《太上玄元道德經解》Vol. 2

This passage elucidates the essential characteristics of the Dao. The Dao (referring to the primordial Qi of the cosmos, the state of absolute emptiness and spontaneity) cannot be truly expressed in words—if it could be concretely described, it would not be the eternal, unchanging Dao. Similarly, the "Name" (referring to the origin that nurtures all things, beyond intellectual comprehension) cannot be precisely defined—if it could be clearly delineated, it would not be the eternal, unchanging Name. The deeper one probes and the more one clings to definitions, the more likely one is to lose genuine understanding of the Dao.

The commentary by Emperor Zhengyang (a Daoist immortal) points out that Confucius's concept of the Dao belongs to the "acquired" or posterior Dao, whereas Laozi here speaks of the "primordial" or anterior Dao. The primordial Dao existed before heaven and earth, serving as the source from which they emerged. The true Dao cannot be spoken of—once described in words, it becomes a posterior concept. Phenomena like benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom are all manifestations that emerge from the Dao but have already descended into the realm of the acquired.

"Non-being" (referring to the state of Wuji, transcending form and name) represents the initial state of heaven and earth; "Being" (referring to the manifestation of Taiji, provisionally called the appearance of the Dao) serves as the root from which all things are born. Therefore, one should constantly maintain a desireless state to contemplate the profound mystery of the Dao, while also consciously cultivating practice to grasp its operational patterns.

The commentary further explains: "Non-being" corresponds to the realm of Wuji, existing prior to the formation of heaven and earth; "Being" corresponds to the state of Taiji, marking the beginning of the Dao's manifestation and transformation of all things. Practitioners should simultaneously embrace both the "constant non-being" and "constant being" states—transcending worldly attachments to realize the great Dao while remaining grounded in practical cultivation of body and mind.

All things emerge from emptiness, and this process of coming into being from non-being—is this not the very origin of all existence? The concept of "constant non-being" (referring to the empty nature of the Dao), if one does not contemplate the mystery of "non-being," how can one comprehend the subtlety of the Dao?

"Non-being" is not absolute nothingness, but rather a subtle state brimming with infinite vitality, difficult to describe in words. To observe this "non-being," one must understand that it is not mere vacant emptiness. Meanwhile, "constant being" (manifestations of the Dao's tangible presence) is like the roots of a plant—though invisible, they undeniably exist. The Dao gives rise to tangible existence from emptiness, and this existence is inexhaustible, precisely why it permeates all things. Yet this "being" is not a concretely visible presence either.

These two aspects of "non-being" and "being" (like holding both ends of a bamboo pole while its middle remains hollow) share the same source though named differently (one pointing to the creative origin, the other revealing concrete function)—both may be called "mystery" (referring to the profound unity of noumenon and phenomenon). The deeper layer of this "mystery" (the state where form and spirit become wondrous, creating being from non-being) is the gateway to all marvels (through which the enlightened enter, their wondrous functions boundless).

One might say the "two" refers precisely to these dual aspects of "being" and "non-being." Without this principle, the Dao would not exist. They are called "emerging together" because whether designated as "the nameless" or "the named," though their names differ, both point to that distant, limitless source. "Mystery" describes the Dao's divine transformations between "being" and "non-being." Yet merely calling it "mystery" remains superficial—the deeper "mystery upon mystery" becomes immeasurable (like silent, soundless states). However, the Dao does not stagnate in emptiness; all things transform and proliferate from it ceaselessly, hence it is called "the gateway to all wonders."

On Cultivation in Chapter Two:

When all under heaven recognize beauty (deliberately flaunting virtues), ugliness arises (inviting crisis). When all recognize goodness (pursuing fame and gain), evil appears (sparking contention). Thus "being" and "non-being" generate each other (non-being necessarily produces being, being ultimately returns to non-being), difficulty and ease complete each other (only through hardship comes harvest, what seems easy proves difficult). Long and short manifest through comparison (the Dao itself is formless, length being relative), high and low depend on each other (in heaven and earth's revolutions, what absolute heights exist?). Sounds and echoes harmonize (wind moving through myriad things creates natural resonance), front and back follow one another (the past continues in the present, the present begins the future).

Zhengyang Dijun (Daoist immortal Zhongli Quan) comments: The Great Dao does not stagnate in concrete traces, draws no boundaries, clings to no fixed views, but flows seamlessly in perpetual cycles.

This passage expounds the core Daoist concept of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)." Laozi posits that the world inherently lacks absolute distinctions between good and evil or beauty and ugliness. Human insistence on creating these dichotomies only breeds endless conflict. Just as recognizing beauty makes other things seem unbeautiful, and identifying goodness renders other things ungood—this discriminating mind spawns countless troubles.

Therefore, the sage governs the world through Wuwei (acting in accordance with nature without forcing outcomes) and teaches through "wordless instruction" (like the self-evident turning of seasons). Their approach to all things follows four principles: letting all beings grow naturally without interference (forgetting objects), nurturing all without claiming possession (forgetting form), acting without self-importance (forgetting emotions), and accomplishing without taking credit (forgetting origins). Precisely because they don't claim merit, their achievements endure. This mirrors Yan Hui's teaching of "neither boasting nor imposing favors"—a true grasp of the profound meaning within the character "Wu" (non-being/nothingness).

Chapter Three explains how to pacify the people: by not exalting the worthy (abandoning cleverness), the people won't compete; by not valuing rare goods (like Bo Ya relinquishing profit), the people won't steal; by not displaying desires (avoiding improper sights), the mind remains undisturbed. The sage's governance method involves: purifying the heart (eliminating desires), enriching inner substance (cultivating life), weakening attachments (maintaining softness), and strengthening the body (preserving physical form). All these stem from the fundamental practice of self-cultivation.

(Note: Bo Ya was an ancient master musician symbolizing renunciation of material gain; Yan Hui was Confucius' most virtuous disciple, renowned for his moral character)

The True Yang Sovereign Lord (a Daoist deity) explains in his commentary that the essence of sage governance lies in maintaining a state of serene non-action (Wuwei). By not exalting the worthy (avoiding deliberate praise of virtuous individuals), not valuing material goods, and not allowing desires to manifest, the hearts of the people will return to simplicity. The ruler of the spirit (referring to one's original spirit, or Shen) must remain in a state of emptiness, while the abdomen (referring to the lower Dantian, a crucial area in cultivation) should be filled. The abdomen serves as the dwelling place of the heart-mind; if this dwelling is unsettled, the spirit becomes disordered. Hence, the principle of "emptying the mind and filling the abdomen." As for willpower, it is stored in the kidneys, and the bones are its external manifestation. When the will is agitated recklessly, it leads to arrogance and indulgence, weakening the bones. The sage understands this principle and thus weakens desires to strengthen the bones.

To keep the people in a state of no-knowledge and no-desire (returning to their original simplicity), even the clever dare not act recklessly (following natural laws without artificial effort). By practicing non-action (maintaining stillness and non-interference), there is nothing that cannot be properly governed (achieving natural harmony and responsiveness).

He further explains that human troubles arise from knowledge and desires, which create endless disturbances. Only by eliminating knowledge and desires can people roam freely in the vast, undifferentiated realm of nature—how could anything then remain ungoverned? The phrase "making the clever dare not act" means that the wise have no need for cunning strategies.

Chapter Four discusses the nature of the Dao. Though the Dao is empty (one with the Great Void), its application is inexhaustible (remaining humble and never self-satisfied). It is profound, like the source of all things (unfathomably deep, giving rise to all existence).

The True Yang Sovereign Lord clarifies that the character for "Dao" should be understood in parts: "Chong" refers to a state of empty desirelessness, like stillness itself. Applying this silent Dao to worldly affairs, it may seem insufficient to fill the universe, yet it is as deep as an abyss—the gathering place of all rivers—and thus the root of all things. The word "seems" is also used to express humility.

One should blunt sharp edges (knowing when to stop, refining the spirit inward), untangle complications (not following worldly changes), soften brilliance (internalizing radiance), and merge with the dust (uniting the spirit with all things). Clear and translucent, it seems to both exist and not exist (nourishing the Shen in emptiness).

He adds that people fail to recognize the Dao resides in emptiness, so they pursue it with sharp edges and chaotic minds, only driving themselves further away. Thus, the sage blunts sharp edges when encountering them and untangles complications when faced with disorder. When one embodies the Dao's radiance, it naturally illuminates afar, yet one refrains from excessive display to avoid dominating over all things—hence the need to soften brilliance.

Heaven, Earth, and the sages are without partiality (they do not deliberately impose benevolence), treating all things like straw dogs used in sacrifices (letting them follow their natural course). The True Yang Emperor (a Daoist immortal) explains: The term "not benevolent" here doesn't mean Heaven and Earth or the sages are cold-hearted, but rather that the operations of Heaven and Earth are completely natural. All things are bathed in its grace, yet Heaven and Earth itself shows no deliberate kindness. "Straw dogs" are ritual offerings made of grass—reverently displayed during ceremonies but discarded afterward, symbolizing non-attachment. The benevolent care Heaven and Earth shows all things is equally natural. The sage's treatment of common people follows the same principle.

The space between Heaven and Earth (teeming with all things) is like a hollow bellows (empty yet containing infinite vitality), appearing void yet never exhausted (internally interconnected). The more it's pumped, the more it produces (responding to endless transformations). When still, the bellows is utterly silent; once activated, it connects with the creative transformations of Heaven and Earth. Precisely because of its hollow, unyielding nature, the more it moves, the more new energy it generates.

Rather than exhausting oneself with excessive speech (which depletes primordial Qi), it's better to hold fast to the Middle Way (maintaining perfect equilibrium). So-called "excessive speech" refers to convoluted discourse—better to say little yet stray from the Dao than to cherish the Middle Way's value. This "middle" is the balanced principle upheld by sage-kings like Yao, Shun, and Yu in governing. What the Supreme Venerable (Laozi) speaks of is the truth that embraces all things without partiality. Yet later generations set Laozi's teachings in opposition to other schools of thought—is this not utterly absurd?

(Chapter Six discusses the mysterious state of "the valley spirit never dying") The Dao is like the undying valley spirit (empty yet nurturing all things), called the "mysterious female" (the profound feminine power). The gateway of this mysterious female (the source from which all things arise) is the root of Heaven and Earth. Continuously existing without cease, its application is inexhaustible.

This passage elucidates the core principles of Daoist cultivation. "The valley spirit never dies" refers to the eternal nature of the inner void and spiritual awareness within humans, a state known as the "mysterious female" (xuanpin, representing the source of yin-yang fusion). The Sovereign of True Yang explains that while a physical valley appears empty yet has visible form, the void of Dao is formless and imageless, hence called "spirit" (shen). Dao itself neither originates nor perishes, thus transcending the concept of death.

"The gate of the mysterious female" indicates the origin point where thoughts arise—the very root of heaven and earth. Though yin and yang have no fixed form, they manifest through movement and stillness, opening and closing. This gate functions like the pivotal mechanism of yin-yang transformation, governing the generative processes of all creation.

"Continuously seeming to exist" describes this subtle yet perpetual state that eludes ordinary perception; "using it never wearies" means employing it brings no exhaustion. Like ceaselessly flowing water that appears nonexistent yet tangibly persists, it remains inexhaustible in application.

Chapter seven discusses the enduring nature of heaven and earth. Their longevity stems from not striving for self-preservation ("not generating themselves"), thereby achieving eternal existence. The sage emulates this principle: by placing himself behind others, he ends up ahead; by remaining detached, he achieves preservation. This occurs not because the sage lacks self-interest, but because he merges completely with heaven, earth, and the myriad things, ultimately fulfilling his true nature.

The Sovereign of True Yang further clarifies that since the separation of heaven and earth at creation, both have existed perpetually. Every historical era and individual shares dependence on this eternal framework. Nothing surpasses heaven and earth in endurance, nor equals them in constancy.

