sages govern the world as a potter works with clay, following its nature rather than forcing it against its inherent tendencies.

This scripture uses natural phenomena as metaphors for principles of human conduct. Only the clearest water can reflect images, and only the most tranquil mind can perceive the true nature of things. Just as moonlight dims when the moon is full, and stars fade at sunrise, weaker entities cannot contend with stronger origins. Branches cannot surpass the trunk in thickness, and things with unstable foundations easily collapse. A single pond cannot harbor two flood dragons, nor can one female mate with two males—singularity brings stability, while duality inevitably breeds conflict.

Jade hidden in mountains nourishes surrounding vegetation, and pearls born in deep waters keep riverbanks from withering. Earthworms lack strong sinews or sharp claws, yet they feed on soil above and drink from underground springs below—all through single-minded focus. The Dao (the Way) takes emptiness as its foundation, thus embracing all things, while concrete forms with fixed substance struggle to coexist. Pouring clear water into murky water pollutes it; mixing murky water with clear water causes imbalance. When Yin-Yang energies lose harmony, abnormal celestial phenomena arise; when Qi (vital energy) and blood in the body are disordered, illness follows.

Only vast rivers can nurture great fish; only towering mountains sustain giant trees; only expansive lands accumulate profound De (Virtue/Power). Fishing requires bait, hunting demands tools. Where mountains house fierce beasts, forests remain preserved; where gardens harbor venomous insects, vegetables go unpicked. A state with wise ministers can avert crises from a thousand miles away. Those who attain the Dao operate like an axle within a wheel hub—achieving great distances through Wuwei (non-action), cycling endlessly without exhaustion.

Promoting the upright while employing the corrupt is inferior to selecting the upright from the start. If the upright must work alongside the corrupt, do not expect success. Clear water reflects; a calm mind discerns—this is the essence of clarity. Turbidity brings confusion. The positions of noble and petty men are like winter cold and summer heat—they can never coexist.

This scripture primarily expounds on the wisdom of following natural momentum while accumulating potential strength. When two opposing forces coexist, calamity often arises. Yet the true noble person never abandons their principles merely because petty men hold power—they understand the importance of waiting for the proper moment.

The bird-catching analogy illustrates this: though only one mesh hole actually traps the bird, a net with just one hole would never succeed. This teaches us that rigid approaches fail—we must adapt flexibly. Just as catching fish requires first clearing the stream, or attracting birds necessitates planting trees, creating the right environment naturally yields results. The sages understood this principle, hence they accumulated strength while awaiting opportunity.

Governing a state fundamentally depends on employing the right people. Like crops that won't grow without soil, attracting worthy talents first requires nurturing potential. The Way of sages needs transmission—only with suitable inheritors can it flourish.

Numerous natural metaphors reinforce these points: leaves fall when wind blows, water muddies when disturbed; jade requires polishing, swords need honing; even the swiftest horse requires provisions for long journeys. All demonstrate how success depends on multiple converging conditions. Like hounds being cooked after catching rabbits, or fine bows being stored when birds are gone, withdrawing after achieving merit aligns with the Dao's movement.

True wisdom lies in generating action from apparent non-action (Wuwei), hearing sound within seeming silence. As birds return to nests, rabbits to burrows, or dying foxes turn toward their native hills—all things return to their source. The Dao may be practiced alone, but accomplishment never comes through solitary insistence. A person walking alone tires after a hundred li, yet with good horses can cover a thousand. Kings Wen and Wu stabilized the realm, sage-kings Yao and Shun achieved greatness—all because they mastered the art of accomplishing through apparent non-action.

This scripture elucidates principles of governance and personal conduct through metaphors drawn from natural phenomena and everyday objects.

A skilled ruler is like a chef who knows how to harmonize flavors in a cauldron, naturally attracting the people's allegiance. When slanderous individuals sow discord, even blood relatives may become estranged. Pigs and dogs grow fat by eating indiscriminately from any vessel, yet this hastens their demise; the phoenix soars beyond mortal reach at celestial heights. Just as eyes can see distant objects but not their own lashes, each person possesses unique strengths and limitations.

Governing a state should emulate building mountains and digging abysses in accordance with nature: constructing elevations brings stability, while deep pools naturally attract fish and turtles. Small ditches fill with rain but dry in drought, whereas rivers and seas never exhaust due to their profound sources. The deaf develop sharper vision, the blind keener hearing—imperfections heighten other faculties. Clear water washes hat tassels, muddy water cleanses feet; all things have their proper uses.

