《盤山棲雲王真人語錄》

Those with clouded vision cannot distinguish azure from yellow; those with deafened ears cannot appreciate musical harmonies. Yet such limitations extend beyond physical senses—the human mind too becomes obscured. All people are born with pure innate nature, but worldly dust accumulates like cataracts over the eyes, veiling true perception. Chasing after sensory illusions, we stray further into delusion—like a blind man mistaking bamboo tubes for sunlight, or pounding a bronze plate believing it the sun, sinking lifetime after lifetime into the sea of suffering.

Precisely because people struggle to discern truth from falsehood, Perfected Master Wang Qiyun acts as a skilled physician prescribing tailored remedies—some need their ears cleansed of deafness, others require cataracts scraped from their eyes—that all may regain clarity of vision and mind, breaking free from confusion to return to the true path. Disciple Liu, after years at his master's side, meticulously recorded over a hundred teachings to compile this anthology of sayings. It serves as a compass for beginning Daoist practitioners, with even the Hermit of Solitary Peak benefiting from its wisdom. On New Year's Day of the Dingwei year, Lun Zhihuan reverently composed this preface.

When Perfected Master Wang taught at Mount Pan, he said: Beginners who immediately delve into abstruse theories without foundation will only breed doubt. Without an anchor in the heart, genuine faith cannot arise; without sincere faith, practice lacks stability; improper practice leads to misguided effort and eventual abandonment. Far better to start with tangible realities—what the eyes can see and ears can hear—progressing gradually from the shallow to the profound.

Behold the vast void, the sun and moon, mountains and rivers, the shifting winds and clouds—are these not the most immediate models for cultivation? Like unbound clouds drifting through valleys, untethered to any scenery, so should the Daoist's heart move freely. Consider how the breeze comes and goes without clinging—these are living manifestations of the Dao's operation. (Note: Here "sensory illusions" refers to perceptible phenomena, while "the Dao's operation" indicates its dynamic expression.)

This passage elucidates the mental state a Daoist cultivator should attain through multiple natural metaphors.

The imagery of wind blowing through all things illustrates how the practitioner's mind should flow freely like the breeze, unobstructed by external phenomena. The metaphor of great mountains emphasizes maintaining a mind as steady and unmoving as towering peaks. Water's analogy teaches the mind to remain yielding and inclusive—like water that nourishes all yet contends with none, ultimately merging into rivers and oceans that embrace countless streams. The sun and moon comparison reveals how the mind should shine with impartial radiance, illuminating all equally. The sky metaphor demonstrates a mind as vast and pure as the firmament, sheltering all creation without seeking reward. Earth's analogy stresses the importance of stable support without partiality. Finally, the void serves as the ultimate comparison—the highest state resembles boundless emptiness that contains everything while preserving its pristine nature.

Regarding how beginners should cultivate their mental nature, the text advises complete severance of the seven emotions and six desires: First, one must abandon scheming minds that harm others for personal gain. Next, relinquish attachments to wine, lust, wealth, and Qi (vital energy), eliminating distinctions between right/wrong and self/others. Ultimately, discard all selfish thoughts and distractions. Thus unburdened externally by material concerns and internally untainted by worldly toils, body and mind naturally become light and nimble. Through persistent practice, delusional thoughts gradually fade, though constant vigilance remains essential.

These progressive metaphors—moving from concrete images to abstract emptiness—outline the cultivator's path of mental refinement from foundational to advanced stages. True cultivation doesn't lie in forced pursuit, but in naturally attaining unity with the Dao (the Way) through sustained practice.

The practitioner must maintain constant vigilance, speak with care, eat in moderation, and regulate sleep. By harmonizing internal and external aspects, one thoroughly eliminates distracting thoughts from the mind, leaving not a single trace. With prolonged cultivation in this manner, the original Shen (innate spiritual nature) will naturally manifest, reaching a state of unimpeded freedom—this is the condition of one who has attained the Dao.

Someone asked: "How can a practitioner achieve true purity and stillness?" The answer: When the mind does not chase external things, this is called "settling the mind." When the mind does not cling to external things, this is called "emptying the mind." A settled and empty mind is purity and stillness, and purity and stillness are the Dao.

Another asked: "Practitioners often speak of eliminating emotions and desires—what principle lies beyond this?" The answer: Eliminate emotions to reach emotionlessness; eliminate desires to reach desirelessness. In this state of emotionlessness and desirelessness, what realm would you call this?

Someone inquired: "Cultivation requires constant clarity—how can one avoid confusion?" The answer: Beginners whose heart-mind remains unrefined often unconsciously follow external influences, drifting muddle-headed with the current until exhaustion forces them to stop. Such self-oblivion is confusion—like unknowingly falling into rebirth and samsara until karmic retribution runs its course. Yet if one becomes overly attached to awareness, awareness itself becomes a snare. If practitioners can examine themselves moment by moment in daily life, remaining untainted by external conditions and effortlessly transcending, this is true clarity.

A question arose: "How does one protect one's Xingming (nature and life)?" The answer: Move freely through the bustling world, resonating with all things yet remaining self-sovereign. Unfettered by external affairs, the mind clings to nothing—like protecting the eyes by closing them against dust. Persist in this practice, and results will naturally appear. If the mind accepts influences, it will be pulled by external things and lose autonomy.

Someone puzzled: "Distracting thoughts keep arising—why can't I sweep them clean?" The answer: Sweeping the mind-ground daily only makes stillness more elusive. For true stillness, lay down the broom (release deliberate grasping). Hearing this, the questioner bowed in gratitude.

A final question: "Practitioners must first establish resolve—how does one do this?" The answer: Whether in motion or stillness, in all circumstances—walking, standing, sitting, reclining—never forget the heart of Dao. Unshaken by demonic obstacles, unmoved by harm, remaining watchful even in tranquility.

The same principle applies to spiritual cultivation on steep mountain paths—one must devote body and mind completely without looking back. Only those who advance courageously without fearing life or death can be called people of true aspiration. As the scriptures say: those who persist in practice must possess this determination.

When Master Wang Zhenren was sitting in meditation at the Eternal Truth Temple of the Southern Palace, he taught the assembly: "Those newly entering the Daoist path cannot yet stand independently. They must rely on monastic communities (conglin) or form bonds with fellow practitioners for mutual support, lest they stray from the path. However, spiritual companions come in three types: Cloud-and-Mist Companions, Virtuous Companions, and Wild Companions."

Genuine seekers who temper their nature, investigate cause and effect, transcend worldly concerns, and roam freely beyond the dust of mundane existence—such people who accompany each other are called Cloud-and-Mist Companions (Yunpeng Xiayou). Their hearts are as untethered as drifting clouds, never bound by worldly trivialities.

Some enjoy studying scriptures, playing the qin, practicing calligraphy, engaging in lofty discussions, or commenting on worldly affairs—these are called Virtuous Companions (Liangpeng Zhiyou). Though they may not focus on inner cultivation, they refrain from evil deeds.

Then there are those who neglect inner refinement, disregard scriptures, ignore karma, speak incoherently, behave recklessly, quarrel at the slightest provocation, bully the weak, and form factions—these are Wild Companions (Kuangpeng Guaiyou).

These three types each face distinct destinations after death, receiving karmic consequences matching their earthly conduct. Cloud-and-Mist Companions ascend to celestial realms, roaming the jade capital of immortals to become perfected beings or celestial officials. Virtuous Companions, their minds still clouded by worldly dust, continue revolving within the human realm. Wild Companions who enjoyed offerings from all quarters without accumulating merit may fall into Fengdu's hells or be reborn as beasts, cycling endlessly through the sea of suffering. When that time comes, regret will be futile—the wise should ponder carefully and each seek the path suited to their nature.

Someone asked: "How can cultivators awaken to their true nature?" The Zhenren replied: "Cast aside all those empty phrases pointing east while speaking west—better to engage in substantial practice. Just as when lust, afflictions, or dualistic thoughts linger in the mind, it's like standing before a slippery glass well—one careless moment and you'll plunge into irreversible darkness. Having foresight means turning back immediately."

This dialogue records the exchanges between Master Wang Zhizhen of Panshan Qiyun and his disciples, focusing on how to maintain one's fundamental mind in spiritual practice.