Heaven and Earth endure because they nurture all things without claiming the merit of creation. They neither strive to produce nor boast of their generative virtue, thus achieving eternal existence. The sage emulates this quality of Heaven and Earth—by not overvaluing his physical form, he transcends self; by not clinging to personal preservation, he embraces all existence.

Those who constantly prioritize themselves are actually calculating personal gains, while those who cultivate from within are planning for universal welfare. Therefore, those who don't pursue self-interest naturally gain reverence; those who set themselves aside ultimately preserve their lives. Is this not precisely because of their selflessness? Only through selflessness can one achieve true "self-interest"—where this "self" refers to the peace of family, nation, and world. When rulers consider world harmony as their "personal interest," is this not the highest form of selflessness?

Chapter Eight speaks of cultivating one's fundamental nature. The highest goodness resembles water (intrinsic qualities mirroring water's characteristics). Water excels at nourishing all things without competing for merit (adapting to container shapes without resistance), willingly dwelling in low places people disdain (maintaining quiet endurance through softness and humility), thus approaching closest to the Dao (acting subtly to bring auspiciousness beforehand).

The commentary by Emperor Zhengyang (a Daoist immortal) explains: The Dao generates De (Virtue), De generates goodness, and goodness emerges from De—hence "supreme goodness." The water analogy stems from the Daoist cosmogonic concept that "Heaven's primal energy generates water"—as De's operation transforms into goodness, just as Qi's movement becomes water. Both progress from formless to formed, hence the watery metaphor. Water nurtures all without claiming merit, and though all receive its grace, they often overlook it—this water-like quality approaching the Dao mirrors the sage's supreme goodness.

Its manifestations include: dwelling well by choosing suitable places (benefiting all without displaying favor), maintaining profound depth of mind (embracing all while preserving inner cultivation), interacting through benevolence (transforming all without self-satisfaction), speaking with unwavering sincerity (responding to all without broken trust), governing with orderly administration (enlightening all into peaceful harmony), accomplishing through capable service (fulfilling each thing's proper place), and acting with impeccable timing (following all things' natural patterns).

Further elaboration states: "dwelling well in places" means water inevitably finds its destination by flowing from high to low; "mind maintaining depth" signifies water's source never depletes nor its current ceases; "interacting through benevolence" describes water's grace spreading universally without seeking reward.

This passage explores the principle that "the highest virtue is like water" and the wisdom of "maintaining fullness with caution."

Regarding the water metaphor: Water embodies all forms of virtuous qualities. Its ability to spread evenly in all directions demonstrates benevolence; its capacity to flow freely yet settle naturally reflects integrity; its power to nourish fields and revive withered plants symbolizes good governance; its adaptability to take any shape, whether large or small, shows flexibility; and its cycle of freezing in winter and melting in spring reveals timely wisdom. The supreme virtue (De) resembles water in this way—while superficially describing water, it actually alludes to the highest form of virtuous power.

The essence of water lies in "non-contention": precisely because water nurtures all things without claiming merit, it incurs no resentment. This reminds practitioners to emulate water's character.

Chapter Nine discusses the principle of "maintaining fullness with caution":

Forcing things to remain at peak fullness is inferior to knowing when to stop (the Dao of Heaven diminishes the overflowing and supplements the humble). Deliberately honing sharp edges cannot be sustained indefinitely (the Dao of Earth transforms the full and flows toward the lowly). As the True Yang Emperor's commentary notes: The Great Dao despises excess—straining to maintain fullness is inferior to preserving moderation; the Great Dao warns against sharpness—forcing edges to remain keen ultimately proves unsustainable.

The text then addresses human affairs: No one can permanently guard halls filled with gold and jade (spirits and deities harm the arrogant but bless the humble). Wealth accompanied by arrogance inevitably invites calamity (human hearts detest the prideful but favor the modest). True wisdom lies in retiring at the height of success (this constitutes the noble person's art of perfect closure), for this accords with the Dao of Heaven (harmonizing with the virtue of Heaven and Earth).

The passage concludes: Worldly people possess riches and treasures yet often meet untimely ends—all due to pride. Pride stems from attachment, and attachment breeds unwillingness to let go. Those with true foresight consider withdrawal upon achieving success, embodying the wisdom of following Heaven's Dao to avoid the disasters of excess. Zhang Liang of the Han Dynasty mastered this principle, thus enjoying lifelong peace; figures like Fan Li likewise understood this truth.

This passage elucidates the principles of self-cultivation and nurturing one's nature. The example of Wu Zixu's failure to understand when to advance or retreat illustrates how one should know the proper timing for restraint.

Regarding the phrase "Can you keep the spirit and embrace the One without departing from them?", the True Yang Emperor explains: The human hun (ethereal soul) and po (corporeal soul) reside within the body. The hun, belonging to Yang, governs consciousness, while the po, belonging to Yin, governs physical form. "Carrying the hun and po" means letting the hun guide the po, thereby maintaining clarity of spirit without losing one's fundamental nature. "Embracing the One" refers to preserving a state of pure, undivided authenticity where spirit and essence never separate for even a moment.

"Can you concentrate your Qi (vital energy) and become soft like a newborn?" teaches that one's breath should be focused and gentle, attaining the natural purity of an infant. Rather than indulging the breath to create brittle rigidity, one should gather it into tranquility. The sage maintains a state of Wuwei (non-action), mirroring the infant's uncontrived genuineness.

"Can you cleanse your profound vision to be without blemish?" speaks of clearing mental distractions to preserve luminous clarity of mind. The sage regards freedom from affairs as true blessing, sweeping away all distracting thoughts to reach sublime mental states where flaws naturally disappear.

"Can you love the people and govern the state without deliberate action?" points out that people follow their own patterns of affection, and states follow their own principles of governance. The sage cares for the populace and administers the nation by following natural patterns, requiring no forced intervention. This embodies the principle of "letting things follow their own nature," allowing all affairs to unfold according to their inherent ways.

The opening and closing of the Heavenly Gate (portal to the Dao) should be maintained with softness and stillness in wuwei (non-action). The operation of the great Dao resembles the natural movement of a gate—its opening and closing follow inherent rhythms, encompassing all things without omission. The sage emulates this natural principle, neither violating the innate laws of pre-heaven (prior to manifestation) nor resisting the circumstances of post-heaven (manifested reality). This state is called "without the feminine"—maintaining pure undivided awareness, like the noble person who always abides in the Middle Way.

When the mind becomes transparent and wisdom illuminates all directions, one must preserve the state of unknowing. Like the natural radiance of moonlight or melting snow, this requires abandoning the grasping mind that deliberately seeks knowledge. True wisdom mirrors objects like a polished bronze mirror—reflecting whatever appears without the mirror itself harboring any intention to reflect. Thus while perceiving all things clearly, one maintains the primal awareness free from discrimination.

The Dao gives birth to and nourishes all beings, yet claims no possession; acts upon all things yet claims no merit; guides all growth yet asserts no dominion. This supreme virtue is called "mysterious De" (profound and inscrutable Virtue). The sage merges completely with the Dao—though creating and nurturing all existence, they remain in a state of selfless non-attachment. This embodies the subtle purity of the Dao itself.

Chapter Eleven employs three metaphors to illustrate the wonder of "non-being" (wu): thirty spokes converge at the empty hub of a wheel—precisely this central void enables the wheel to turn; kneading clay to form vessels—their usefulness lies in the empty space within; carving doors and windows to build a house—the inhabitable space constitutes its true value. Thus while "being" (you, the substantial) provides utility, "non-being" constitutes the fundamental source of function. The Western Florescence Emperor (venerated Daoist deity) reveals that all eighty-one chapters of the Dao De Jing establish their arguments upon this foundational principle of "non-being."

This passage elucidates the profound principle of Wuwei (non-action) in the Daode Jing. Just as the hub of a wheel remains motionless yet enables the spokes to rotate, it is precisely the seemingly "non-acting" element that truly facilitates function. Extending this principle, the essence of tools lies in their stillness, and the framework of houses in their stability—it is precisely because of their "non-acting substance" that they produce "useful function." Thus, all things in the world that "exist" (you) ultimately originate from "non-existence" (wu).

Without "existence," the vastness of "non-existence" cannot be revealed; without "non-existence," the subtlety of "existence" cannot be entered. "Existence" provides people with convenience, but what truly enables function is "non-existence." The significance of "non-existence" is truly paramount.

Chapter 12 discusses the restraint of desires. Obsession with dazzling colors blinds the eyes (the Shen/spirit is drawn outward by external things), indulgence in music deafens the ears (the harmonious Qi dissipates, leaving the heart-mind hollow), craving rich flavors dulls the palate (obsession with sensory pleasures makes one forget their natural essence), and unrestrained hunting leads to a chaotic mind (like a wild ape or untamed horse without a home). Rare treasures distort behavior (when the will is enslaved by material things, it is better to preserve the original mind). Therefore, the sage focuses on inner cultivation (withdrawing the senses and turning inward), remaining unmoved by external temptations (when the eyes are dazzled by colors, the Jing/essence is scattered), and understands what to embrace and what to discard (illuminating the mind to perceive true nature, hearing sounds to awaken to the Dao).

The commentary by the Western Florescence Emperor (a revered Daoist deity) states: The eyes govern sight, the ears govern hearing, and the mouth governs taste—these are what Confucianism calls the "nature of material disposition." Both sages and ordinary people possess these senses, but the sage follows them naturally without indulgence, while ordinary people indulge their desires and harm their innate nature. Obsession with sensual pleasures blinds the eyes, deafens the ears, and dulls the palate—yet this is not the true state of original nature. Moreover, even activities like hunting and treasures are not entirely avoided by sages, but they always see through their illusory nature, like flowers in a mirror or the moon reflected in water.

This passage from the Commentary on the Supreme Mysterious Dao and Its Virtue discusses how one should regard favor/disgrace and the physical body.

Regarding favor and disgrace, the scripture observes that worldly people often overvalue favor, when in fact favor and disgrace are two sides of the same coin. When receiving favor, one fears losing it (like standing at the edge of an abyss), and when losing it, one dreads impending misfortune—this mentality is called "being startled by favor and disgrace as by a fright." But those with true insight understand that so-called glory inherently contains disgrace within it; historically, those who suffered great humiliation often began by receiving favor. Thus the text states "favor is inferior," revealing favor's fundamentally base nature. However, the "fright" mentioned here doesn't indicate actual fear, but rather describes an attitude of cautious vigilance.

Concerning the body, the scripture points out that people's greatest anxiety stems from excessive attachment to their physical form. Because we possess bodies, we generate endless desires and afflictions (as if our original nature were obscured by this defiled shell). If one can relinquish attachment to the body (seeing through its illusory, conditional nature) and return to the clarity of original mind, what anxieties could remain? The commentary by the Western Florescence Emperor (a revered Daoist deity) particularly emphasizes how ordinary people, burdened by excessive self-concern and bodily attachment, ironically invite misfortune through this very fixation.

The core teaching is vividly illustrated through two metaphors: the belly can accommodate all foods without craving, while the eyes greedily take in the myriad things yet retain nothing. Therefore, ancient sages all cultivated the wisdom of "acting for the belly, not for the eyes"—nurturing a receptive, open-hearted state while refusing to be led astray by external desires.

The reason humans experience various worries and afflictions lies fundamentally in the existence of the physical body. Rather than inviting misfortune by possessing a body, it would be more carefree not to have one at all. If I truly had no physical form, what would there be to worry about?

Therefore, those who value their own being more than the world (where the mind is like a ruler and the body resembles the world) may be temporarily entrusted with governing the world (a human lifespan of a hundred years is but a passing guest, and all things are temporary dwellings). But only those who cherish the world as dearly as their own body (taking virtue cultivation, caring for the people, and self-cultivation as fundamental) can be entrusted with the world permanently (when noble persons are sincere and reverent, the world naturally finds peace).