Fathers and sons should embody kindness and filial piety, but when petty men interfere, they become like the stars Shen and Shang that never meet. No person is perpetually right, no object eternally wrong—what matters is the harmonious regulation of Qi (vital energy). Just as fire ascends and water descends, the cauldron harmonizes both to accomplish cooking.

Metal overcomes wood, yet a single blade cannot fell an entire forest; earth overcomes water, but a handful of soil cannot dam a river; water overcomes fire, yet a cup cannot extinguish a burning cartload of wood. Winter thunder and summer hail violate natural order, swiftly vanishing. Fragrant herbs cannot withstand frost; toads may repel weapons but perish before the fifteenth of May (indicating the temporal limits of their medicinal properties). When essence (Jing) dissipates, vitality wanes; flowers blooming out of season become inedible.

All things follow predetermined cycles of mutual generation and restraint. Those who overreach their capacity to oppose greater forces ultimately suffer counteraction. Wood restraining metal, water restraining earth, or fire restraining water all violate their intrinsic natures, just as winter thunder and summer hail defy their seasons. These examples admonish humanity to recognize inherent boundaries and proper roles.

Which decays first—the teeth or the tongue? Which snaps sooner—the rope or the arrow? It is the form of an object that bends its shadow; it is the quality of the original sound that muddles its echo. Those who share the same illness as the deceased can hardly become good physicians; those who tread the same path as fallen rulers cannot offer loyal counsel. Forcing a musician to play bamboo flutes or a craftsman to carve holes—even if they manage some semblance of harmony—will never suffice for decisive action, for the ruler has already lost his proper form.

The deaf cannot sing, having no sound to delight themselves; the blind cannot see, being cut off from the external world. Walking through a forest, one finds no straight path; traversing perilous terrain, one cannot follow a plumb line. The sea embraces the convergence of a hundred rivers—that is why it achieves such vastness. To occupy an unfit position or attach oneself to an unfit person is truly arduous. Hard teeth wear down first; sturdy arrows break soonest. Those who sympathize with the dying struggle to become skilled healers; those who share the ways of a ruined monarch cannot offer faithful remonstrance. When the ruler strays from the Dao (the Way), and ministers forcefully scheme, acting with divided hearts—how can they possibly succeed?

Two suns cannot shine at once; two male foxes cannot lead a den; divine dragons do not appear in pairs; fierce beasts do not roam in herds; birds of prey do not fly in twos. A canopy without rafters cannot block the sun; a wheel without an axle cannot turn swiftly—yet rafters and axles alone are insufficient. Drawing a bow to shoot, without the bowstring, the arrow will not fly—and the skill of archery accounts for but a tenth of success. Hungry horses stand silent in their stables, yet toss fodder beside them, and contention arises. A three-inch bamboo tube without a bottom cannot hold all things under heaven; a ten-dan vessel, if clogged, can be filled with just a hundred dou of grain. Cut along the inked line, and there will be no error; weigh with scales, and there will be no deviation. The laws of antiquity must adapt to the times; tools of punishment must be employed judiciously. To act according to principle is called resolution; to act against it is called chaos.

The sun does not appear twice; divine dragons do not pair; fierce beasts do not gather—how much less should men? Rafters support the canopy; the axle turns the wheel—this is the principle of ruler and minister working in concert. Hungry horses fighting over fodder show that rewards must not be squandered; cutting along the inked line ensures laws remain impartial. The ancient codes and instruments of punishment hinge on timing and method.

Farmers labor diligently, so gentlemen may cultivate virtue; fools voice opinions, so the wise may select wisely. For matters seen clearly, act with the firmness of jade; for matters shrouded in doubt, always leave room for deliberation. The light of a hundred stars cannot match the brightness of a single moon; ten open windows cannot match the clarity of one doorway. Do not add legs to a serpent; do not give wings to a tiger. Consider a mat six feet long: lying down to roll across it, even a fool finds it easy; standing to step over it, even a capable man struggles—such is the importance of circumstance.

This passage expounds the wisdom of governance and personal conduct. First, consider natural phenomena: those who wish to assist in sacrificial rites may instead taste bitterness, and mediators often suffer injury. Just as towering trees attract lightning strikes, the radiant sun and moon are obscured by passing clouds, clear rivers are muddied by silt, and lush orchids wither in autumn winds. Human nature is inherently harmonious, yet excessive desires disrupt it. One cannot see clearly through dust-covered eyes, just as gold requires polishing to shine.

The virtuous adorn themselves with golden tortoise seals (symbols of authority), while the capable regard vast lands as true wealth. Rather than giving silver and gold to the weak, it's better to provide practical cloth and silk. If farmers cease plowing, gentlemen will have no sustenance; if gentlemen neglect governance, how can farmers live in peace? Just as snakes have no feet and tigers lack wings, nothing in existence achieves perfection. Clouds obscuring the sun isn't the sun's fault, just as desires harming the body don't reflect inherent human flaws.