When asked about "awakened nature," the master pointed out that the moment you step back to reflect upon encountering any situation, that is awakened nature. If one remains entangled in judgments of right and wrong or self-other distinctions while merely discussing lofty principles, this cannot be called true awakening.

Another disciple inquired about "stabilized mind-nature." Instead of answering directly, the master adjusted his seat and sat upright in perfect stillness before countering: "What stabilized mind-nature are you asking about?" Seeing the disciple's confusion, an understanding practitioner nearby immediately bowed in gratitude. The master then used the metaphor of "Zhang San drinking wine while Li Si gets drunk" to illuminate the truth, prompting sudden realization and hearty laughter.

Regarding the great matter of life and death, the master revealed: When not a single thought arises, life and death naturally cease to exist. Our inability to achieve this stems from the mind being clouded by emotional desires, constantly stirred like swirling dust. True liberation comes through continuous awareness and letting go until the mind becomes clear like still water—neither chasing sounds nor forms, naturally attaining carefree ease. When the mind is upright, all things become upright; when the mind is distorted, all things turn distorted. Once establishing inner sovereignty, you neither crave what others desire nor avoid what they dislike, and old habits naturally dissolve. When the six consciousnesses (sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch, and thought) become empty, the true suchness remains ever-present—what fear could there be of life and death?

However, the master cautioned: At certain stages of practice, if uncontrolled states emerge with scattered Shen (spirit) and Qi (vital energy), mistakenly taking frenzy for joy, this actually indicates perverse Qi invading the heart—a condition difficult to remedy. The ancient masters might appear to sing and dance wildly, but this was their natural expression after attaining liberation, never deliberate madness to confuse others.

Finally, concerning various life circumstances, the master offered this essential advice: Practitioners should make mind-collection their foundation. When encountering adversity, receive it with joy; when meeting favorable conditions, remain unattached. Thus one maintains stability through all situations.

This passage elucidates how practitioners should approach external disturbances and inner cultivation. When engaging in spiritual practice, one must not be distracted by mundane affairs. Even when encountering provocations from a three-year-old child, one should respond with tolerance and forbearance. By maintaining this mindset over time, the heart-mind will grow increasingly pure and tranquil, enabling equanimity in all circumstances. Achieving this state of constant clarity—day and night—brings one closer to the mental realm of sages.

Someone asked about the meaning of "embracing the origin and guarding the One (Baoyuan Shouyi)." The master explained that "the One" refers to humanity's innate pure nature, a state free from discrimination. However, deliberately clinging to this "One" leads to attachment, because "One" gives rise to "Two," "Two" gives rise to "Three," and ultimately to the myriad things of existence. True practice does not lie in rigidly guarding "the One," but in transcending even the concept of "One" to reveal one's original face. As the scriptures say: "To understand emptiness yet not cling to it, to perceive forms yet remain unbound by them—this is genuine awakening."

Another asked whether monastics should study ancient koans or scriptures. The master criticized those practitioners who, instead of refining their heart-mind, obsess over parsing the words and texts of the ancients—a futile waste of time. When death approaches, such intellectual pursuits prove utterly useless. The essence of cultivation lies in recognizing one's innate luminous awareness, the pure nature endowed by the Dao, unchanged since antiquity. Truly realizing this is the key to transcending the ordinary and entering the sacred. Faith in and direct experience of this truth form the very foundation of spiritual practice.

This passage explains how practitioners should refine their minds in responding to worldly affairs. Master Wang (Wang Chongyang, founder of the Quanzhen school of Daoism) illustrates the essence of cultivation through a carpenter's story.

There was a carpenter named Zhang Xian who was humble and kind to others, earning everyone's praise. Yet Master Wang said this wasn't enough—just as gold must be tested by fire to distinguish its purity. He then assigned Zhang three carpentry tasks in succession: first a sitting bench, then doors and windows before the bench was finished, and finally a box before the doors were done. Zhang grew impatient, wanting to complete one task before moving to the next. Master Wang pointed out: "People praise you for being adaptable, but today your true nature is revealed." A true cultivator refining the mind must first have inner stability and composure, only then can external matters be handled properly. Deciding which task comes first or last is illusory—the mind must remain steadfast while methods stay flexible, addressing the most pressing matter with equanimity. This is the state of "constant response yet constant stillness" (Changying Changjing).

Later, someone asked whether karmic retribution spans three lifetimes. The reply cited an ancient saying: "When understood, karmic obstructions are fundamentally empty; when not understood, past debts must still be repaid." An example was given of a man who grew agonizing sores on his back and hanged himself rather than endure them—this refusal to accept karmic debt from past lives meant he would still have to repay it even after rebirth. Another case from the Jin Dynasty told of a royal son-in-law who abused his servants, only to later die from festering sores on his buttocks, showing this was retribution for past misdeeds.

(Note: "Zhenren" refers to an enlightened master; "Changying Changjing" is a Daoist cultivation state where one maintains inner stillness amid all circumstances; "suye" denotes karmic cause and effect from past lives.)

This passage discusses karmic retribution and the proper attitude toward illness in spiritual practice. It first explains that worldly conflicts—such as beatings, slander, or grudges—stem from unresolved karmic debts from past lives. The story of Master Changchun (Qiu Chuji) illustrates this: A general's wife, captured in war, came from a family devoted to Daoism. When someone sought to ransom her for monastic life, the master revealed she had a three-year karmic debt with her captor that must be settled. True to his words, she only gained freedom to ordain after three years, proving the inescapability of cause and effect.

Next, Master Panshan addresses how cultivators should face illness. True practitioners maintain moderation in diet and daily rhythms. If illness arises, they recognize it as both destiny and the fruition of personal karma. The key is to see through the body's illusory nature (composed of the "Four Elements"—earth, water, fire, and wind in Buddhist terms). Let illness run its course; face death undisturbed, keeping the mind serene. Paradoxically, this equanimity lightens severe ailments or cures minor ones, as turbulent qi dissipates when mental stillness is achieved. Thus illness becomes both karmic repayment and a breakthrough in cultivation.

The gravest mistake is reacting with agitation—moaning in pain, blaming heaven or others, resenting caregivers or doctors. Such delusion only deepens karmic obstructions. Understand that life and death follow their course; resistance multiplies suffering. True practice means peaceful acceptance, using sickness to temper the spirit.

When the human mind is constantly disturbed by external influences, inner peace becomes unattainable. Understand that the heart-mind (Shen) governs the entire body—if this sovereign ruler remains unsettled, the whole system falls into chaos. As the ancients wisely said: A distracted mind is the key that opens hell's gate, while excessive pursuit of material things only invites karmic retribution.

Those who dismiss such mental agitation lightly will find minor ailments escalating into serious illness, and grave conditions becoming fatal—all because our true nature becomes polluted by turbid Qi. Every disease stems from our own unrestrained indulgence. Since we create our own karma, we must bear its consequences—how can we blame others? Genuine practitioners would never fall into such states, and this is something everyone should contemplate deeply.

A certain master, witnessing the agony of severely ill patients, offered this teaching: Practitioners must first see through the illusory nature of all worldly attachments, then realize this physical body is merely a heap of dust. Only by maintaining detachment in daily interactions can one achieve liberation at life's end.

There was an abbot in Shandong who couldn't peacefully pass when his time came. When asked for guidance, Master Changchun (Qiu Chuji) explained: "This happens when one chases external phenomena without cultivating true nature, becoming bound by karmic fetters." He sent this message: "The body was never truly mine, original nature is fundamentally empty. When not a single thought arises, complete release occurs naturally." Hearing this, the abbot had sudden awakening and exhorted his disciples: "Deluded by externals, I neglected inner cultivation—only at death's door do I understand. I urge you all to practice earnestly and resolve the great matter of life and death." Then he departed serenely.

Another Daoist priest suffered greatly during his final hours, pleading: "How can I find liberation?" Some advised visualizing his master's face, but days passed without relief. Others suggested contemplating emptiness, yet still no release came. When an elder practitioner visited, the priest lamented these failed methods. The elder rebuked him sharply: "What did you bring when you came? What do you hope to take when you leave? Abide peacefully and await Heaven's decree—when the hour arrives, liberation comes naturally." The dying man bowed in gratitude and immediately passed on.