Here, "valuing the body" does not mean self-importance, but rather treating the body as an instrument to serve the world; "cherishing the body" is not self-preservation, but making the body a vessel for loving the world. Can such people not be entrusted with the world's great affairs? Thus they may be temporarily or permanently entrusted.

Chapter 14 "In Praise of the Mysterious" states: What you look at but cannot see is called "Yi" (the greatest form has no fixed shape—observe carefully within the mind); what you listen to but cannot hear is called "Xi" (the greatest sound is inaudible—reflect in silence); what you grasp for but cannot touch is called "Wei" (though you seek to hold it, there's nothing to grasp). These three states are difficult to interrogate (they must be comprehended through tranquil concentration), therefore they are collectively called "the One" (like swirling winds blending into unity, permeating beginning and end).

The Western Florescence Emperor (a Daoist deity) comments: Few understand these two characters "Xi" and "Yi," so Laozi reveals their true meaning—What is "Yi"? It is looking without seeing; what is "Xi"? It is listening without hearing. As for "Wei," some may comprehend it, yet even with understanding few can truly embody it, hence it's further explained as "cannot be touched." Ultimately, "Yi" is "Xi," and "Xi" is "Wei"—all are manifestations of the "Mysterious" (Xuan), differing in name but identical in essence, thus capable of uniting as one. The Doctrine of the Mean's "unseen and unheard" and the Great Odes' "no sound, no smell" both originate from this principle.

The Dao appears neither bright above (its luminous nature has no form), nor dark below (its divine transformations have no fixed pattern). "Jiao" means brightness, contrasted with "Mei" (obscurity). Ordinary people understand obvious matters clearly but remain confused about subtle principles—like noticing what's above while neglecting what's below. Sages establish standards based on the mysterious foundation, not clinging to the apparent but grounding themselves in the subtle. Thus it is said: "Above it's not bright, below it's not dark."

This passage describes the profound and ineffable nature of the Dao. The phrase "continuous and unbroken" refers to the Dao's ceaseless, endless flow, yet when attempting to name it, no suitable designation can be found—ultimately it returns to the state of "no-thing" (a condition beyond physical form). This constitutes the mysterious profundity of the Dao.

What is called "the form of the formless" or "the image of the imageless" both describe the Dao's elusive, indistinct state—now seeming to exist, now seeming not. When you try to meet it, you cannot see its beginning; when you follow it, you cannot find its end. This subtle, unfathomable quality is precisely how the Dao manifests.

To grasp the eternal Dao ("the Dao of antiquity") and apply it to present phenomena ("the existence of today"), to understand the origin of all things—this is the fundamental principle of the Dao. Here, "antiquity and today" should not be rigidly interpreted as temporal concepts. "Antiquity" represents the Dao's primordial state, while "today" refers to concrete phenomena. Using the root of the Dao to govern the manifest world is precisely the operating principle of the Great Dao.

The "Chapter on Manifesting De" speaks of the ancient masters who attained the Dao ("those adept at being scholars") possessing subtle and profound wisdom, so deeply concealed it defies measurement. The Western Florescence Emperor (a revered Daoist deity) comments that these qualities—subtlety and profound penetration—are interconnected: the more refined, the more profound; the more profound, the more penetrating, ultimately reaching a depth beyond comprehension. Precisely because it defies description, approximations must be used: they are cautious "as if crossing a winter stream," embodying the prudence of Daoist cultivators.

The truly cultivated individuals of ancient times possessed depths of attainment that remain unfathomable, making it difficult for later generations to fully comprehend their state. To help people understand what constitutes a genuine "good person" (referring to Daoist practitioners of exalted virtue), we can only resort to metaphorical descriptions with some reservation. While these individuals displayed certain qualities externally, they maintained constant inner restraint and composure.

Their actions were as cautious as crossing a winter river (metaphor for treading on thin ice), always preceded by careful deliberation. When speaking, they hesitated ("犹" depicting prudent hesitation), knowing that once words are uttered they become known to others, thus never speaking lightly.

Their demeanor was as dignified as receiving honored guests ("俨" indicating solemn propriety), their minds as lucid as melting ice and snow (symbolizing sudden enlightenment in Daoist practice), their nature as unadorned as uncarved wood ("敦" representing simple honesty), their hearts as expansive as empty valleys ("旷" denoting boundless openness), blending with worldly affairs while never losing their true essence ("浑" signifying unity with the Dao).

Authentic Daoist practitioners carry themselves with the solemnity of hosting distinguished visitors, their inner clarity as transparent as thawing ice. They abandon cunning artifice to preserve their simple nature; responding to all things with tranquil openness, as naturally as echoes in a hollow valley. The so-called "blending with worldly affairs" means not deliberately flaunting purity ("和光同尘" describes practitioners harmoniously coexisting with ordinary people) - insisting that "all others are turbid while I alone am clear" would violate the Dao's inclusive spirit.

Worldly people often fall into two extremes: some indulge in desires and remain perpetually agitated, while others rigidly cling to barren stillness. Who can maintain inner serenity amidst this turbid world, gradually restoring their original clarity? Who can perceive the vital impulse within stillness, comprehending the way of nurturing life? This precisely illustrates the profound principle of movement and stillness generating each other, being and non-being transforming mutually (reflecting the core Daoist concept of Yin-Yang interaction).

Those who uphold this Daoist method do not seek fullness (for emptiness is the foundation of reality). Precisely because they do not pursue fullness (maintaining a state of boundless emptiness), they can preserve what is old without artificially striving for novelty (though hidden and latent, the root remains ever-present).

The Way of Heaven diminishes what is full; spirits and deities harm what is overflowing; even among humans, excess is despised—just as the tilted vessel of antiquity could not contain overly full water. Thus, those who hold to this Dao do not seek fullness. Not pursuing fullness inevitably leads to decline, and all formed things in the world cannot escape their moment of decay—how much more so since the Daoist method esteems decline rather than novelty. This is why one prefers to preserve the old rather than chase after the new, from which we may comprehend the wisdom of yielding.

Chapter Sixteen, "Returning to the Root," states: "Attain the utmost emptiness; maintain profound stillness (abiding in emptiness and stillness to await, before wuwei takes effect)." The Western Florescence Emperor (a Daoist immortal) comments: "Emptiness is the substance of the Dao; stillness is its foundation. Ordinary people always focus on the substantial, thus their actions are restless and unceasing, giving rise to endless afflictions. Therefore, one must pursue emptiness and stillness. But if the mind still harbors the thought 'I must be empty and still,' this emptiness is not true emptiness; if one remains attached to the concept of 'stillness,' this stillness is not true stillness. Only by attaining the utmost emptiness and maintaining the deepest stillness can it be called genuine emptiness and stillness—within which substance and movement are both contained."

When the myriad things grow and operate, I observe how they return to their source (just as restraining selfish desires to return to ritual will bring the world back to benevolence). The flourishing of all things proceeds from emptiness to substance, from stillness to movement—this the Great Dao does not reject. But if one excessively pursues activity, one's innate nature will gradually dissipate, losing its home. Thus, one must return from movement to stillness, from substance to emptiness—this is returning to the origin. Hence it is said: observe their return.

The teeming multitude of things (do not cling to external matters) must ultimately return to their roots (just as observing the moon's waxing and waning reveals the foundation of Heaven's Dao). Returning to the root is called stillness (reaching the highest good depends on desirelessness). The flourishing abundance of all things—this elaborates further on the previous passage. "Teeming" describes the state of myriad things in operation. Knowing they must eventually return, each should return to its root. Just as a flower's vitality comes from its roots, so too does it return to them after withering. Returning to the root is convergence—is this not called stillness?

Stillness means returning to one's innate nature (reverting to the origin). Returning to one's nature is constancy (like the pine and cypress, never fading). Understanding constancy is wisdom (comprehending past and present, maintaining clear and eternal tranquility). Those who fail to understand this will—

This passage elucidates the paramount importance of "knowing the constant" (understanding the eternal Dao) and how only by following the Great Dao can one attain enduring stability.

Those who comprehend the Great Dao awaken easily, while the ignorant struggle to practice it. Reckless action invites misfortune, as chaotic thoughts dissipate Jing (essence) and scatter Shen (spirit). The scripture reveals that human nature inherently carries heavenly mandate - this mandate being none other than the Dao itself. The Book of Changes states "exhausting celestial principles to fully manifest one's nature and thereby reach heavenly mandate" - here the character "mandate" must not be underestimated or confused, but constantly nurtured. Only by returning to this heavenly mandate can one attain the state of serene permanence.

People often suffer from not knowing the "constant Dao" (eternal, unchanging principle). True understanding of this constant enables insight into all phenomena; no mystery, however profound, remains obscure. Conversely, ignorance of this constant leads to reckless pursuit of transient gains, inevitably resulting in calamitous actions.

Knowing the constant allows complete containment (embracing all things without exception); containment leads to impartial justice (leaving no detail unattended); justice manifests kingly virtue (governing all creation without seasonal decay); kingly virtue aligns with celestial law (upright De that harmonizes with divine spirits); celestial alignment returns to the Dao (source and sovereign of all existence); union with the Dao brings permanence (what limit exists when united with true Dao?) - thus one encounters no peril throughout life (remaining unchanged even if heaven and earth collapse).

Ancient sages attained omniscience precisely through understanding the constant, embracing all existence while dissolving impurities. Such all-encompassing capacity erases boundaries between self and other, achieving perfect impartiality - the very measure of imperial virtue. Heaven's kingly way and the king's heavenly way culminate in identical perfection. As only heaven embodies supreme greatness, Emperor Yao modeled himself upon its Dao. While all things perish, only the Dao endures unchanged. The sages, knowing this truth, devoted their entire lives to the Dao without faltering.

Chapter 17 "On Pure Customs" states: Supreme governance makes people merely aware of the Dao's presence (the supreme Dao inherent in all things); next comes governance where people cherish and praise it (still connected to the root, thus worthy of emulation); lesser still is governance through fear (where punishment inspires righteousness); the lowest form invites contempt (where people merely avoid punishment without shame).

Xi Hua Dijun (a Daoist immortal) annotates: "Supreme" denotes the highest principle - governing the world through the Dao.

This scripture primarily discusses different levels of state governance and moral cultivation. The highest form of governance follows the natural operation of the Dao (the cosmic primordial principle), where rulers silently adhere to heavenly principles, and the people, without feeling coercion, naturally align with this transformation. The next level employs De (the manifestation of the Dao) to educate through rituals and music, implementing benevolent governance—though commendable, its effectiveness pales in comparison to the former. A further degraded level relies solely on hollow decrees and regulations, where the people obey out of fear while resentment festers in their hearts.

The text points out that if rulers fail to grasp the true essence of the Dao, they cannot earn the genuine trust of the people. Only when those in authority embody sincerity will the people wholeheartedly follow. The ideal state of governance is one where, when achievements are made, the people feel they arose naturally (alluding to the saying "What has the emperor's power to do with us?"—meaning the absence of perceived intervention by rulers).

Regarding the statement "When the Great Dao is abandoned, benevolence and righteousness appear," the explanation clarifies that benevolence and righteousness are originally part of the Dao. Only when the complete Dao is discarded do people need to emphasize these specific virtues. It is like when a whole piece of jade shatters, people then gather its fragments. Similarly, when humans lose their innate purity, all manner of cunning and deceit emerges ("With the rise of wisdom comes great hypocrisy"). The annotation by the Western Florescence Emperor (a revered Daoist deity) further elaborates: The Dao itself is an undifferentiated whole, inherently requiring no special emphasis on benevolence or righteousness. Only after the Dao is abandoned do people distill these concepts from its fragments as remedial measures.