Governance resembles wheel-making: only when the hub (wheel center) remains hollow can it accommodate thirty spokes. Installing just one spoke renders the others useless—how could such a carriage travel far? Orange trees flourish in the south, reeds thrive in wetlands, animals of the same kind move together, and birds of a feather fly wing to wing. Attempting to govern without understanding the people is like traversing the nine provinces without a thousand-mile steed—utterly impossible. Paradoxically, the violent rise to power while the gentle suffer oppression. Thus, the truly noble may appear humbled, and those of vast De (Virtue) always feel inadequate.

The Son of Heaven resembles the central hub, requiring support from all directions to govern effectively—just as wheels depend on multiple spokes to turn. Though positioned at the world's center, without proper governance, he's like a ruler attempting imperial tours without swift steeds. Only by rectifying himself and assigning officials their proper roles can he govern the realm without leaving his palace.

Human nature reacts like someone accustomed to silk suddenly wearing armor—initially uncomfortable, yet ultimately protected. The thirty spokes each have their mortise holes, just as ministers must keep to their duties. Skillful leadership resembles a centipede's legs—numerous yet never hindering each other—or teeth and tongue working in harmony despite their differences. Stones are inherently hard, angelica roots naturally square—these traits manifest in youth and strengthen with age. Support and promotion, gratitude and humility, gain and loss, promise and refusal—these seemingly opposite forces actually complement each other.

Ultimately, success requires methodical action and strategic personnel management. By following the Dao (the Way), nothing remains unachievable; with proper delegation, no difficulty proves insurmountable.

This scripture employs vivid metaphors to expound the Daoist core principles of "following nature's course" and "working with circumstances."

The spokes of a wheel each fulfill their function, illustrating how government affairs require clear division of labor. Just as a millipede's numerous legs never hinder each other, the key lies in proper coordination. Hard stones and fragrant angelica demonstrate how utilizing materials according to their inherent qualities allows the wise to contribute intellect and the simple to offer labor—all ultimately achieving merit.

Flowers blooming prematurely wither before bearing fruit, much like ill-timed actions inevitably fail. Burning rotten mice in the hall only fills the chamber with stench; seeking fragrance while reeking of foulness defeats even the finest artisan. Winter's ice can be chiseled, summer's wood bends easily—opportunities are fleeting. Trees cut daily during growth season will regenerate, yet autumn frost withers foliage overnight. A target invites arrows, dense woods attract axes—such is the nature of circumstances.

A pup dares bite a tiger, a hen fights a wildcat—all driven by emotion. Those who demand heavy reward before saving drowning victims will themselves be drowned by greed. Boats float yet can sink, yet fools know no moderation. A fine horse neither driven nor reined resembles a ruler who disregards the Dao (the Way).

Still water bears ripples, balanced scales show variance, even uniform measures differ. Without compass and square, circles and angles cannot be fixed; without plumb line, straightness remains unknown. Those who use tools must themselves follow principles. Though Mount Tai stands tall, turning away makes it invisible; though autumn down is tiny, focused observation reveals it clearly. Bamboo kindles fire, but needs friction; underground water flows, but requires digging.

No arrow flies beyond two miles, yet a lame turtle reaches a thousand through persistence. Earth piled continuously forms mountains—better return home to weave nets than dream of riverside catches. First tune the bow before seeking power, first tame the horse before demanding speed, first establish trust before expecting talent. The finest smith cannot melt wood, the cleverest carpenter cannot split ice—some things cannot be forced, and the wise never persist against nature.

These parables collectively demonstrate: action must align with inherent qualities, seize proper timing, and recognize impassable boundaries. Like water's ripples, scales' variance, or measures' slight differences—all natural phenomena requiring compass and square for regulation. True wisdom lies in discerning circumstances and flowing with them.

This scripture primarily expounds on principles for personal conduct and state governance, employing vivid metaphors to illustrate profound philosophical truths.

It begins by stating that while you may prevent people from crossing a river, you cannot stop the water from forming waves—just as a sieve will never fall into a well. The surface of water can never be entirely free of ripples, and even the most precise scale will have slight deviations; how, then, can the human heart afford to be careless? The virtues of propriety, righteousness, integrity, and honor are to a noble person what the compass, square, and plumb line are to a carpenter. A bow must first be adjusted before it can be made strong; a horse must first be tamed before it can be made swift. If a person does not first establish trustworthiness, how can they attract true talent? Thus, a noble person only does what is proper and refrains from what is beyond their capability.