Practitioners must recognize all external things as provisional tools—true effort belongs to original nature. Daily life demands transcendence so death brings natural freedom; if entangled with worldly attachments, how can liberation come at the end? Practice urgently, for life and death wait for no one—when that moment comes, what help can externals provide? Ponder this deeply, all of you.

The practitioner must first establish firm resolve and moral integrity. Yet some, though determined, become rigid in their views, losing flexibility in handling affairs; while others, though adaptable, fall into laziness and procrastination. Thus Daoist cultivators are as numerous as hairs on an ox, but those attaining the Dao (the Way) are as rare as unicorn horns. Some set intentions without understanding principles, others comprehend principles but fail in practice, and even those who persist often lack endurance.

A Dao cultivator must first recognize their spiritual lineage (clarify their practice tradition), then maintain unwavering determination while adapting to circumstances, practicing with single-minded diligence and perseverance - thus none shall fail to succeed.

When asked about the true "Constant Dao" (eternal truth), the response is: Set aside discussion of the ultimate Constant Dao - first observe your mind in daily life. Before thoughts arise, what is the mind's state? When thoughts emerge, discern whether they're deviant or proper. Eliminate deviant thoughts immediately; nurture and apply proper ones. What are deviant thoughts? All idle fancies during inactivity are delusions. What are proper thoughts? When engaged in affairs - interacting with others, benefiting beings, respecting elders, pacifying crowds - any wholesome thought not serving selfish ends is proper. In stillness, body and mind are tranquil; in action, conduct is upright. Neither indulging desires nor constrained, maintaining clarity day and night, balanced in movement and stillness - this is the true Constant Dao.

The most formidable challenge for practitioners is taming this stubborn mind. Since beginningless kalpas, through endless rebirths in samsara, accumulated skeletons would form mountains. After countless life-death cycles, only now realizing past errors and seeking liberation. Thus by day abstaining from gluttony, by night from excessive sleep - all to temper this obstinate mind. Every act must counter worldly habits to show effect. Without genuine mind-refinement, even feigning sleeplessness leaves thoughts fine as hair strands - encountering situations, anger flares instantly. What use is a hundred sleepless years? Until the stubborn mind dissolves, rebirth continues. To fundamentally transform this mind, one must - day and night, in motion or stillness - utterly shatter this obstinate mind to restore original true nature (primordial pure heart), attaining unity with heaven and earth. Then stillness is Dao, movement is Dao, speech is Dao, silence is Dao.

A practitioner need not seek anything externally—simply letting go of attachments is enough to become a free and unfettered Daoist. The master often says that cultivators must use disciplined effort to temper the stubborn habits accumulated in their hearts, especially those persistent thoughts that are hard to relinquish. Even this physical body must be let go when the time comes—how much more so those illusory thoughts in the mind? Clear them all away, and naturally, there will be no afflictions or obstacles.

Nothing outside the body is worth excessive concern. The fleeting disturbances that come and go before one’s eyes are like mosquitoes—simply wave them away. But the deep-seated attachments in the heart are the true root of cyclical rebirth. When the Elder of Eternal Spring (Qiu Chuji, patriarch of the Quanzhen lineage) cultivated at Panxi, tigers and leopards often roamed at night. At first, he was afraid and considered building a fence for protection. But then he reflected: If he feared even such circumstances and sought to escape them, how could he transcend the great matter of life and death? So he relinquished the desire for defense, allowing the beasts to come and go as they pleased, and gradually, his fear naturally dissolved. To remain unmoved even at the brink of life and death—this is the most precious kind of cultivation.

The master says that to penetrate the great matter of life and death, a practitioner must exert genuine effort. Maintain clarity of mind day and night, keeping the six senses pure. When faced with sensory temptations, look without seeing, listen without hearing—let the heart remain undisturbed. Matters unrelated to oneself are like the wind passing by; those that must be dealt with should only be addressed when absolutely necessary. Persist in this way, and over time, the results of practice will naturally manifest.

A cultivator may learn from others’ virtues but should not fixate on their faults—doing so leads to self-delusion. Nor should they criticize one another, as harboring judgments distorts the mind and hinders progress. Understand this: Righteous Qi suppresses deviant Qi, yet deviant Qi often slanders righteousness. Those who cling to their own views and criticize others fail to realize they have already fallen into heterodoxy. Those with true insight will always examine their own hearts for bias and error. If one constantly dwells on others’ mistakes, they themselves are no true practitioner.

Someone once asked: What is "meritorious conduct"? The answer: Restraining speech is merit; speaking to guide others is conduct.

The cultivation methods of "keeping the mouth closed as achievement" (hekou wei gong) and "opening the mouth as practice" (kaikou wei xing): Maintaining silence, withdrawing one's radiance, and avoiding public recognition while comprehending the Dao through quiet contemplation—this is called "keeping the mouth closed as achievement." On the other hand, using words to teach sentient beings, guide them toward the right path, and benefit others—this is called "opening the mouth as practice."

Someone asked: Are our daily activities—seeing, hearing, tasting, moving, and thinking—part of human nature? The answer is: The Dao-nature (one's innate nature) is not identical to these actions, yet it does not exist apart from them. These movements and stillness are all manifestations of nature's function, not nature itself. The essence of nature transcends both movement and stillness, speech and silence. The ancients said that to understand the Great Dao, one must grasp the root. Though it is inseparable from daily conduct, one must not mistake the conduct itself for nature. It is like the relationship between a master and a servant—actions and behaviors are the "servants," while the true "master" (nature) remains hidden. Only those who can skillfully employ these actions have truly grasped the root.

Someone asked: Can three years of rigorous cultivation free one from the cycle of rebirth? The answer is: Practitioners should resolve to progress diligently at all times, but they must not harbor a mind eager for quick results. In the past, there was a Daoist who, soon after leaving home, boasted that he had seen through the cycle of rebirth. Later, he fell seriously ill for several years, gradually wearing down his determination. This shows that cultivation must not be pursued with a competitive or impatient mindset.

Someone asked: When living alone in the mountains, if one sees mountain deities foretelling the future, is it real? The answer is: Ordinary people's minds are deluded by worldly distractions. When beginners in cultivation occasionally attain stillness, they may mistake illusions for reality. Some see spirits predicting the future, hear prophecies fulfilled in the air, or even witness deceased patriarchs appearing to give guidance. If these are taken as real, they can lead to demonic obsessions and illness. Such illusions must be promptly dispelled.

The ancient sages taught that all human perception and cognition are essentially afflictions. What the eyes see, the ears hear, and the mind conceives belong to the realm of sensory illusions (referring to the delusory world of perceptual cognition). The scriptures state: The true Dao cannot be seen with the eyes, heard with the ears, expressed in words, or grasped by thought. To mistake these sensory illusions for reality is to fall into heterodox paths.

There was a cultivator who, during meditation, suddenly tasted wine in his mouth. That night, he dreamed someone offered him wine, and the next day, wine was indeed brought to him. This is a natural resonance phenomenon when the mind is empty and clear—nothing to be alarmed about. But to cling to it would be demonic attachment. Another practitioner, while sitting in meditation, felt his spirit (Shen) leave his body, travel several hundred paces, and then return, seeing his physical form still seated in meditation. This is similar to ordinary wandering thoughts, only more vivid. To consider this a sign of attainment would be demonic obsession. As the saying goes: No auspicious sign surpasses ordinary peace—maintaining equanimity and stability aligns with the true Dao.

Hearing disciples discuss states of wisdom manifestation, the master said: When practitioners first transcend worldly conditions, it's like a mirror suddenly clearing—wisdom surges forth, and literary inspiration flows. But one must not cling to this state. Deliberately pursuing such experiences leads to "mad wisdom" (delusory insight), ultimately useless. These are merely functions of consciousness, not the true substance of Dao. Never flaunt them as special powers. Only continuous nurturing of one's nature constitutes genuine practice.

When disciples discussed reclusive cultivation, the master remarked: Practitioners must see through external phenomena while responding to circumstances. Each encounter with a situation represents progress. There was a Daoist who secluded himself in deep mountains, wearing grass robes and eating wild fruits, vowing never to descend. One day, two armed men suddenly came demanding food. The Daoist cooked mountain fruits for them. One grabbed food directly from the pot, complained about the taste, and threatened to smash the pot. The Daoist remained silent, observing secretly. Later, seizing an opportunity, he produced a hidden wooden staff and shouted: "You two, come out!" The men instead laughed and praised: "The master has cultivated such composure on this mountain."