This passage examines the relationship between the authentic nature of Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue) versus artificial human constructs. In ancient times, people during the eras of sovereigns like Wuhuai and Getian possessed innate simplicity—their uncarved nature required no deliberate refinement, and deceit naturally had no place to arise. Later, when human intelligence emerged, its proper use cultivated virtue, while misuse led to hypocrisy and cunning artifice.

The text illustrates this through examples: Filial piety and familial love ("six relations" referring to parents, siblings, and spouses) become conspicuous only when family harmony breaks down, just as loyal ministers are most praised when states fall into chaos ("returning to the center" signifies realigning with one's true heart). The sage-kings Yao and Shun were equally virtuous, yet Shun's filial devotion shone brighter because of his obstinate father Gusou; ministers like Yi Yin and the Duke of Zhou were equally wise, yet their loyalty became legendary precisely when facing tyrants like Jie and Zhou. As the Book of Odes observes, true loyalty and filial devotion reveal themselves most clearly in turbulent times.

The commentary by the Western Florescence Emperor (a revered Daoist deity) observes that rulers who over-rely on sagely wisdom to govern ironically create social artifice and instability through excessive contrivance. They should instead return to the Dao's spontaneous operation, allowing people to benefit naturally through subtle transformation. While benevolence and righteousness are genuine virtues, later generations often exploited these terms hypocritically, thereby damaging authentic human relationships. Thus we must transcend superficial moral codes and return to the Dao's original state—then genuine filial love will flourish naturally.

The conclusion emphasizes that abandoning cunning self-interest ("clever profit-seeking" denoting opportunism and private gain) brings peace to the human heart. The mentioned cultivation techniques—"forgetting spirit to nourish emptiness," "forgetting qi to nourish spirit," and "forgetting form to nourish qi"—are Daoist neidan (internal alchemy) terms describing progressive stages of refinement to return to one's natural essence.

This passage elucidates principles of governing a nation and cultivating the self. First, it addresses the issue of "qiaoli" (cunning utility): although clever techniques may bring convenience, and convenience may benefit the people, why does Laozi advocate abandoning these? Because once the pursuit of cunning utility becomes prevalent, people will compete to chase personal gain. If unsatisfied, they will imitate one another in theft. When the common people develop thieving hearts, the state becomes difficult to govern—hence the need to eradicate such tendencies.

Next, three key points are presented: superficial ornamentation ("wen") cannot properly govern the world; the people must have something to rely upon ("shu"). Specifically, one must: preserve fundamental authenticity ("jian su"), maintain pristine simplicity ("bao pu"), and reduce selfish desires. Here, "su" resembles undyed white cloth, while "pu" is like uncarved raw wood—both representing the most primal, genuine state, which is the original source of the Dao.

Chapter 20 discusses the principle of "abandoning learning to be free from worries." The Western Florescence Emperor (a revered Daoist deity) explains: Sages do not refrain from learning altogether, but only study the Dao—investigating heavenly principles, exhausting innate nature, and comprehending celestial mandate. Later generations of scholars, however, became obsessed with poetry and prose. Figures like Lu Ji and Yang Xiong, though considered erudite, actually increased their worries through excessive learning. Rather than studying useless things, it's better not to study at all—hence "abandon learning to be free from worries."

The text then uses contrasts to illustrate: the difference between reverent response ("wei") and perfunctory acknowledgment ("a") is minor, and the distinction between good and evil need not be overly fixated upon. The ancients considered these differences truly insignificant and advocated viewing them as blended, leaving no trace of discrimination.

Finally, it states: what ordinary people fear—the great matters of life and death—must also be revered by cultivators (referring to conforming to celestial mandate). Those who attain the Dao treat others with generosity while disciplining themselves strictly, maintaining reverential awe as if toward the Mandate of Heaven.

The truly wise revere the teachings of sages, thus maintaining reverence in their hearts, never daring to be self-important or arrogant.

(Explaining "vast and boundless"): People indulge in sensual pleasures, adrift in the cycle of life and death. The term "vast" signifies greatness, describing how magnificent the realm attained by Dao cultivators is—isn't it truly sublime? This state is infinite and inexhaustible.

Ordinary people (referring to unenlightened beings) enthusiastically chase external things, indulging their desires as if reveling in grand feasts (yet completely missing the true flavor of the Dao), or like unrestrained spring outings (never knowing contentment). Only I maintain a state of serene detachment, with no sprouts of desire arising in my heart—pure and untainted like a fetus in the womb.

(Further explanation): Ordinary people are driven by desires, overjoyed upon gaining something, as excited as enjoying sacrificial feasts or springtime excursions. Yet I always preserve a tranquil mind, completely free from the slightest hint of desire. "Sprout" here means the first emergence. My mind is clear and desireless, like an infant in swaddling clothes—not even reaching the innocence of a child. Children are already pure and guileless, while infants are even more pristine—hence this analogy.

(Explaining "unfettered as if with no destination"): "Unfettered" describes a broad, free state of mind, unbound and unattached, as if having nowhere to return to.

Ordinary people always feel knowledgeable (actually failing to restrain themselves), while only I seem perpetually lacking (fearing only to lose the true essence of the Dao). This is the mentality of a fool (transcending all distinctions and attachments is the wondrous Dao)—appearing muddled and unknowing.

(Further explanation): This speaks from the perspective of cognition—ordinary people flaunt knowledge as if wealthy, while I remain oblivious as if something were missing. Am I truly foolish? I merely maintain the original state of undifferentiated chaos, not displaying cleverness or wisdom.

Worldly people display sharpness outwardly (this display daily depletes their true nature), while only I seem dull and dim (this inward focus increasingly manifests the Dao); worldly people nitpick and calculate (with discriminating minds), while only I remain muddled (why distinguish self from other?).

(Summarizing): Precisely because of this, ordinary people boast of their cleverness, while only I seem confused; all praise their own discernment, while only I remain silent.

(Final lines): My mind suddenly becomes vast as the ocean (confined to no corner), floating freely as if without end (transcending all boundaries). Ordinary people all have their pursuits (the world values the usefulness of action), while only I... (text incomplete, indicating difference from the multitude, maintaining Wuwei [non-action]).

This passage from the Daode Jing illustrates how Daoist practitioners differ from ordinary people. Practitioners may appear foolish and useless ("stubborn and uncouth"), yet they treasure this very state of "usefulness in uselessness." Unlike ordinary people who pursue external achievements, they value returning to the root ("valuing nourishment from the mother"), just as an infant relies on its mother's sustenance. Practitioners must return to the Dao, the source of all things.

The Dao is like a mother—it gives birth to heaven and earth and all beings, and ultimately everything returns to it. Ordinary people rely on talent to accomplish things, while practitioners maintain simplicity and focus on the fundamental.

Chapter 21 describes the mysterious state of the Dao. The greatest De (Virtue/Power) can encompass all things, yet it follows the patterns of the Dao. The Dao itself has no fixed form, yet it manifests its capacity to embrace all things through De. People only see the vastness and inclusiveness of De, unaware that it all originates from the Dao.

The state of the Dao is described as indistinct and elusive, seemingly present yet absent. Within this chaos, however, lie the seeds of all things ("within it are images"). What appears empty contains reality ("within it are things"). When the heart-mind merges with the Dao ("heart unites with the Dao"), one can perceive the subtle energy of Yin-Yang intermingling ("within it is the essence [Jing]").

Though the Dao seems obscure and unfathomable, within this seemingly intangible state lies the true essence that generates all things ("the genuine Jing"). Practitioners must comprehend this indescribable yet undeniably real fundamental truth within such elusive states.

This scripture primarily elucidates the essential characteristics of the Dao and its manifestations in all things, revealing cosmic principles through dialectical thinking.

The essence of the Dao is pure and authentic (chunyi buza - perfectly unified without adulteration), containing within it eternal and unchanging truth (zhenshi buxu - genuinely real without falsehood). Precisely because the Dao's nature is so purely authentic, it encompasses all phenomena and nurtures all beings, neither being filled nor destroyed - further proving that the Great Dao never deceives us.

From ancient times to the present (having endured countless kalpas yet eternally abiding, without beginning or end), the name of the Dao will never vanish (humans can propagate the Dao, not the Dao propagating humans). Through the Dao, we can observe the primordial state of all things (the birth of all beings originates from the Dao). How do I know the initial state of all things? (Because all beings receive Qi from the Dao). It is precisely through the Dao (all seeing, hearing, speaking and action are inseparable from the Dao).

"Not perishing" means never disappearing. Throughout history, all things have their time of passing - as one era departs, another follows, yet only the Dao endures eternally. "Fu" refers to beautiful things. Precisely because the Dao eternally exists, it can contain all beautiful things without overstepping boundaries, perfecting all beings without omission. Facing the complexity of myriad phenomena, how do I know the root of their existence? It is through profound understanding and steadfast belief in this Dao.

Chapter 22 "The Benefits of Humility" expounds dialectical wisdom for worldly conduct:

Bending actually enables preservation (wei qu qiu quan - yielding to achieve completeness), what appears curved is actually straight (da zhi ruo qu - greatest straightness seems bent), low-lying places naturally become filled (the humble attract virtue's return), the worn-out will ultimately renew (when darkness reaches its extreme, light naturally appears), taking less actually gains more (simplicity makes things easy to understand), while greed for more leads to confusion (abundance brings danger). Therefore the sage holds fast to the "One" (the foundation of Dao) as the standard for all under heaven (one criterion governing numerous norms).

The Jade Flower Imperial Lord (a Daoist deity) annotates: All things under heaven follow the principle of "Li" (cosmic order). People commonly consider straightness as right and bending as wrong, not realizing that excessive rigidity can harm all beings. Only by understanding bending can one attain penetration, penetration leads to harmony, and harmony enables all things to find their proper place. What appears bent actually contains straightness within - like a carpenter stretching a cord to measure straightness, the cord ultimately returns to its bent state. The mutual accommodation between father and son may seem unstraight, yet this "unstraightness" contains deeper principles that can operate effectively in all circumstances - this is true straightness. Water's nature flows downward, and low-lying places naturally gather all waters.

All things ultimately return to perfect fulfillment. The alternation between old and new follows nature's rhythm, wherein eternity manifests through perpetual renewal. When decline reaches its extreme, vitality is reborn—such is the universal principle governing all existence. Less often brings true attainment (for "the One" is the root permeating all things). Though seemingly insignificant, it comprehends universal principles and naturally yields realization. Those who disdain simplicity and crave excess become entangled in absurd delusions.

This "One" dwells at the threshold between movement and stillness, governing subtle boundaries beyond ordinary perception. Neither wholly existent nor nonexistent, profoundly elusive yet never distant or grasping—from it emerge all strategies of yielding to preserve wholeness or retreating to advance. Thus the sage alone upholds this "One" as the cosmic standard.

By not displaying oneself, true clarity emerges (genuine insight manifests in hiddenness); by not asserting oneself, truth becomes evident (the most apparent lies in the most subtle); by not boasting, accomplishment is achieved (without claiming merit, merit naturally accrues); by not exalting oneself, endurance is secured (without flaunting ability, danger is averted). Precisely through non-contention, none in the world can contend with them (when even self is forgotten, how much more external things?).

Furthermore, though the sage's adherence to the "One" may appear obvious, they never consider themselves enlightened. Eyes perceive external objects but cannot see themselves—attempting to use vision as a mirror only obscures. Thus true enlightenment lies in never assuming enlightenment. Those who never presume correctness will be deemed correct; those who never boast of merit will be credited with merit; those who never flaunt virtues will have their virtues honored. All these—non-display, non-assertion, non-boasting, non-exaltation—constitute true non-contention. Through non-contention, who in the world could oppose them? Like Emperor Gaozu of Han who refrained from contending with Xiang Yu at the Hongmen Banquet, only to face no rivals at Gaixia—this principle extends universally.