The text then uses burning charcoal as a metaphor: grasping a single burning ember will scorch one’s fingers, but standing ten paces away from a pile of ten thousand burning coals will not be fatal—this is the difference in quantity. Where there is wealth and honor, there will inevitably be worry and distress; where silk and satin are worn above, coarse hemp will be worn below. A great tree must have gnarled roots, and a towering mountain must have a broad foundation. Bitter medicine cures illness, and harsh advice benefits action. Those who criticize my conduct wish to associate with me (for a noble person values righteousness), while those who disparage my goods wish to trade with me (for petty people seek profit).

One’s blessings should not be indulged excessively, nor should clothing be overly extravagant. Just as a great tree requires deep roots for stability and a lofty mountain needs a vast base, only when the people are prosperous can the state flourish.

Laozi says: A drum retains no sound, and thus it can produce resonance; a mirror retains no image, and thus it can reflect form. Metal and stone can produce sound, but without being struck, they remain silent; pipes and flutes can produce tones, but without being blown, they remain mute. Therefore, the sage’s mind remains empty and still, never initiating anything—only responding when events arise and reacting when external things arrive. The movement of the Dao of Heaven never ceases; it cycles endlessly and thus endures. The spokes of a wheel each find their place, enabling the wheel to travel far; the Dao of Heaven operates without the slightest error and thus never falters.

When the Qi of Heaven descends and the Qi of Earth ascends, and Yin and Yang harmonize, all things flourish in unity. The noble person thrives while the petty person retreats—this is the proper way of Heaven and Earth. Conversely, if the Qi of Heaven and Earth does not circulate and Yin and Yang do not interact, all things fail to prosper, the petty person thrives while the noble person withdraws, and the five grains do not grow. At such times, the Dao and its Virtue must remain deeply concealed. The Dao of Heaven reduces excess to supplement deficiency; the Dao of Earth levels the high to fill the low; the Dao of spirits and gods humbles the proud and aids the modest. Yet the Dao of humans takes from those who have little to give to those who already have much. Only the Dao of the sage is so humble that none can surpass it. The mind retains nothing of the external world and thus can resonate with it; the drum retains no sound and thus can respond to rhythm.

This passage elucidates the principles governing the operation of heaven and earth, as well as the way of the sage. Its core message is that true sages never actively promote themselves, but rather act in accordance with the natural order.

When yin and yang are in harmony between heaven and earth, all things grow normally, and this is the opportune time for noble persons to fulfill their roles. Conversely, when yin and yang are imbalanced, it becomes an era of chaos where petty people rise to power. Though sages occupy lofty positions, they remain open-minded to advice from below, never complacent.

The text employs heaven and earth as metaphors: Heaven above bestows sunlight and rain without seeking recompense (representing the highest virtue, or "Shang De"), while earth below nurtures all things and receives their bounty in return (representing secondary virtue, or "Xia De"). Only when heaven and earth maintain their proper positions can all beings flourish. Sages emulate this cosmic pattern—embracing all things while maintaining humility.

The same principle applies to ruler-minister relations: The sovereign should be as discerning as heaven, while officials remain as steadfast as earth. Only with this proper hierarchy can a nation achieve stability. When yang energy expands and yin energy complements it, all things thrive; when yin becomes excessive, growth is stifled. Understanding this principle, sages always act in harmony with nature's rhythms.

(Note: "Shang De" refers to supreme virtue, like heaven's selfless giving; "Xia De" denotes secondary virtue, like earth's nurturing that yields harvest. Yin and yang are fundamental Daoist concepts representing complementary yet opposing cosmic forces.)

This scripture primarily elucidates how the Dao of Yin-Yang governs all things and statecraft. The yang force (Yang Dao) represents growth, illumination, and benevolence, while the yin force (Yin Dao) signifies austerity, darkness, and severity. Through natural metaphors, the text illustrates principles of governance, emphasizing the crucial balance between yin and yang.

When yang energy harmonizes with all beings, they respond in kind; resistance arises when it acts contrary. Just as abundant rain brings flourishing life while drought causes withering, the cyclical rise and fall of yang qi enables it to rule over creation. Yang must accumulate before it can bestow, just as yin must gather before transforming—mirroring how sages cultivate De (Virtue). When yang overpowers yin, abundance prevails; when yin dominates yang, decay follows.

Rulers (kings and lords) who honor Yang Dao bring prosperity to their states; those favoring Yin Dao invite decline. Like the sunrise nurturing growth, a sovereign (symbolized by the sun) on the throne ensures the people's welfare, whereas sunset conditions—petty men in power—drive citizens away. Thunder awakens all beings as rain nourishes their expansion, just as enlightened rulers act upon the world.