In Shandong, there was a Daoist practitioner who claimed to have completely refined away his "fire of ignorance" (referring to afflictions and attachments). His master remarked that true skill lay in genuinely eliminating this fire of ignorance and maintaining unwavering composure. Later, the master secretly sent someone to test him: at nightfall, the tester deliberately pounded loudly on the hermitage door. When the practitioner opened the door, his expression had already darkened. Seeing the visitor leap onto the seating platform without removing his shoes, the practitioner flew into a rage. The tester then smiled and said, "The master sent me to test your unshakable mind—yet you revealed yourself before the trial even began." The practitioner was left deeply ashamed.

Even if cultivators genuinely possess skill, they must never boast about it. Consider another case: a man had spent years in secluded meditation. When a friend asked, "Can the stillness you’ve cultivated in solitude withstand the chaos of the world?" the man arrogantly refused to answer. The friend then said, "I have a touchstone—tell me now, what insights have you gained from your practice?" The man replied, "What is there to say about stillness?" The friend exposed him: "Then it seems you’ve merely wasted your effort like livestock." At this, the man erupted in fury. The friend sighed, "And this is the fruit of your years in retreat!" In the end, the two parted ways.

This is like a tethered horse that appears calm—once untied, it still runs wild. True cultivation must withstand the test of circumstances; otherwise, a century of sitting in stillness is futile. Even if one attains unshakable composure, there are still higher levels of skill to master.

A practitioner is like a master carpenter shaping wood—first they must align their heart's compass (the guiding principle of cultivation), then gradually use the axe to trim away the crooked and irregular parts, transforming it into usable material. The key is to act according to this standard without wavering. If this principle is lost, there will be no way to proceed. When all deviations are trimmed away, the heart's compass naturally aligns, resonating with the Dao and accomplishing all manner of virtuous deeds.

A true cultivator should maintain a pure and tranquil mind, constantly aware of their innate spirit (the primordial spiritual nature), clearly perceiving it and merging with the void. This is the fundamental heart of a Daoist practitioner. Through daily accumulation, spiritual efficacy will naturally manifest. Rather than chasing external achievements, it is better to turn inward and observe the mind. If one is entangled with worldly affairs all day, their heart will be no different from that of an ordinary person.

Regarding monastic life, practitioners should act within their capacity, living simply and with ease. Never compete for fame and profit like worldly people, or you will lose your original aspiration and forget the great matter of cultivating nature and life (xingming). To temper the mind in the monastery, accepting what should be accepted and bearing what should be borne, maintaining inner stability—this is how one benefits both self and others, achieving perfection in both merit and practice. Without cultivating the heart, mistaking external things for the self, one becomes miserly, greedy, and narrow-minded, ultimately ruining the path of cultivation.

Master Ma Danyang (a patriarch of the Quanzhen tradition) once said: Those who study the Dao and dwell in monastic communities (conglin) should assess the depth of their spiritual capacity and choose wise companions as fellow practitioners. If they have yet to grasp the fundamental principles, they should seek guidance with humility. In the monastery, they should instruct one another and cultivate the supreme heart-mind together. Some lack true understanding—they neither seek enlightened teachers, nor dwell in monastic communities, nor cultivate their nature and vital essence. Instead, they wander aimlessly, wasting their energy in pursuit of comfort. When hardship arises, they shrink back and flee, still searching for favorable conditions and opportunities, unaware of what truly matters most to them.

This passage discusses how practitioners should properly approach daily life and inner states. Master Wang (Perfected Man Wang of Panshan Qiyun) points out that some people mistakenly believe mere personal ease constitutes spiritual practice, unaware that the great matter of life and death will inevitably arrive—what will they rely on when that time comes? Monastic practitioners originally leave household life to transcend birth and death—how can they idly waste their time?

While his disciples were working, Master Wang reminded them: Although practitioners must engage with worldly affairs, they should not become attached. One should maintain a mind as empty as space—handling matters as they arise without inner disturbance. This mirrors how all phenomena in heaven and earth operate naturally without interfering with each other. If one harbors "self-grasping" (attachment to ego), encountering situations will generate resistance, where even minor friction agitates the mind. Once the mind is unsettled, all day's labor becomes meaningless.

Amid crowds or during work, special attention must be paid to guarding the mind against disturbance. Constantly examine your own faults rather than judging others' rights and wrongs—this constitutes genuine practice. Face all circumstances with equanimity, neither dragged by external conditions nor losing inner clarity. Persisting in this way naturally leads to spiritual attainment.

Master Wang further explains: Practitioners who make slight progress often develop superiority complexes—this "competitive mind" and self-attachment become major obstacles. To reach the state where mind empties and phenomena dissolve, one must resolutely regard oneself as lower than all things, constantly feeling inferior to others. Only thus can the mentality of superiority be eliminated. When the mind becomes vast as empty space, self-grasping shatters, allowing alignment with the Dao.

Finally, regarding meditation states: Practitioners may see various visions during stillness—all are projections of their own consciousness (discriminating shen). As the ancients said, "All phenomena are illusory"—understand these states as false appearances. If the mind remains unmoved, perceiving yet not perceiving while maintaining void-like awareness, illusions naturally disperse. There was once a Daoist who preserved unshakable inner peace, entirely unaffected by any visionary phenomena encountered.

During a meditation session, I suddenly saw countless malevolent ghosts flying through the air. At such moments, one must maintain inner stillness, allowing the mind to become as clear and boundless as empty space, merging all distinctions into oneness while disregarding life and death. These demonic obstacles will then naturally dissipate. Because the true sovereign (original spirit, Yuanshen) remains unmoved in its profound stillness, how could demonic illusions possibly arise? The appearance of such visions stems solely from an impure mind. By preserving the innate purity of one's nature, these illusions will vanish of their own accord.

Someone once asked: "How can we assess the progress of those practicing closed-door cultivation?" The reply came: "When the Eternal Spring Master (Qiu Chuji) was in Shandong, he once visited a Daoist temple where a practitioner was undergoing secluded retreat. The community was observing ritual fasting at the time. Someone informed the master that the secluded practitioner wished to speak with him. The master said they would meet after the fasting period. Unexpectedly, the master suddenly went outside and vigorously struck the retreat chamber's door with his staff. Mistaking this for an ordinary disturbance, the practitioner responded angrily. Upon the master's return, the community again requested the meeting, to which the master replied: 'The test is already complete—this person still harbors attachments and isn't worthy of conversation.'"

Silent cultivation fundamentally serves the great matter of cultivating both nature and life (Xingming Shuangxiu), emphasizing the gathering of consciousness and nurturing of primordial Qi (Yuanqi). True accomplishment lies in maintaining unshaken composure when facing external circumstances. The knocking sound represents external phenomena; the arising of thoughts originates within. If the mind can forget the self completely—like cold ashes that cannot reignite when stirred—and remain undisturbed by external events, this constitutes genuine practice. If one becomes agitated by minor disturbances now, how will they face greater trials in the future? What value does closed-door cultivation hold then? How will they repay the kindness of those who support them? Far better to temper this mind through daily affairs—this marks the truly insightful practitioner.

Another question arose: "Why do cultivation practitioners say that 'conscious awareness' constitutes an affliction?" The response: "True knowing is knowing without conscious knowing; true awakening is awakening without deliberate awareness. Our original true mind (Zhenling) has been obscured for eons—only after passing through countless kalpas does genuine awakening occur, which we call 'enlightenment.' All knowledge and perception arise from this source. If one clings to 'having knowledge and awareness,' deliberately pursuing constant knowing and perceiving, this becomes self-imposed bondage—creating illness where none exists. Yet if one becomes completely devoid of awareness, they fall into inert emptiness. Having realized one's true nature, both knowing and awareness become wondrous functions—to be employed when needed, but never clung to."

When practitioners can relinquish worldly distractions, their original true nature suddenly manifests—this is the innate, authentic self. Once this state is realized, one naturally attains carefree liberation and gains penetrating insight into all phenomena. Yet upon reaching this stage, it becomes even more crucial to conceal one's brilliance and nurture it silently, for the deeper the cultivation, the greater the rewards. Deliberately flaunting or showing off will instead unknowingly deplete one's inner radiance.