The ancient saying "Yield to attain wholeness" (for original nature cannot be exhausted)—was this empty words? (Truly it is real and unfailing.) Authentic practice returns one to primal authenticity (returning to the root, reverting to the origin). The chapter's essence lies in its opening line, hence the concluding emphasis: Was the ancients' "Yield to attain wholeness" mere rhetoric? Without yielding, no preservation is possible. Preserving oneself internally and all things externally constitutes true wholeness. Seeking to preserve all things while straying from the Dao is like...

Within the human body, the five viscera and six bowels along with the limbs all possess curved forms—it is precisely this winding structure that maintains the body's wholeness. Curvature paradoxically achieves completeness, a principle that couldn't be clearer.

Chapter 23 of the "Chapter on Emptiness and Non-being" states: The most sublime principles often require few words (just as the most exquisite music approaches silence). The Jade Flower Thearch (a revered Daoist deity) explains that "rare speech" means using words sparingly. Dao cultivators value tranquility and reticence, treasuring simplicity. Ordinary people fail to grasp this truth—they elaborate at length yet miss the essence, forcing explanations that violate nature. Only the sage's economical speech truly accords with the Dao of nature: though plain, it carries profound meaning.

A gale cannot last a morning (violence cannot endure), nor can a downpour persist a full day (haste ultimately proves futile). What governs these phenomena? None other than Heaven and Earth's natural workings. Even celestial phenomena cannot be sustained indefinitely (all cosmic phenomena are illusory transformations)—how much less can humans? (This admonishes against impatient and willful action)

From dawn to midday is called "completing the morning"; from sunrise to sunset is called "fulfilling the day." Those who delight in contentiousness and far-fetched arguments speak like untrustworthy storms. Wind and rain are merely temporary disturbances of yin and yang qi that soon subside. If even Heaven and Earth—the very makers of wind and rain—cannot prolong such states, how much less can insignificant humans?

Therefore, those who follow the Dao (conforming to natural law) unite with the Dao (penetrating all things' essence); those who cultivate De (Virtue) unite with De (transcending self); those who encounter failure accept it serenely (detaching from gain and loss). Those united with the Dao find the Dao gladly embracing them (wandering in boundless freedom); those united with De find De joyfully accompanying them (benefiting everywhere); those accepting failure find failure treating them kindly (yielding to nature). If one's heart lacks steadfastness (self-doubt), doubt will arise (confusion breeding suspicion).

This is precisely why the Great Dao is most precious. Those following the Dao naturally harmonize with it; those cultivating De naturally match it; even encountering misfortune becomes an inevitable experience on the path of cultivation. Thus genuine Dao practitioners can peacefully accept failure. As the ancients said, "Fortunately, I too have faults"—demonstrating how supremely worth pursuing the Dao is, yet how people persist in harboring doubts.

This scripture discusses several common misguided mentalities and behaviors encountered in Daoist cultivation.

Standing on tiptoes makes one unsteady (haste and rashness hinder accomplishment), and taking oversized strides prevents going far (more haste, less speed). Those who constantly display themselves actually fail to perceive truth (because they don't understand the virtue of concealment), while the self-righteous remain unrecognized (lacking humility). Self-promoters often possess no true skill (unable to restrain the ego), and the arrogant cannot endure (deficient in tolerance).

The Jade Flower Emperor (a revered Daoist deity) explains: Standing on tiptoes resembles balancing on the balls of one's feet, while oversized strides are like straddling a horse. Normally, feet provide stable standing and legs enable walking—these are their natural functions. But when flaunting foot strength by standing on tiptoes, though one can stand, it's precarious; when showing off leg power with exaggerated strides, though one can walk, progress becomes arduous. This parallels how: those who naturally perceive clearly become confused when forcing displays; those whose learning should shine become obscured through self-righteousness; those with genuine merit see their accomplishments diminished through self-praise; and those whose virtue could endure find it unsustainable through pride. Such are the harms of arrogance.

For Daoist cultivation, such behaviors resemble leftover food and unnecessary burdens (always considering one's benevolence and wisdom superior)—even all things in nature detest them (delusional thoughts are the root ailment, while non-attachment is the cure). Thus truly realized adepts avoid such conduct (not fearing the arising of thoughts, but only delayed awakening).

The Jade Flower Emperor further elucidates: Herein we see the Dao values simplicity, never pursuing the bizarre or extraordinary, consistently upholding moderation as its principle—this is the noble person's path of the Golden Mean. Just as eating moderately enables free movement while overeating harms the spleen and stomach; or as traveling light ensures swift progress while excessive burdens hinder mobility. Since all things detest these two conditions, how could realized Daoists practice them?

Regarding "there was something undifferentiated" (referring to the primordial state before creation) and "existing before Heaven and Earth" (the source of all transformations), the Jade Flower Emperor clarifies: Here "something" refers to the Dao, and "undifferentiated" means complete unity. "Existing before Heaven and Earth" indicates its presence prior to cosmic formation, with Heaven and Earth subsequently emerging from it—this is the meaning of "the Dao gives birth to Heaven and Earth."

The Dao is silent and empty (profoundly constant stillness), existing independently and never changing (transcendently eternal), circulating endlessly (its transformations inexhaustible), and can be called the source of all things in heaven and earth (nourishing and giving birth to all life).

All things have sound, but the Dao has no sound—it is eternally silent. All things have form, but the Dao has no form—it is eternally empty. Precisely because the Dao is so silent and empty, it can exist independently without relying on anything. Before heaven and earth took shape, and after they came into being, the Dao pervades the cosmos without exception, never changing. It flows through past and present, space and time—those who follow it see only its benefits, never its end. This is why the Dao can be the origin of all things.

I cannot describe the essence of the Dao (it is ineffable), so I can only reluctantly call it "Dao" (naming it based on its manifestations), and even more reluctantly call it the "Great Dao" (boundless and limitless). When the Dao is vast, it circulates without cease (free from attachment); circulating without cease, it extends far (without end); extending to the farthest reaches, it returns to its source (reverting to the original state).

In the undifferentiated chaos before all things came into being, the Dao could not be named at all. I merely observe that all things follow the Dao’s patterns without exception, so I call it "Dao." And seeing that all things in heaven and earth arise from the Dao, with nothing beyond it, I am compelled to reluctantly call it the "Great Dao." Since the Dao is vast, it must circulate without cease, renewing itself like flowing water. The past becomes the present, and the present becomes the past—this is the meaning of "circulation." Since the Dao circulates without cease, it naturally extends far. As for "returning to the source," though the Dao is vast and boundless, endlessly circulating, if one turns inward to seek the origin, the Dao is already within—why chase after something distant and unattainable?

Thus, the Dao is great (formless like the Supreme Void), heaven is great (sharing the same origin as the beginningless cosmos), earth is great (existing with the endlessness of time and space), and the ruler is also great (capable of comprehending the Dao of heaven and earth). In the cosmos, there are these four great existences, and the ruler is one of them. Humans emulate earth (nurturing all things like the earth, learning the receptivity of Kun’s virtue), earth emulates heaven (bearing all things like heaven, receiving heaven’s grace), heaven emulates the Dao (generating the cosmos like the Dao, assisting in its transformations), and the Dao emulates nature (remaining pure and empty, following its own inherent nature).

Most people fail to comprehend the fundamental nature of the Dao, recognizing only three great things in the world: Heaven, Earth, and the sovereign ruler. Yet the cosmos contains four supreme existences. Tracing back to the root, we see that while the ruler is noble, he must emulate the Earth; though the Earth is vast, it must follow Heaven's patterns; and while Heaven is boundless, it must conform to the Dao. The Dao, though supremely vast and without exterior, cannot be the true Dao when forced or artificial—its essence lies in natural spontaneity. Thus even the Dao takes its model from Nature itself. The Dao of Nature has no form, no sound, no signs, and acts through wuwei (non-action), being ultimately ineffable. When we reluctantly name it "Dao" or "the Great," this is merely an expedient designation.

Chapter Twenty-Six on the Importance of De (Virtue/Power) states: "The heavy is root of the light (just as the mind governs all things), and stillness is master of movement (as the Dao is foundation of the body)." The Jade Flower Emperor explains: While people recognize the distinction between heavy and light, still and active, few understand how lightness must rely on heaviness, or how movement must be governed by stillness. Thus "the heavy is root of the light" resembles how a solid axle stabilizes a light carriage to prevent overturning; "stillness is master of movement" mirrors how inner tranquility allows one to respond serenely to all affairs, manifesting the spiritual capacity to resonate with all existence. Here "movement" (躁) essentially means "activity" (动).

Therefore, those who attain the Dao practice cultivation daily (referring to neidan/internal alchemy fire techniques) while never departing from the root (the circulation of jing-essence and qi-energy). Though surrounded by worldly splendor (unmoved by external temptations), their minds transcend mundane attachments. Sages comprehend this principle, handling affairs while firmly grasping the root, much as a carriage cannot function without its weight-bearing axle. Though present in lively gatherings and facing various enticements, their innate purity remains undisturbed and free—this exemplifies stillness as the true sovereign.

Alas for those who possess the highest position (symbolizing the human shen-spirit), yet forsake the great Dao of Heaven and Earth to cling to physical form (attached to material things and mortal life)! Frivolity loses subjects (reckless action depletes jing and qi), while agitation forfeits mastery (distracting thoughts disturb the primordial spirit). Since the Dao honors stillness and substance, worldly rulers should follow accordingly—why then do they act contrary to this truth?

This passage conveys two main teachings: first, the proper relationship between ruler and subject, and second, the realm of "perfection" (shan).

Regarding the ruler-subject dynamic, the scripture explains that when a ruler behaves frivolously and indulges in pleasures, ministers will deem him unworthy of service and depart. If the ruler disrespects his subjects, they in turn will become impatient and reckless, focusing only on personal gain and lacking cooperative spirit. Such a relationship is doomed to fail. The ideal state occurs when ruler and subjects mutually inspire each other, jointly following the great Dao (the supreme truth in Daoism) while maintaining solemn and rigorous attitudes.

The second section illustrates the characteristics of Dao-realized individuals through five levels of "perfection." Those truly perfect in walking leave no wheel ruts (symbolizing action without traces); those perfect in speech leave no openings for criticism; those perfect in strategy need no deliberate calculations; those perfect in closing need no bolts yet none can open (referring to inner spiritual containment); those perfect in binding need no cords yet none can loosen (indicating union with the Dao). The commentary by the Jade Flower Emperor (a Daoist deity) explains these phenomena as natural consequences of aligning with the Dao's inherent patterns.

Finally, the passage describes the realm of Dao-realized sages: they excel at rescuing others (seeing others as themselves), thus no person remains unworthy; they excel at utilizing all things (merging with all existence), thus nothing becomes waste. This state is called "inherited illumination" (wisdom arising through meditation). The reason sages achieve this lies in their attainment of the aforementioned five perfections.

This passage expounds on the Daoist cultivation state of "inherited illumination" (ximing) and the sage's way of being in the world.

"Inherited illumination" resembles the passing of torchlight, where radiance continues without interruption. The sage regards others as oneself, seeking to fulfill others rather than oneself—this state of mutual understanding is "inherited illumination." The virtuous serve as models for the non-virtuous (seeing excellence and aspiring to match it), while the non-virtuous become subjects for the virtuous to instruct (introspection and self-correction). Yet the true Dao requires no deliberate study, and innate nature needs no forced application. Thus, one should neither excessively venerate models nor cling to the notion of those needing instruction.

Though sages possess extraordinary wisdom, they appear as if simple-minded (concealing wisdom like folly). This seemingly muddled yet profoundly subtle state (spontaneous naturalness) embodies the mystery of the Dao. Sages excel at saving all beings yet consistently maintain a mindset of non-action (wuwei), serene and detached—this constitutes the highest wisdom.