The transformations of yin-yang follow set patterns, and sages adhere to these rhythms without excess. Violent winds break trees as tyranny harms the people. Fire requires fuel to burn, just as a ruler's words demand trustworthiness. Deep rivers erode their banks while towering hills sink into abysses—when yin or yang reach their zenith, they inevitably reverse.

Thus desires must not run unchecked, nor pleasures be indulged without restraint. Wisdom lies in avoiding cruel words when angered and concealing rage when provoked. Fire ascends, water descends—the sage's path follows the inherent patterns of things. When sages emulate yang, the world finds harmony; when they imitate yin, it descends into chaos.

The sun is like the ruler of the human realm. When the sun rises over the land and a virtuous sovereign governs the people, all things flourish and multiply. When the sun sets and petty men rule over the people, all things scatter and hide. The transformations of Yin-Yang follow their natural order, thus the cycle of seasons never falls into chaos. The actions of sages never exhaust the resources of things, therefore the people never flee to distant lands. When things reach their extreme, they reverse; desires should never be allowed to expand without limit. While the changes of Yin-Yang follow natural laws, the rise and fall of order and chaos ultimately depends on human action.

Laozi said: Accumulating thin soil can form high mountains; gathering small streams can create great rivers and seas. The noble person who strives diligently each day will ultimately achieve glory, while the petty person who indulges in pleasure daily will eventually bring shame upon themselves. Though these waxing and waning changes may not be immediately visible, understand this: When seeing good deeds, act as if fearing you cannot catch up; when harboring evil thoughts, be as cautious as facing disaster. If one's heart is set on goodness, even mistakes will not incur resentment; if not oriented toward goodness, even surface-level loyalty will bring misfortune. Therefore, blaming others is inferior to examining oneself; demanding from others is inferior to demanding from oneself. The voice one emits, the categories one chooses, the reputation one builds, the position one attains—none of these are unconnected to oneself. If one stabs others with a sharp sword or slashes with a blade's edge, how can they resent others? Thus the noble person acts with caution, understanding that all things carry Yin on their backs and embrace Yang in their arms. The harmonious blending of these two Qi (vital energies) creates balance, which resides at the center. Like fruits growing on tree branches or seeds forming at stem tips, whether egg-born or womb-nurtured, all originate from the center—even non-egg, non-womb creatures must await their proper time. Flat ground prevents water from flowing; balanced weights keep the scale from tilting. The growth and transformation of all things result from mutual resonance.

When Yin and Yang interact, they generate harmonious Qi, allowing all things to flourish. When ruler and minister unite in accordance with the central path, the people find peace. Therefore, the noble person harmonizes their aspirations—through daily diligence, they ultimately radiate brilliance. The petty person disrupts natural harmony—through daily indulgence, they ultimately invite disgrace. Thus the noble person attends to subtle details, rectifies their heart and turns inward. They harbor no resentment toward others, and others bear no resentment toward them.

Laozi said: When mountains reach sufficient height, they generate clouds and rain; when waters reach sufficient depth, they nurture dragons. When noble persons cultivate De (Virtue), their blessings flow outward. Those who perform good deeds in secret will receive visible rewards; those who cultivate virtue in obscurity will gain illustrious renown. Planting millet yields no panicled millet; sowing resentment harvests no gratitude. Good deeds done unseen represent supreme goodness; evil acts committed unseen represent ultimate evil. Mountains store cloud-breath to release nourishing rain; deep marshes accumulate water to nurture dragons. Noble persons who embrace the Dao in their hearts can bless the mundane world—this is the power of "hidden De" (accumulated virtue in obscurity).

This passage elucidates the principles of celestial operation and the law of karmic retribution. It conveys that those who perform virtuous deeds openly will undoubtedly receive Heaven's visible blessings, while those who do good in secret will inevitably gain public recognition from the world. Only those who truly possess celestial virtue (De conforming to the Dao) can comprehend this profound truth.

The "Tongxuan Zhenjing" (Scripture of Pervading Mystery) is a pivotal Daoist classic, with this "Zuan Yi" (Elaborated Meaning) representing an interpretive expansion of the original text. This section from its sixth volume primarily expounds the celestial principle that virtuous acts—whether concealed or manifest—will receive corresponding rewards. In Daoist cultivation, equal emphasis is placed on "hidden virtue" (Yinde, accumulated through secret good deeds) and "visible virtue" (Yangde, public acts of kindness), both being essential precepts for spiritual practitioners to uphold.