People differ in their spiritual capacities—some are sharp, others dull. Those with dull dispositions should avoid stubborn opinions and instead humbly study in Daoist monasteries (conglin), forming connections with those who understand the Dao. When conditions ripen, they will naturally be guided onto the right path and gradually awaken. But if someone is both dull by nature and lacking insight, spending their days mingling with worldly people and drowning in mundane attachments, over time they will inevitably lose their devotion to the Dao. They may even fall into demonic obstructions, sinking into hellish illusions with no one to save them—a truly pitiable and lamentable fate.

There was once a recluse in meditation retreat who, upon hearing about the "ground" state (referring to a stable stage of cultivation), became fixated on seeing this "ground" after entering seclusion. This obsession gave rise to all sorts of illusions—what he heard, saw, and imagined were all delusions. Even if golden boys and jade maidens or immortal sages appeared before him, they were merely products of deluded thought. Mistaking these for genuine realization would lead to a lifetime of confusion by false views. In truth, the "ground" was an ancient metaphor for a mind settled in stable tranquility—like clearing away clutter to reveal a smooth floor. When a practitioner's mind is calm and undisturbed by external conditions, this is the "immovable ground"; when untainted by worldly defilements, it is the "pure ground"; when the original nature is clearly seen, it is the "perfectly luminous ground." Yet these states still have boundaries and limitations. Only by reaching the wondrous realm beyond direction and words does one truly attain the "mystery of mysteries." How could illusory sights and sounds ever be taken as reality?

Wuwei (non-action) aligns with heavenly Dao, while youwei (deliberate action) aligns with human Dao. Like carrying a load on a pole—balance comes from attending to both ends; focusing on one alone inevitably leads to imbalance. Practitioners must understand: youwei is the foundation of cultivation, while wuwei is the realized state. Clinging to youwei traps one in the two vehicles of humans and devas; only by attaining wuwei that effortlessly accomplishes all can one reach ultimate fulfillment.

This passage recounts several teachings of the Perfected Person Wang Chongyang. The first lesson states that spiritual cultivation is like carrying a load - if you only put down one side, you'll remain unbalanced. Only by releasing both sides can you return to your original state of authenticity.

It then presents three instructive stories: The first tells of the Perfected Person Changchun (Qiu Chuji) encountering a rainstorm where everyone rushed to move clay bricks, except one elderly practitioner who remained calmly seated. The master taught: "Damaged bricks are worthless, but one who cultivates the heart to perfection becomes like a priceless jewel. What matters is each person's level of spiritual attainment - the most precious treasure in Daoist practice is one who truly attains the Dao."

The second story describes a seemingly gentle cook in Changchun's kitchen. The master secretly had someone hide the cooking utensils to test him. When the cook couldn't find a ladle and spilled the porridge in anger, the master enlightened him: "Spilled food is merely loss of external things - why let it disturb your peace?" This awakened the cook's understanding.

In the third dialogue, a physician asked about the merit of saving a hundred lives. The master replied: "Saving all people under heaven cannot compare to transcending your own cycle of birth and death." When a craftsman inquired about blessings from repairing a temple hall for free, the master said: "This brings less merit than one hour of serene meditation, because intentional good deeds create transient blessings, while Wuwei (non-action) virtue never decays."

The conclusion reveals life's karmic principles: Those who embody the Dao attain the Dao; those who perform good receive blessings; those who commit evil suffer misfortune. As you treat others, so shall you be treated. Like planting orchids yields fragrance and sowing grain brings harvest, this is nature's law. But acting with ulterior motives and hypocrisy only distances one from their authentic nature.

The practitioner of the Dao must refrain from idle talk about others' faults or worldly affairs of rise and fall—these matters bear no relation to oneself. Neither speak of them nor entertain such thoughts. To gossip about others is to lose one's original heart-mind. If one concentrates on cultivation and constantly reflects on one's own shortcomings, where would there be leisure to meddle in others' affairs? One should learn from others' virtues while avoiding their flaws, without excessive attention to external matters. Only thus can one gradually attain the realm of serene Wuwei (non-action).

Those who cultivate the Dao should not imagine that dwelling in the countryside alone leads to realization, nor that abstaining from meat and wine guarantees ascension to immortality, nor cling to familial attachments. What the crowd pursues, do not pursue; what they reject, do not reject. Never assume complete understanding, nor fantasize about attaining enlightenment through idle sleep. Avoid unwholesome companions and refrain from useless speech. In favorable circumstances, remain humble; in adversity, free from sorrow. Learn from those superior to you, and guide those less advanced. Others' debts to you are your blessings; your debts to others invite misfortune. Much talk with little action is emptiness; abundant deeds with few words embody substance. Indulgence in desires belongs to the mundane; transcendence of worldly attachments constitutes the immortal path. Willingness to embrace humility leads to nobility; contentment in simplicity constitutes true wealth. Returning to original purity aligns with the Dao; following celestial principles resonates with human hearts. Walk the upright path—never enter crooked gates. To comprehend the great Dao, manifest De (Virtue), and unite knowledge with practice—this is the authentic state of Quanzhen (Complete Perfection).

When ancient seekers studied the Dao, if doubts remained in their hearts, they would journey a thousand li to consult a master. Once encountering a resonant teacher and resolving their confusion, hesitation vanished. Thereafter, whether dwelling in mountain forests, begging in marketplaces, or residing in temples, they cultivated with unwavering constancy. Such were genuine cultivators. Some today, though outwardly renunciants, remain ignorant of their true nature—too lazy to seek guidance, deluded by self-importance, posing as enlightened masters. This wastes their practice and deceives devotees, leaving them utterly unprepared when facing life's final threshold. The root cause? Refusal to work at the fundamentals—a lifetime spent without achievement.

Practitioners must gather scattered thoughts, stabilizing like a carved wooden sacred statue. Sitting—upright and unmoving; standing—straight as a pine; walking—measured and calm; speaking—soft and gentle. Maintain constant inner awareness, undisturbed by external circumstances. When encountering harmful conditions, withdraw immediately; when meeting beneficial connections, draw near proactively. Only by fulfilling these can one truly enter the Dao's gate.

In the recorded sayings of Master Wang Qiyun of Panshan, he describes the state of cultivation: When practitioners sit in their halls, whether no one visits all day, or they are surrounded by ceremonial canopies, or people offer incense and flowers in devotion, or even face slander from passersby, their hearts remain equally tranquil. Like a wooden statue of a deity that, though spiritually potent and vividly manifesting the Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue/Power), does not cling to any particular thing.

Master Wang said: Cultivators temper their minds like forging gold. Even if shaped into a rooster, identical in appearance to a real one, the gold itself does not become as restless as a living bird. Such a golden rooster stands alone among a flock; no matter how aggressive the other roosters may be, none dare approach it. Those who embody the Dao have hearts like cooled ashes and forms like withered trees—no contentious person in the world can contend with them. Thus, the Daode Jing states, "Because they do not contend, no one in the world can contend with them."

Master Wang pointed out: This true mind transcends subject-object distinctions, standing vast and upright. It existed even before heaven and earth emerged in antiquity—neither can it be called existent nor nonexistent. The sages and realized beings of all ages have awakened to this true mind, enabling them to enjoy boundless fulfillment. The thousands of scriptures and countless treatises, even the entire Daoist Canon, all speak of this principle. The heavens above, the earth below, and all phenomena—even infinite space—are manifestations of this essence. Those who penetrate this truth are not pulled by external circumstances, disturbed by scattered thoughts, or deluded by the six senses (eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and mind). This is the daily life of immortals, the conduct of sages, and the fundamental orientation of cultivators.

Speaking of monastic cultivation, Master Wang said: When people gather to practice, how can we demand uniformity? It is like a great mountain teeming with plants—some are useless timber, some are useful wood; some grow independently, others cling to supports; some are spiritual herbs and auspicious fungi, others wild thorns and brambles, each distinct in kind. They grow naturally according to their inherent nature, while the mountain stands unmoving, embracing all without discrimination. Flowing water and gathered stones, lush forests and abundant grasses, roaming beasts and soaring birds—all are wondrous functions of divine power, mutually nourishing one another. Like a tumbleweed growing among hemp: without needing support, it stands straight, and over time, each fulfills its own potential. To forcibly cut the long and supplement the short, or change green to yellow, would not only disturb all things but also strip them of their true nature.