Chapter 28, "Returning to Simplicity," discusses cultivation methods: knowing strength (focusing the spirit) yet abiding in softness (entering the qi cavity), being open and receptive like a valley (where all channels return to the origin). This preserves eternal virtue (unchanging De never departing) and restores childlike purity (capable of embracing the useless). Understanding brightness (nurturing innate nature) yet dwelling in darkness (preserving life), taking the laws of heaven and earth as one's standard (following these principles), virtue will never err (not a fraction amiss), ultimately returning to the cosmic source (completing this supreme void). Knowing glory (expansive mind) yet remaining humble—only then can one become a model for all under heaven.

This passage expounds the Daoist cultivation wisdom of "maintaining softness and dwelling below." The commentary by the Jade Flower Emperor (a revered Daoist deity) explains: The male and female represent sequence and precedence. Ordinary people always strive to be first, yet those who rush ahead are prone to stumbling—it's better to remain steadily behind. The sage isn't ignorant of how to take the lead, yet chooses to dwell in the rear position. Like a deep valley (xi), the sage willingly stays behind yet transforms the world, drawing people to return to them as countless rivers flow into an abyss.

Though becoming the valley where all under heaven return, the sage never grows arrogant. They perpetually maintain their pure original nature, as spotless and desireless as an infant. Black and white represent light and darkness—ordinary people revere brightness and shun obscurity, yet excessive pursuit of light leads to harm; better to conceal one's brilliance. The sage isn't ignorant of illumination, yet prefers to dwell in shadows, becoming the world's model without self-praise, always preserving fundamental authenticity to reach the supreme state beyond sound and form, returning to the primordial origin (Wuji).

Glory and disgrace present an even starker contrast. People chase honor and flee humiliation, yet honor often brings disgrace—those content with humility find greater ease. The sage isn't ignorant of glory, yet chooses to embrace lowliness, remaining as receptive as an empty valley. Precisely through this valley-like capacity to contain all things does the sage's De (Virtue/Power) become complete. Ultimately, what appears as action is actually a return to the most fundamental origin (Taiji Wuji). Just as raw material (pu) disperses to form various vessels, the sage understands this principle—establishing teachings without severing natural essence, preserving the state of primal wholeness.

The "simplicity" (朴) spoken of in "non-action" (Wuwei) refers to humanity's most primordial nature. This nature is inherently non-active, hence the phrase "returning to simplicity." "Simplicity" represents the state of "non-being" (无); returning to it means no longer clinging to "being" (有) and reverting to the realm of "non-being." When "simplicity" disperses to form concrete things, "non-being" ceases to be purely "non-being" and begins tending toward "being." "Non-being" is the origin of heaven and earth, while "being" is the mother of all things.

Just as when a ruler establishes a state's institutions and then appoints officials to maintain them, true governance (宰制) occurs naturally without deliberate division. The ruler issues commands, and ministers carry them out—this is how the world is governed. Why would artificial division be necessary?

(Chapter 29: On Non-Action)

Those who seek to seize and control the world through force—I observe they cannot succeed (for the Dao is fundamentally non-active). The Jade Flower Emperor's commentary states: Ancient rulers obtained the world through abdication, not seizure; the people submitted naturally, not through coercion. Attempting to take the world by force and impose action violates the Dao. "No other way" (不得已) means neither approach attains the Dao.

The world is a sacred vessel (the abode of the heart-mind) and cannot be forcibly manipulated (for reckless intent disturbs its resident spirits). Forced action leads to failure (harming spontaneity), while clinging control brings loss (defying the patterns of change).

Further: The world is a vast entity—calling it "divine" (神) signifies the unseen spirits sustaining it. Those who hold this sacred vessel should maintain simplicity and humility, avoiding reckless action. Once ambition for action arises, it embellishes peace, creating chaos that ruins the state; once fixation on control sets in, it breeds rigidity—not only failing to attain but actively losing.

Thus among all things: some lead while others follow (focusing on the present); some warm while others cool (with uncluttered minds); some strengthen while others weaken (skillfully adjusting mentality); some achieve while others decay (ponder this deeply). Therefore, sages eliminate extremes (excess and deficiency are both flawed), eliminate extravagance (the Dao is naturally thus), and eliminate excess (the Dao knows no lack).

In summary, the Dao honors spontaneity. Thus among all things: some require pushing to advance while others follow naturally; some need warmth while others need coolness; some require strengthening while others require tempering.

This passage expounds the principles of governing a state and employing military force. Those who understand the Dao (the fundamental law of the universe) do not rely on brute strength when assisting rulers, as violence invites retaliation. Just as planting trees requires following their natural growth patterns, governing a state must also follow the natural order and refrain from indulging in greed.

The Jade Flower Emperor (a Daoist deity) comments that governance should primarily rely on moral education, with military force being a last resort. Weapons are instruments of misfortune, and their reckless use invites heavenly retribution. Historical figures like King Min of Qi, King Ling of Chu, Qin Shi Huang, and Emperor Wu of Liang, who were fond of war, all met violent ends—illustrating the principle that "such actions invite retribution" (the cycle of cause and effect).

Prolonged warfare leads to abandoned farmlands, overgrown with thorns, and disrupts the harmony between heaven and earth, triggering calamities. Thus, those skilled in governance resort to arms only when absolutely necessary, always maintaining humility. Like the Yellow Emperor in the battles of Banquan and Zhuolu—though victorious, he never boasted of his military might.

True wisdom lies in this: after achieving victory, one does not grow arrogant (remaining still to observe changes), does not boast (quietly upholding principles), and does not act aggressively (maintaining peace). One understands that military action is a last resort (complying with circumstances) and ultimately returns to the state of natural non-action (Wuwei).

This passage expounds the principle of knowing when to stop in human conduct. Laozi teaches that what people should most fear is becoming attached to achievements. Even when genuine accomplishments are made, one should remain humble—neither flaunting nor becoming arrogant. When employing such achievements, it should always be out of necessity rather than deliberate displays of strength.

When things reach their zenith, they inevitably begin to decline (when the mind becomes entangled with external matters)—this violates the natural order (as one's true nature becomes obscured by desires). Whatever contravenes the Dao's natural course will soon perish (eternally losing the true Way). The truly wise employ their accomplishments without glorifying force. Why? Because forceful displays reveal sharp edges, and overly exposed edges are prone to breakage. The top lines of the Great Excess and Great Strength hexagrams in the I Ching clearly illustrate this principle. Just as flowers that bloom too brilliantly exhaust their essence and cannot endure—those that bloom early must wither first—nothing that reaches extreme strength avoids eventual decline. Those who only recognize their current strength while remaining unaware of impending decay fail to understand the cyclical nature of prosperity and decline. This violates the natural order, and such tendencies must be stopped early. "To stop" here means to cease and extinguish.

Chapter 31 discusses the Dao of warfare. Fine weapons are inauspicious tools (attempting to conquer external matters through intellect can never truly succeed)—even material things detest them (being tempted by material desires)—thus those who follow the Dao do not rely on them (without deliberately avoiding life and death, one transcends them). Sovereign Lu Dongbin annotates: Warfare is perilous affairs, courage transcends ordinary virtue, and weapons are ominous instruments. Even the finest arms remain inauspicious. Militarism inevitably harms agriculture, destroys life, and disrupts heaven-earth harmony—all things detest this. Therefore, those embodying the Dao would never consider such means acceptable for peaceful use.

Thus the noble person values the left (embracing softness) in peacetime, but values the right (embracing strength) in war. Weapons are inauspicious (violent tools contradict virtue)—not instruments for noble-minded people (when provoked, no contention is needed; when matters pass, the mind naturally clears). They're only used when absolutely unavoidable (intending to align with the Dao yet inadvertently deviating)—maintaining detachment is best (constantly abiding in purity). Even victory deserves no praise (deliberately seeking stillness prevents true stillness)—considering triumph beautiful (single-pointed concentration leads to meditation) means delighting in killing (with unified focus, nothing remains unaccomplished).

This passage expounds the philosophical principles of military strategy through Daoist wisdom. Those who delight in slaughter (symbolizing excessive pursuit of desires) cannot achieve their ambitions in the world (hence moderation should govern all affairs). Therefore, auspicious ceremonies honor the left (the east, associated with Wood and growth), while inauspicious funeral rites honor the right (the west, associated with Metal and execution). The deputy commander positions on the left (symbolizing restrained thoughts), while the main commander stands on the right (symbolizing focused Shen/spirit). Regarding those in high positions, they should approach warfare with the solemnity of funeral rites (as gravely as mourning one's parents).

Warfare brings massive casualties (metaphor for the Neidan/internal alchemy state where the "six thieves" cease and "three corpses" self-immolate), which should be mourned with grief (external desires perish while the primordial Shen endures). Even victory should be treated with funeral rites (like preserving solitary clarity of mind). True Dao practitioners never glorify force—thus the nobleman normally honors the left, only honoring the right when compelled to arms. Choosing the right signifies reluctance to dominate, for weapons are inauspicious tools unfit for noblemen, used only as last resort.

The fundamental way of governance lies in Wuwei (non-action). Violent implements like warfare deserve no praise even in victory—to celebrate them reveals bloodthirsty nature. As Mencius told King Xiang of Liang: "Only those who dislike killing can unify the world." Extending this principle, all matters follow the same directional symbolism: auspiciousness favors left, inauspiciousness the right, mirroring ancient rituals where auspicious vehicles stood left and funeral hearses right.

Regarding military arrangements: Why does the deputy occupy the left while the main commander takes the right? This conveys dual meanings: first, humility without arrogance; second, aversion to slaughter. Though bravery qualifies one for high command, one deliberately chooses the inauspicious right position. By selecting the right despite high rank, one demonstrates not joy but sorrow, treating military affairs like mourning rites—exemplified by Lady Mu of Qin who appeared disheveled on the terrace pleading for Duke Hui of Jin, approaching war through funeral protocol.

When battlefields lie strewn with corpses too grievous to behold, how could one privately rejoice in victory? Only lamentation remains. Thus noblemen never consider triumph auspicious, but rather inauspicious—dismissing music, abstaining from feasts, handling outcomes through mourning ceremonies. This embodies the Daoist stance of martial restraint, where true victory lies in maintaining inner clarity through Wuwei.

War is indeed an inauspicious thing—are funeral rites not also inauspicious affairs? To use the inauspicious rituals of mourning to treat inauspicious weapons—this is what is called ritual propriety.

In The Chapter on Sacred Virtue, Thirty-Two, it is said: The Dao (the Way) can never be described in words (yet it responsively transforms all things). Though it appears as simple and minute as uncarved wood (utterly refined and subtle), none in the world dare claim it as their subject (for the Dao is the sovereign of all beings). If feudal lords and kings could abide by the Dao (preserving its purity), the myriad things would naturally submit and follow (yielding to its virtue).

The annotations of Sovereign Fu You (the revered title of Lü Dongbin, an immortal in Daoism) explain: The opening line states, "The Dao that can be spoken is not the eternal Dao," because the Dao cannot be defined by words. Thus, this chapter directly states, "The Dao is eternally nameless." Yet if it remains forever unnamed, how could the world recognize its existence? Therefore, the metaphor of "uncarved wood" (pu) is used—though indescribable, it can still be roughly conveyed. "Uncarved wood" refers to human nature in its original state, whose essence is profoundly still and boundless (silent and unfathomable). It appears minute, yet nothing in the world can confine it (this is the meaning of "dare not claim it as subject"). The wise may be driven by wisdom, the brave by strength, and the skilled by their talents—all these can be harnessed. Only this original nature of "uncarved wood," seemingly present yet absent, elusive and unfathomable, cannot be harnessed at all. Though it cannot be harnessed, this nature can contract to the subtlest point or expand to fill heaven and earth. If rulers can preserve this nature without altering it, they may achieve effortless governance (wuwei) through subtle transformation, causing all things to submit naturally.