Master Wang recalled: When I resided in Shandong overseeing a temple, I kept my doors shut all day, avoiding social interactions.

Master Wang Qiyun's discourse primarily elucidates the principle of cultivating both stillness and activity, harmonizing internal refinement with external practice.

If a practitioner merely sits in solitary meditation for over a decade, isolating themselves from the world and avoiding all circumstances, they neither test their spiritual progress nor benefit others—thus wasting precious time. Just as heaven and earth would fail to nourish all beings if the seasons ceased to turn, growth would become impossible. Therefore, Master Changchun taught that true cultivation aligned with the great Dao (the Way) requires action—settling others and benefiting all things.

The master points out that when practitioners remain obstructed in their inner realm (the Mysterious Pass, Xuanguan), their minds unclear, constantly entangled in worldly concerns and unable to attain wuwei (non-action), it is often due to insufficient accumulation of virtuous merit. They should engage earnestly in practical affairs, receive fellow seekers with humility, revere their teachers, perform good deeds, and eliminate selfish distractions. Persisting in this way, they will naturally progress. The greatest pitfall lies in failing at both—neither achieving serene detachment nor committing to diligent work, idling away time meddling in others’ affairs while indulging body and mind. Such an approach inevitably leads to stagnation.

Cultivation must align with natural conditions, yet it also demands active effort. Both inner refinement and outward virtuous action depend on one’s sincerity. When the opportunity for a teaching center has not yet arisen (when "the gate of teaching remains closed"), one should immerse themselves in practice. But when the time is ripe ("the gate of teaching opens"), they must actively engage with the world to guide others. There is no limit to merit or virtuous deeds—what matters is unwavering resolve.

The great Dao permeates all things; every phenomenon holds profound truth, yet practitioners must discern its flexible application. Sadly, worldly people are often blinded by mundane attachments, missing the root while fixating on branches. Some even mystify the trivial, pretending to supernatural powers, piling illusion upon illusion (obsessing over appearances), deluding themselves without realizing it. Remember: the physical body is fleeting, and radiance fades swiftly. Without grounded practice, life is squandered in vain.

Master Wang (founder of the Panshan Qiyun lineage) reveals in his recorded sayings: Human life is as fleeting as a single breath, which may dissipate at any moment. How then should we conduct ourselves?

In daily practice, maintain inner purity—neither allowing distracting thoughts to scatter nor letting the mind wander outward. One must remain naturally relaxed without forced suppression, yet exercise proper restraint without becoming constrained. The essential point lies in understanding the original mind and recognizing true Dharma—neither clinging to conceptual wisdom nor becoming attached to states of emptiness. Throughout the twelve double-hours of the day, maintain awareness in every thought, yet fixation on this awareness itself becomes erroneous, while complete departure from present-moment awareness is even more mistaken. One must sustain illuminating awareness amid movement and stillness, relinquishing all attachments to reach the state of unburdened freedom—this is genuine carefree wandering. Yet mere words cannot convey this; one must personally realize it through actual experience.

Heaven and Earth act as parents to all things—the sky shelters universally, the earth supports indiscriminately, making no distinctions between good and evil, equally nurturing all. Therefore, those in high positions should emulate Heaven's virtue (De), sheltering and nourishing those below without arrogance; those in humble positions should follow Earth's virtue, reverently supporting superiors like the earth upholds heaven, without negligence or disrespect. Living between Heaven and Earth, humans must follow their Dao—otherwise reckless actions invite calamity.

True practitioners maintain purity in their original nature, handle affairs with careful attention, pass swiftly through external circumstances, and interact with others without selfish motives. No evil thoughts arise, not a speck of dust clings—their minds are luminously empty yet unattached to emptiness, neither clinging to dharma appearances nor stubbornly holding personal views. Absorbing the wisdom-light of all beings, they gradually attain complete inner-outer transparency—this is the realm of sages.

Practitioners should follow conditions naturally, discern appropriate acceptance and rejection, constantly maintain humility, and steadfastly uphold the Middle Way. Understanding the source of movement and stillness, moderating the use of eyes and ears, severing all external entanglements, and preserving the constant true mind—only thus can one achieve eternal indestructibility.

Those cultivating the Dao should daily emulate Heaven and Earth, maintaining constant purity. Though dwelling amid worldly phenomena, their inner true nature remains continuously clear and uninterrupted, naturally transcending the bonds of life and death. This is life's most crucial matter—yet deluded minds, lacking inner sovereignty, remain perpetually troubled by desires.

Inner desires and external temptations make people lose their autonomy, trapping sentient beings in the cycle of rebirth. This gives rise to the six realms of existence (heavenly beings, humans, asuras, animals, hungry ghosts, and hell beings) - even after countless transformations, one can hardly return to the original purity.

The path of cultivation lies in preserving one's simple and unadulterated nature through gradual refinement. Eliminate selfish desires and distracting thoughts, constantly reduce negative emotions, while nurturing virtuous intentions. Deal with others impartially, act with integrity, and be willing to sacrifice personal gain for others' benefit. Cultivate benevolent virtue (De), correcting even the smallest faults and accumulating the tiniest good deeds. Let go of distinctions between right and wrong, forget the opposition between subjective consciousness and objective laws - thus one naturally comprehends higher mysteries.

True practitioners should ideally renounce worldly life to focus on the dual cultivation of nature and life (xingming shuangxiu), but prolonged exposure to external influences often leads them to pursue superficial techniques instead. Though these skills may impress others, they're like servile tasks. Know this: any display of talent for attention means being controlled by others - how can this be the clear and tranquil practice of wuwei (non-action)? Thus the wise aren't exploited, only fools are manipulated; the clever aren't controlled, only the clumsy are commanded. Like eloquent speakers who talk endlessly while silent listeners quietly hear - upon reflection, who is truly free? If practitioners maintain inner clarity while appearing outwardly simple, all worldly wisdom will serve them instead.

The profound methods transmitted by ancestral masters must align with heavenly will when applied. How can stubborn adherence to one aspect be considered the Dao (Way)? Outwardly, ancient practitioners' methods differed, yet their spiritual essence never varied. Consider the mind's functions: seeing through eyes, hearing through ears, speaking through mouth, thinking through heart, grasping through hands, walking through feet - different functions, same mind. Today's special transmission beyond scriptures (the wordless sudden enlightenment method) transcends language and thought - only the awakened truly receive it. This is the secret transmission of true masters.

The transmission of the great Dao cannot be deliberately sought nor accidentally obtained. Enlightenment comes unconsciously through unattached seeking. Common mistakes include: seeking the Dao through robes and appearance, through verbal teachings, through solemn demeanor, or through ritual forms - none capture the Dao's totality. Know that the great Dao leaves no traces; clinging to forms in pursuit of it instead leads one astray. One should investigate where these forms originate - understanding their source is key.

The passage discusses the essential principles and precautions for Daoist cultivation.

Regarding the nature of cultivation, it states that the true Dao transcends sensory perception (not sights and sounds), artificial effort (not deliberate fabrication), external forms (not rituals and appearances), and fixed patterns (not rigid doctrines). Practitioners should maintain their innate authenticity, harmonizing naturally with heaven, earth, and all things. This supreme state cannot be comprehended through ordinary worldly understanding.

Master Ma Danyang (one of the Northern Seven Realized Ones of the Quanzhen tradition) said: True joy and tranquility need not be discussed, and the most profound mysteries cannot be conveyed in words. Only by transcending language and thought does one draw closer to the Dao.

The master teaches: Even monastics who practice long-term in temples, receiving daily instruction and discipline, often slacken or regress—how much more so for lay practitioners cultivating alone? Ordinary people are entangled in worldly attachments, drowning in desires without realizing it. Even if they encounter the guidance of sages, they may fail to awaken. If they continue to stray from the true path, they will eventually fall into wretched rebirths. Only by turning back in time can they attain liberation.