When the qi (vital energy) of heaven and earth, yin and yang, harmonize (the interaction of qian and kun), sweet dew descends (referring to the saliva produced during meditation, which flows to the dantian). Without human direction, this dew naturally distributes evenly (the body's qi harmonizes spontaneously). The annotation further explains: Sweet dew is the accumulated and flowing essence of the harmonious qi of heaven and earth, silently nourishing all tangible things. When rulers govern the world with their original, unadorned nature, though concrete results of governance manifest, the root lies in non-action (wuwei). This perfectly aligns with the principle of heaven and earth sending down sweet dew—without the slightest discrepancy. Just as all things grow naturally nourished by the dew, so too will the people flourish under the transformative influence of effortless governance.

When institutions are first established, distinctions of name arise (laws and systems are created). Once names are established (labeling things accordingly), one should understand when to stop (remaining content and detached). Knowing when to stop ensures safety (recognizing boundaries brings stability).

This passage elucidates the fundamental nature of the Dao (道) and essential cultivation principles:

First, it explains the primordial state of the Dao. The original Dao resembles uncarved wood ("pu" or simplicity), inherently nameless - even calling it "pu" constitutes artificial labeling. Once named, one becomes increasingly attached to concrete forms, like grass bent by wind or turbulent waves, ultimately becoming completely lost in the realm of "being" (you) while losing the essence of "non-being" (wu). Therefore, one must understand moderation and return to the state of "wu" to restore original authenticity.

Metaphorically speaking: The Dao exists throughout the cosmos (just as the mind resides within the body), like countless streams eventually returning to rivers and seas (cultivators should rest in supreme goodness). The Dao doesn't deliberately attract all things, yet all things naturally return to it, just as oceans don't consciously absorb water yet streams flow into them spontaneously.

The essential points for cultivating De (德, Virtue/Power) are then explained:

• Seeing others clearly demonstrates intelligence (observing external phenomena without attachment), but recognizing oneself constitutes true wisdom (internal contemplation without clinging to appearances)
• Surpassing others shows strength (courageously practicing the Dao to naturally influence), but mastering oneself reveals true power (accumulating genuine skill through sustained practice)
• Knowing contentment signifies true wealth (finding joy in simplicity), while persistent practice demonstrates real determination (where there's will, there's accomplishment)
• Preserving the foundation ensures endurance (stable roots), and while the physical body perishes, the spirit's immortality constitutes true longevity (when delusions cease, wisdom endures)

Finally, it critiques worldly insatiability: obtaining one leads to craving ten, gaining a hundred breeds desire for a thousand - perpetual dissatisfaction. Such forced seeking ironically causes loss of what one already possesses, revealing the harm of greed.

(Note: Fuyou Dijun refers to Lü Dongbin, one of the Eight Immortals in Daoism, whose commentary on this scripture is referenced here)

When one truly understands contentment, wealth and honor will naturally follow without deliberate pursuit. Prince Jing of the Wei State during the Spring and Autumn period exemplified this principle. People often falter in the face of difficulties due to weak resolve, which stems from lacking true aspiration. Only by persistently practicing the Dao of benevolence and righteousness can one be considered truly purposeful.

The "original nature" refers to humanity's innate state of pristine simplicity—the fundamental root of our spirit. Losing this root leaves the spirit anchorless, our essential nature becomes obscured, and life cannot endure. By maintaining this primordial innocence, though the physical body may age, the spirit achieves immortality.

Those who truly comprehend the Dao transcend temporal constraints—they enter water without drowning, fire without burning, attaining the state beyond birth and death. Though their physical forms may decay, their Jing (essence), Qi (vital energy), and Shen (spirit) never perish. Like a cicada shedding its shell or a snake sloughing its skin, what appears to die is merely the exterior, while their essential being remains eternal. This apparent death that conceals everlasting existence is what Daoism calls the "corpse liberation" (shijie) state—transcending the cycle of life and death to achieve true longevity.

Chapter 34 states: "The Dao permeates all existence, flowing freely in all directions." The Immortal Lü Dongbin (Fuyou Dijun) explains: The Dao resembles an island in water—both lofty and clear, surrounded by worldly turbidity yet remaining unstained. Abiding in supreme detachment, it gives birth to all things from its origin while remaining omnipresent.

All beings rely on the Dao for existence, yet the Dao never claims credit (though inherently beyond creation, it cannot but generate all things). Though accomplishing all, it seeks no merit (being fundamentally desireless). Its universal adaptability proves it is the mother of all things. As this mother, all existence depends upon it. While the Dao honors emptiness, having generated the myriad beings, it never refuses them. Attachment to "having" leads one astray from the Dao. The Dao that can be spoken is not the eternal Dao. Though accomplishing all things, the Dao claims no possession. All beings grow naturally while the Dao perpetually abides in emptiness.

This passage elucidates the nature of the Dao and the attitude of sages in engaging with the world. The Dao (the cosmic origin and principle) is neither pure "nothingness" nor concrete "somethingness." Those who cling to "nothingness" resemble those who reject the growth of all things, while those obsessed with "somethingness" act as if claiming ownership over creation. Both extremes deviate from the true Dao.

The Dao nurtures all beings without asserting dominance (just as nature silently sustains life without claiming merit), maintaining a state of desireless emptiness (preserving clarity and openness). In this sense, it may be called "small" (seemingly insignificant yet containing vastness). All things return to the Dao without knowing what governs them (when humans cultivate emptiness, the Dao naturally manifests), hence it may also be called "great" (all-encompassing). Therefore, the sage never considers themselves great (like a grain of rice containing the entire world), thereby achieving true greatness (a state beyond measurement).

The Blessed Sovereign of Fuyou (an honorific title for Lü Dongbin, the Daoist immortal) explains that the "great image" refers to the supreme Dao. The Dao itself has no concrete form—we reluctantly use "image" to describe it, hence calling it the "formless form." Those who can uphold this great Dao without losing it are genuine practitioners of the Way, capable of moving freely throughout the world.

True "action" should cause no harm. Pursuing benefit at the expense of others does not constitute proper conduct. Only by following the Dao's path—harming nothing, allowing all beings to fulfill their nature—can one attain the states of "tranquility," "harmony," and "flourishing." When all directions bask in springlike warmth, this constitutes true peace. Without upholding the Dao, how could such a state be achieved?

The scripture further emphasizes that the Dao operates without ghostly or divine governance (functioning independently without interference), coming and going freely. Inner peace brings balanced disposition; balanced disposition brings spiritual serenity. Like the ancients plowing fields and digging wells—though unaware of imperial influence, they naturally inclined toward goodness without knowing what guided them—this spontaneous state of joyful harmony represents genuine greatness.

This passage conveys two main layers of meaning:

The first part describes the nature of Dao (the Way). Dao is like bland, tasteless food—unlike music or delicacies that immediately captivate people. It cannot be seen with the eyes or heard with the ears, yet its application is inexhaustible. Worldly pleasures (music and delicacies) may temporarily attract passersby, but when the music stops and the food is consumed, people disperse. Though Dao appears plain and unremarkable, it penetrates to the marrow, offering eternal nourishment.

The second part discusses the wisdom of "subtle illumination" (weiming), referring to profound foresight through perceiving subtle signs. The scripture presents four paradoxical principles of complementary opposites: to contract, one must first expand; to weaken, one must first strengthen; to abolish, one must first promote; to take, one must first give. The annotations by Imperial Lord Fu You (the Taoist immortal Lü Dongbin's title) illustrate this with examples: Duke Wen of Jin deliberately retreated to make Ziyu overconfident before defeating him, while Duke Xian of Jin first bribed the State of Yu with treasures before later seizing its territory. Though these appear as strategies, the Great Dao itself embodies this principle of complementary opposition. The wise perceive the subtle omens in the development of events—this constitutes the wisdom of "subtle illumination."

It's important to note that applying such wisdom must align with upright principles. While figures like Guan Zhong or Sun Wu employed these methods as tactics, sages use them in accordance with heavenly principles. The key lies in discerning the subtle signs of transformation within phenomena, achieving the ability to "see the beginning in the subtle."

Softness overcomes hardness (for gentleness often brings harmony, while unyielding rigidity inevitably fails). Just as hard teeth break easily while the soft tongue endures, the sage who wishes to contract must first expand, who seeks to weaken must first strengthen, who would abolish must first establish, and who would take must first give—all because he understands this principle of softness overcoming hardness.

A fish cannot leave the deep abyss (just as the human heart cannot depart from the Dao). A state's instruments of power should not be recklessly displayed (principles may be established but stratagems must not be abused). Water is the fish's element—only within it can the fish display its vitality. When swimming in the depths, even the strongest man cannot subdue it. But once removed from water, it loses its foundation and life falls to another's whim. Therefore the sage maintains a gentle demeanor in all circumstances, yet ultimately no force in heaven or earth can overcome him. This is fundamental wisdom and a crucial principle of governance—a way of ruling that only the Dao-possessed truly understand, never to be lightly revealed to others.

In governing a nation, the great Dao is eternally Wuwei (non-action, the profound mystery of the Dao), yet accomplishes all things (action being its foundation). As the Daoist immortal Lü Dongbin (Ancestor Lü) explains: Wuwei is the Dao's essence, yet if completely inactive, how could the world know the Dao's presence? Thus Wuwei is the substance while action is the function. Though acting, one remains fundamentally inactive—this is the meaning of "constant non-action," which may also be called "non-purposive action."

If rulers can hold fast to the Dao, the myriad things will transform spontaneously. When desires arise during this transformation, they must be settled through the Dao's pure simplicity (the key lies in maintaining the original mind and eliminating sundry desires). This Wuwei principle operates through subtle expansion and contraction, appearing then disappearing—neither form nor sound, profoundly mysterious. Rulers who maintain this Wuwei practice will find virtue operating invisibly, achievements accumulating unknowingly, and all beings nourished to flourish naturally. The crux lies in remaining unswayed during the myriad transformations, thus preserving Wuwei's essence. Ordinary rulers are often led by circumstances, drifting with the current—obsessed with present conditions yet coveting future gains, forgetting their root until troubles multiply. Therefore when desires emerge during the myriad things' development, they must be settled through the Dao's pure simplicity.

This passage elucidates the profound meanings of Wuwei (non-action) and De (Virtue/Power). Laozi uses the metaphor of "the uncarved block" to describe the essence of the Dao, which resembles unworked raw timber that naturally restrains all artificial contrivances. The highest wisdom lies not in deliberate action but in maintaining a state of serene naturalness. Even the intention to preserve such simplicity becomes another form of "contrived action." Thus, the ultimate state is complete relinquishment of attachment, returning to emptiness and stillness. All things in heaven and earth emerge from this stillness—by holding fast to this root, the world naturally attains peace.

Chapter 38 specifically discusses the gradations of De. The highest form, "superior De" (most perfect Virtue), never proclaims itself virtuous and thus embodies true Virtue. In contrast, "inferior De," which consciously maintains virtuous conduct, loses the essence of true Virtue. As annotated by the Sovereign of Fuyou (the title conferred to Lü Dongbin), superior De is the Virtue of Wuwei—though it nurtures all beings, it remains utterly unaware of any meritorious action. Precisely because it claims no merit, all things naturally gravitate toward it, exemplifying "having Virtue without claiming Virtue." Conversely, deliberate acts of kindness and accumulated merit, though beneficial to others, are tainted by attachment and thus cannot be considered genuine Virtue.

True superior De is complete Wuwei, devoid of even the notion of "non-action." Inferior De, however, involves purposeful action. Those with superior De practice non-action so thoroughly that they don’t entertain thoughts like "why practice non-action?"—they merge completely with emptiness. Those with inferior De not only act deliberately but also constantly dwell on their motives, separating means from ends. The difference between these states is as vast as heaven and earth.

This passage elucidates the hierarchical relationship between Dao (the Way), De (Virtue), humaneness, righteousness, and ritual propriety. The highest realm is Dao, followed by De, then humaneness and righteousness, with ritual propriety being the lowest manifestation.