Cultivators should diligently seek guidance, just as travelers must ask for directions. Even minor worldly skills require a teacher’s instruction—how much more so the formless and boundless Great Dao? Life and death are the greatest sufferings of human existence. Without drawing near to realized masters, how can one transcend them? Ancient cultivators approached the path with utmost sincerity, serving true teachers their entire lives. Those who neither know the methods nor seek enlightened guidance, even if well-intentioned, are prone to error.

Throughout history, genuine cultivators have disciplined themselves strictly while benefiting others, accumulating merit in secret. Indulging in reckless behavior not only defiles the teachings but invites calamity. Craving luxury and squandering resources makes one no different from worldly people—misusing the offerings of devotees incurs karmic debt. Since one has entered the path, why not cultivate the mind earnestly?

Someone asked: What is the purpose of staying awake all night in cultivation? The answer: Practitioners forgo sleep to refine the mind. If one cannot rein in wandering thoughts, what use is staying awake?

In the recorded sayings of Perfected Man Wang Qiyun of Panshan, it is taught that those who stay awake all night indulging in gambling, chess-playing, weaving, or milling flour may appear like attained Daoists on the surface, but this is not the case. These people are consumed by greed and profit all day long, restless as mosquitoes biting the skin, hence their sleeplessness. True cultivators are entirely different—they regard sleep as a desire to be restrained. If this desire is indulged, it breeds evil thoughts and plunges one into shadowy realms. Just as a guard sits upright waiting for thieves to disperse, practitioners focus on refining their nature and mind, preventing mental distraction. Human nature has no fixed form—it becomes clear in brightness and dull in darkness. Only by shedding worldly attachments and maintaining wuwei (non-action) purity can one's true nature shine like a luminous pearl. This is the true meaning of "neither sleeping by night nor resting by day."

Someone asked: What is the principle behind Daoist cultivators willingly enduring poverty and hardship? The reply was: If poverty and hunger alone constituted cultivation, wouldn't all beggars on the streets become immortals? True practitioners take Dao and De (Virtue) as their foundation, with purity as their contemplation. They eliminate falsehood and greed, forgetting the self. They care not whether their clothes are fine or their food refined, focusing only on the great matter of transcending life-and-death and refining their nature. Thus they pay no mind to physical hardships.

Another asked: Do future retributions for sins and blessings truly exist? The answer came: Let us not speak of the future—consider present matters instead. When you burn incense and kneel before a sacred image with good intentions, praying "may my family be safe and my blessings increase," this is indeed a virtuous mind. But if one performs good deeds solely seeking reward, even when blessed, they fail to understand the true principle. For good deeds are done openly while their recompense comes unseen—true virtue seeks no return. Conversely, if one entertains the evil thought to kill with a blade, the moment this intention arises, the karmic debt of repaying a life is already incurred. Crimes committed in broad daylight will inevitably be exposed, while secret misdeeds will eventually come to light. This isn't about fearing punishment for crime, but that wrongdoing inevitably brings visible retribution. These are cause-and-effect relationships observable in this very life—how much more should we be cautious knowing Heaven observes even our unseen actions?

Someone asked: Since ancient times, people have spoken of heavens and hells—is this actually true?

Here's the response: The heavens belong to the yang realm (the world of light), governing virtuous deeds and blessings, while hell belongs to the yin realm (the world of darkness), governing evil deeds and calamities. When the ancients established religious teachings about heavens and hells, they were actually referring to manifestations of the human mind. A person's thoughts and actions resonate with unseen cosmic principles—for instance, maintaining constant inner purity, benefiting others, practicing all forms of goodness, and keeping the mind clear and unclouded aligns one with the yang realm. Conversely, committing various evil deeds, harming others, harboring resentment, or straying into unrighteous paths plunges one into ignorance and darkness. These defilements are recorded in the "black register" (records of evil karma), to the point where even the divine spirits within the body cannot tolerate them. Tormented by regret and suffering with no hope of rescue—this is hell. As the ancients said, "A pure and tranquil mind is the path to the heavens, while a disturbed and deluded mind is the gate to hell."

To draw an analogy: Suppose you hear that a certain mountain path is plagued by bandits who rob and kill. If you believe this and refrain from taking that path, you remain safe. But if you ignore the warning and proceed anyway, only to encounter the bandits, regret will come too late. The principle of hell operates similarly. In short, doing evil is never better than doing good—even if virtuous acts bring no immediate reward, they cause no harm, whereas willful evil inevitably invites disaster. If people refuse to repent even when faced with obvious truths, how much less will they comprehend the unseen retribution of the hidden realms?

Another question was raised: If everyone inherently possesses Buddha-nature (supreme enlightenment), why is cultivation still necessary?

The answer: An untempered ordinary mind is like silver trapped in ore—without smelting, it remains mere rock. Only when cast into the furnace and refined to remove impurities does it yield true gold. The same applies to practitioners: they must regard their deluded, defiled minds as crude ore, using steadfast will as the furnace and wisdom as the artisan, diligently refining until not a trace of impurity remains, revealing the originally unobstructed true mind. Once true nature is attained, it is no longer false, and one must carefully protect this priceless, eternally radiant pearl.

Yet another question: Does reaching the state of serene Wuwei (non-action) mean complete enlightenment?

The response clarifies: This view pertains only to the level of fundamental essence and seems correct but is actually not so. The ultimate state of realization cannot be described in words.

In the recorded sayings of Master Wang of Panshan Qiyun, it is said that the true Dao transcends all concepts and cognition. It cannot be comprehended through thought or known through knowledge, for the profundity of the Dao completely surpasses verbal description. Only by relinquishing all discriminating mind can one resonate with the Dao. This state exists neither between movement and stillness, nor apart from them—how could it be confined by concepts like "non-action (Wuwei) and purity"?

Someone asked: I've heard that Master Danyang (Ma Yu, one of the Quanzhen Seven Masters) attained the Dao quickly through contemplating life and death. What principle is this? The reply was: Practitioners should regard their bodies as condemned prisoners awaiting execution, with each step bringing them closer to death. Viewing everything with this "certain death" mindset naturally enables one to relinquish all attachments. Even when surrounded by sensual pleasures and worldly splendor, one can see without seeing and hear without hearing—if even this body can be abandoned, how much more so external things? Cultivating one's nature through this method yields rapid results, like attaining rebirth through death, reaching the state beyond birth and extinction. The essential teaching for beginners seeking liberation from life and death is: Human life is impermanent—the cessation of breath means death. One must seize the time for diligent practice, eliminating ordinary mind, thereby attaining self-liberation while liberating others, mutually aiding one another without delay or laziness.

Another asked: If the mind is unattached and follows conditions freely, does this accord with the Dao? The reply: Deliberately pursuing "non-attachment" becomes attachment itself; thinking of "non-defilement" already falls into discrimination. The moment you seek stillness, you're bound by thought; complete indulgence becomes heterodox views. "Non-defilement and non-attachment" are like medicine for illness—continuing to take medicine after recovery becomes illness itself. Only by severing all thought can one truly arrive home—then there's no need to ask for directions.

The Master's teaching: The Dao itself is ineffable, yet can be guided through good and evil. Performing good deeds creates causes for transcending samsara—there will be heavens without hells. Committing evil plunges one into boundless suffering—there will be hells without heavens. The distinction between these paths lies between delusion and awakening: in an instant of awakening one becomes a sage, in perpetual delusion one sinks forever. Having obtained human form, how can one not reflect deeply?

The Master further said: Ordinary people and sages share the same essence—the difference lies only in clarity of awareness. Awakened, one is a sage; deluded, one remains ordinary. Ordinary people refuse to eliminate emotional attachments, chasing external objects and drifting with the current, coveting momentary pleasures while accumulating calamities for countless eons, remaining perpetually unawakened.

In practice, one must first understand one's fundamental duty, then comprehend methods for teaching sentient beings. Without understanding the fundamental principles, one is like a person without eyes—unable to distinguish the path, every step risks error.

When teachings are not clear, it is like having eyes yet sitting in darkness—this breeds stubbornness and personal biases. One must achieve complete understanding to respond to all situations with perfect harmony. Without such thorough comprehension, it is like sitting in pitch-black night without eyes—when will one ever escape such difficulty?

Someone asked: "What exactly is the Golden Elixir (Jindan) that Daoists often speak of?" The answer came: "It is the original true nature of a human being. Because it is sharp, strong, luminous, and capable of freely transforming and merging, it is called 'golden.' After cultivation, it becomes complete and enduring, remaining indestructible even through countless kalpas—thus it is called 'elixir.' Its essence is like empty space, crystalline both inside and out, untainted by the slightest dust, its radiance illuminating all without exception. Therefore, the Patriarch said: 'The original true nature is the Golden Elixir; the four elemental aggregates form the furnace and cauldron for its refinement. Without attachment or deliberation, free from deluded thoughts, one naturally ascends to the immortal realms.' Some in the world mistake the Golden Elixir for a tangible object or associate it with emotional desires—this is a heretical view that leads to hell, a depraved act violating the human path that results in rebirth in the animal realm."

The master said: "Those who study the Dao should contemplate in places undisturbed by worldly affairs, where no dust settles, in communion with heaven and earth. Here, penetrating to the ultimate truth, one attains the state where the innate nature does not oppose the Dao, and the acquired self follows the timeliness of heaven. If even heaven is not opposed, how much less so humans and spirits?"

Someone asked: "What is the profound mystery (Xuanmiao)?" The master countered: "Who taught you to ask this?" The disciple bowed and replied: "This disciple thought of it himself." The master said: "If so, you already understand." The disciple laughed and bowed again.

Someone asked: "Not dwelling on the past, not anticipating the future—how should one act in the present?" The answer came: "Eliminate restless thoughts but preserve awareness. More importantly, understand 'who' it is that eliminates these thoughts. Realizing this, you gain mastery—whether to eliminate or not is entirely up to you."

Another asked: "Setting aside the mind of future and past—what is the present mind?" The master first gazed directly and said: "This is not the present." Then lowering his eyes, he added: "Nor is this the present." Finally, he asked: "Do you understand?" The disciple smiled: "I do not." The master continued: "Straining your eyes wide open, you cannot grasp even a single 'present'—how then speak of past and future?"

Someone inquired: "What are fortune and misfortune?" The reply came: "Accumulating wood forms a forest; piling stones builds mountains; gathering water creates oceans; amassing good deeds brings blessings; hoarding evil deeds invites calamity. This is the root of fortune and misfortune."

In the recorded sayings of Master Wang Qiyun of Panshan, several dialogues are preserved:

When asked about good and evil, Master Wang replied: All actions arising from a benevolent heart are good, while all actions stemming from inner imbalance are evil. The greatest good is that which goes unrecognized by others; the greatest evil is that which remains unknown to others. Only when one transcends the discriminating mind between good and evil can one perceive higher realms of cultivation.

Regarding the difference between illness in practitioners and ordinary people, Master Wang gave two examples: When Dan-yang Zhenren (Ma Yu) fell ill, physicians could not detect his pulse; when Huqiu Zi (the realized master from Liezi's writings) sat upright, physiognomists could not discern his true countenance. This is because the hearts of realized beings remain unmoved by external phenomena—their essential nature never departs from the Dao. Even the transformations of heaven and earth cannot alter them, let alone ordinary doctors and fortune-tellers. Herein lies the fundamental distinction between cultivators and common folk.

Master Wang criticized certain practitioners: They fail to open the eye of wisdom or comprehend the profound mystery of perfect integration. Instead, they merely imitate others' speech and conduct, obsessing over literal meanings like blind men listening to descriptions of the sun and moon—forever unable to behold true radiance. All this stems from failing to genuinely cultivate the heart-mind.

On maintaining clarity amidst chaos, Master Wang said: With inner purity, even a bustling marketplace becomes as quiet as a meditation chamber; conversely, with an unsettled mind, solitary seclusion feels like dwelling in a noisy market. When no deluded thoughts arise toward sages, one attains freedom in both movement and stillness, never confused by external phenomena.

When asked why one should "blend with the light and join the dust" (harmonizing with worldly affairs) yet remain unattached, Master Wang explained: All phenomena in heaven and earth have their own nature. Though we harmonize with them, we must not lose ourselves—just as heaven remains heaven, earth remains earth, each distinctly clear.

Concerning the unity of all things, Master Wang stated: The myriad phenomena of heaven and earth are manifestations of the Dao. Though forms differ, their essence is identical. Heaven is the Dao, earth is the Dao, all things are the Dao—why force artificial uniformity?

Finally, on the question of happiness: Ordinary people pursue illusory pleasures, suffering as desires pull them along. Dao cultivators understand true joy lies not in external things, thus transcending worldly distinctions of pleasure and pain.

Ordinary people often mistake suffering for happiness, constantly scheming after worldly pleasures. When they fail to obtain them, they become anxious and distressed, their minds forever restless—this is true suffering. Practitioners of the Dao do not deliberately pursue happiness; their thoughts remain focused on the great Dao (the Way). Even when encountering hardship, they do not perceive it as suffering, and in the absence of suffering, they maintain an enduring joy, attaining genuine freedom of the spirit. Understand that in this world, where there is pleasure, there must also be pain; without pleasure, there is no pain. Only by transcending the distinction between suffering and joy in the heart can one attain true happiness.

Someone once asked: How can one break free from the bondage of karmic retribution for sin and merit? The answer is: Sin and merit are like a cage formed by yin and yang. If you can transcend this cage, you will naturally no longer be subject to the cycle of karmic cause and effect. What is this yin-yang cage? The moment a single selfish or wicked thought arises in the mind, you fall into the shell of yin; the moment a single virtuous thought emerges, you fall into the shell of yang. In the yin shell, you invite misfortune; in the yang shell, you reap blessings. But if you refine your nature until it becomes as pure and empty as the void, neither clinging to good nor evil, free from all attachments, and fully master of yourself—then neither fortune nor calamity can affect you, and karma can no longer bind you. This is the state of one who has transcended the yin-yang cage.

Worldly people spend their days scheming for wealth and profit, fighting and deceiving one another, their hearts filled with the dark karmic force of ignorance. They remain forever trapped in the yin-yang cage, unable even to enter the path of virtue, let alone transcend it. How can one escape the karma they themselves have created? In the end, they can only bow their heads in resignation, submitting to the judgment of the King of Hell.

Another question was asked: What truly determines rebirth in the next life? The answer is: A person’s actions in this life are like crafting the mold for their next existence. Those who do good create a virtuous mold; those who do evil create a wicked one. When this life ends and the true nature departs from the body, it is like molten iron being poured into the self-made mold—whether one is reborn as a human or falls into the animal realm, it is entirely the consequence of one’s own deeds. The Creator does not deliberately make you a beast, nor does He intentionally assign you to the six realms of rebirth. It is all determined by the mold you have fashioned in this life, and there is no escape from it. The nature of your mind shapes the nature of your next existence.

The text describes how human temperament manifests in different forms: those with cruel hearts transform into snakes, the miserly become dogs, those indulging in lust and killing turn into pigs, while the greedy and violent morph into wolves. The myriad forms between heaven and earth are all consequences of one's own actions and retributions. Thus the ancients said: "A mind aligned with metal and stone becomes metal and stone; a mind aligned with water and fire becomes water and fire"—this truth is undeniable. Once human form is lost, it may take tens of thousands of years to regain it—how can we not contemplate this carefully?

Someone asked: "I'm now old and frail, unable to learn much. Please, Master, directly reveal the most profound mystery to me." The Perfected One (Zhenren) replied: "Let go of this very thought seeking the most profound mystery—herein lies your answer."

Another inquired: "Various schools establish doctrines with differing teachings that refute one another—how to distinguish the true from the false?" The Perfected One pointed to the essential distinction: cultivation divides into two kinds—genuine practice and worldly accommodation. True practitioners maintain minds as pure as heaven and earth, as luminous as sun and moon, moving as naturally as the four seasons. Those who can respond to circumstances without losing their root embody the true Dao. Those who merely recite scriptures and put on superficial displays to please others are just performing religious theater—this has no connection to authentic cultivation or the true path. Moreover, if one still competes for fame and profit, how do they differ from ordinary people? How can they claim to represent true teaching? The discerning will naturally distinguish authenticity.

(Note: Here "worldly accommodation" refers to the external forms religious practitioners adopt to meet secular demands, contrasting with inner cultivation; "returning to the root" is a Daoist cultivation term meaning returning to one's original nature and source.)