"Superior humaneness" arises spontaneously from the heart without deliberate effort, while "superior righteousness" requires conscious adaptation to external circumstances, thus leaving traces of action. Humaneness emphasizes inner cultivation, whereas righteousness manifests in outward conduct. Innate kindness flows naturally without leaving marks, but righteous actions inevitably show signs of deliberate conduct.

"Superior ritual propriety" attempts to regulate people through norms, but when compliance fails, coercive measures must be employed—this fundamentally violates the natural Dao. Progressing from humaneness and righteousness to ritual, we find ritual further removed from natural spontaneity. When ritual norms prove ineffective, penal systems emerge as forced solutions, representing artificial compulsion.

Thus the sequence unfolds: When Dao is lost, De is emphasized; when De declines, humaneness is promoted; when humaneness fades, righteousness is advocated; and when righteousness deteriorates, ritual codes are established. Ritual emerges precisely when sincerity and trust have weakened—it marks the beginning of disorder. De stands subordinate to Dao, humaneness to De, righteousness to humaneness, and ritual to righteousness. Only when people lose Dao, De, humaneness and righteousness—when sincerity vanishes entirely—must ritual laws be instituted to constrain behavior.

This exposition reveals the core Daoist principle of "the Dao follows natural spontaneity." The ideal state is harmonious alignment with nature's flow—the more artificial the construct, the further it strays from innate authenticity.

This passage elucidates the essential nature of the Dao (道) and its wisdom for worldly conduct.

It first observes that governing all things through coercive means only leads to the erosion of De (德, Virtue/Power) and the fragmentation of human hearts. However elaborate the superficial efforts may be, hypocrisy and deceit will proliferate, making the state difficult to sustain. This is what's meant by "the waning of loyalty and trust marks the beginning of chaos."

Those who consider themselves prescient merely grasp the superficial trappings of the Dao—this in fact signifies the beginning of ignorance. The great Dao is fundamentally empty and non-being (虚无), for only through emptiness can one attain spiritual clarity, and only through clarity can one commune with the divine. The sage observes all things with mirror-like clarity: phenomena naturally reflect within without deliberate discrimination. Ordinary people rely solely on eyes to see, ears to hear, and minds to think; when they occasionally predict minor events, they presume themselves prescient, unaware this constitutes mere ornamental trappings of the Dao. The Dao values simplicity over ostentation—those who boast of cleverness often become ensnared in traps of their own making without realizing it.

Thus, the noble person chooses depth over shallowness, substance over show, abandoning illusion to pursue authenticity.

The text then outlines the hierarchy of cultivation: the Dao represents the deepest level, followed by De (Virtue), then humaneness (仁), then righteousness (义), with ritual propriety (礼) being the most superficial. The Dao's simple naturalness brings clarity, whereas so-called prescience appears dazzling yet is fundamentally obscure. The noble person must understand what to embrace and what to discard.

Finally, it expounds the paramount importance of attaining the "One" (一): Heaven attains the One and becomes clear, Earth attains the One and finds peace, spirits attain the One and gain efficacy, valleys attain the One and become full, all things attain the One and flourish, rulers attain the One and bring order to the world. This "One" is another name for the Dao—the pivot of Heaven and Earth, the origin of spirits, the ancestor of all things, and the foundation of sovereigns. People observe the operations of Heaven and Earth without realizing it is the "One" that makes them possible.

This passage elucidates the paramount importance of "the One" (referring to the origin of Dao) to all existence, along with the interdependent relationship between nobility and humility.

It begins by noting how people observe heaven's clarity and earth's stability without realizing these states originate from "the One." The numinous power of Shen (spirit), the abundance of valleys, the growth of all things, even the legitimacy of rulers governing the world—all stem from this singular source. Should "the One" be lost, chaos would ensue: heaven would rupture (manifested as displaced stars), earth would tremble (with dragons and serpents upheaving), spirits would lose their efficacy, valleys would run dry, all creatures would perish, and rulers would forfeit their mandate, plunging states into peril.

The text then emphasizes "the One's" precious nature, asserting that nobility must take humility as its foundation, and height must rely on depth as its base. Here "humility" and "depth" don't denote actual inferiority but describe Dao's state—formless and soundless, seemingly ordinary and inconspicuous (thus termed "humble" or "low"), yet constituting the root of all exalted things. Just as rulers self-designate with modest titles like "solitary," "desolate," or "unworthy" (apparently self-deprecating terms), they actually demonstrate wisdom by taking Dao as their foundation.

Through illustrating the interdependent relationships of cosmic phenomena, this passage reveals how Dao, though appearing ordinary, sustains all existence. Rulers who comprehend this principle can stabilize their positions. The terms "solitary," "desolate," and "unworthy" were ancient monarchs' conventional self-effacing epithets, meaning "lonely one" or "virtue-deficient person," here serving as metaphors for Dao's fundamental yet unadorned nature.

"Is it not so?"

The text continues: To use the supreme Dao that is "nameless" (wuneng ming) and casually label it with lowly, scattered names—is this not showing disrespect to the great Dao? In truth, this is not the case. Consider how rulers and kings, though their status is as exalted as the Dao itself, refer to themselves as "solitary," "orphaned," or "unworthy" (ancient royal self-deprecations). Is this not because they have realized the principle of taking humility as their foundation? Or is it otherwise?

Thus, when we examine this, it is like counting the parts of a carriage: the wheels, the canopy, the shafts—each component can be distinctly numbered, yet when assembled into a complete carriage, people see only the whole vehicle and no longer notice the individual parts. The Dao is the same—it does not cling to form, nor is it confined to notions of nobility or baseness. It is not like jade, which displays only its preciousness, nor like stone, which appears only lowly. The Dao transcends all particular forms and embraces everything without exception.

("Chapter Forty: On Function and Non-Function") The movement of the Dao follows a cyclical pattern ("reversal is the movement of the Dao"), and its mode of operation manifests through softness and yielding ("weakness is the function of the Dao"). As the Blessed Immortal Lü Dongbin (Fuyou Dijun) explains: this "reversal" (fan) refers both to the principle that things reverse upon reaching their extreme (wuji bifan) and to the return to the origin (fanben guizhen). All things have a beginning and an end—without a beginning, there can be no end, and without an end, how could there be a return to the source? The Dao is initially nameless and formless ("the nameless is the origin of heaven and earth"), yet it later manifests as the mother that gives birth to all things ("the named is the mother of the myriad beings"). This cyclical movement appears as non-action (wuwei), yet within it lies the ceaseless dynamism of eternity.

The Dao seems soft and inactive, yet it expands and contracts freely, generating and transforming all things without conflict. Thus it is said that all things under heaven arise from "being" (you, concrete existence), yet "being" itself originates from "non-being" (wu, the formless source). From this we understand that the existence of all things must have a root, and this root is the intangible "non-being."

All things in the world appear to exist, yet they are not inherently so—they emerge from Wuji (the primordial origin of the cosmos). If even the concept of "non-being" does not exist, how could "being" arise? What can be named and described constitutes ordinary principles; what transcends verbal expression is the true "Great Dao."

Chapter 41 speaks of varying degrees of comprehension of the Dao: Those of highest wisdom, upon hearing of the Dao, immediately grasp and diligently practice it (this "hearing" is not with the ears but a moment of sudden awakening); those of middling understanding listen with hesitant belief (struggling to grasp its essence, they waver in doubt); those of lowest capacity respond with laughter (for the Dao's profundity lies beyond their capacity to believe). Indeed, what escapes the mockery of ordinary people cannot be the true Dao (just as common folk use the Dao daily yet remain unaware of it).

The Celestial Lord Yaohua (a Daoist immortal) comments: The true Dao transcends speech, yet has aspects that can be expressed; it cannot be named, yet has qualities that may be referenced. Even if someone describes certain features of the Dao, few truly comprehend. Those who hear of it often interpret according to their own understanding. Only those of superior wisdom immediately recognize: the Dao appears empty yet truly exists within us—thus they constantly remember and practice it, engraving its principles in their hearts and embodying them in action. Those of middling attainment grasp it partially, alternating between belief and doubt, wavering in and out of the Dao. Those of lowest capacity remain entirely unaware of the Dao's existence—if one discusses it with them, they merely laugh, considering it absurd. This mockery seems contrary to the Dao, yet precisely because it provokes the derision of ordinary people does it prove to be the true Dao—the supreme truth was never meant for vulgar comprehension.

The ancient sages who penetrated reality deeply experienced the Dao's essence and left profound insights. Among them it is said: Those who truly understand the Dao appear simple-minded (for they preserve original genuineness); progress in cultivation seems like regression (the essential method lies in continually reducing attachments); the level Great Path appears rugged (for it transcends worldly distinctions). These teachings reveal: Practitioners often remain unaware of having attained the Dao—what seems like understanding is actually primal simplicity; what feels like advancement in cultivation may feel like retreat; the Great Dao inherently transcends hierarchies of high and low.

This passage discusses how the manifestation of "supreme De (Virtue/Power)" often appears contrary to conventional understanding, embodying profound dialectical wisdom.

Genuine noble virtue resembles an empty valley—seeming void yet embracing all things. The purest white appears as if stained, for true purity needs no deliberate display. Those with expansive De (Virtue/Power) always feel inadequate, as the broader one's virtue becomes, the more one recognizes its limits. Those who establish virtuous achievements seem indolent, for they maintain humility at all times. The truly simple and sincere appear foolish, yet they adapt flexibly without rigid constraints.

The text further explains: When virtue accumulates to a certain degree, it naturally refrains from sharp edges ("the great square has no corners"). Just as precious vessels take time to form ("the great vessel is late in completion"), the profoundest truths often emerge last. The most exquisite sound appears silent ("the great sound is faint"), and the grandest form lacks fixed shape ("the great image has no form"). Those with De are like pillars and beams—they do not rush to display themselves but conceal their brilliance, awaiting the right moment. Though the voice of true virtue may seem silent, it resonates like the perfection of celestial music.

The metaphor of "dragon and tiger" hints at the harmonized state of Yin-Yang—like a dragon hidden in the abyss or a tiger concealed in the forest, the highest virtue often remains deeply veiled. The entire passage emphasizes that genuine virtue requires no deliberate display; the nobler the virtue, the more it appears ordinary and natural.

This passage elucidates the origin of the Dao (the Way) and its process of generating all things, along with the humble attitude cultivators should maintain.

Laozi suggests that genuine followers of the Dao do not speak lightly, just as they wouldn't clamor like frogs or flies. Those with profound inner cultivation naturally manifest De (Virtue/Power) outwardly. The Dao itself has no concrete form—the more it accumulates, the more introverted it becomes, revealing neither sound nor appearance. It resembles pristine white silk, untainted by any color. Though subtle and nameless, the Dao nourishes all things without claiming merit.

Chapter 42, "The Transformations of the Dao," details the cosmic generative process: The Dao first manifests as "One" (the undifferentiated primordial Qi), which divides into the two energies of Yin-Yang (the Two Modes). Their harmonious interaction produces the Three Powers (Heaven, Earth, and Humanity), which in turn generate the myriad things. All beings contain both Yin and Yang aspects, achieving harmony through balanced Qi. The Jade Blossom Imperial Lord (a revered Daoist deity) annotates that "One" represents the pure, unadulterated Taiji (Supreme Ultimate), born from Wuji (the Limitless). From Taiji to the Two Modes and then the Three Powers, all things proliferate. Everything receives Yin-Yang energies, coexisting naturally without artifice or deception.

While ordinary people shun terms like "solitary," "desolate," or "unworthy," kings and nobles adopt them as self-references—embodying the cultivator's humble approach to life. True Dao-realized individuals understand that maintaining harmonious Qi (a state of balanced emptiness) is fundamental, thus willingly using these lowly epithets for self-admonition.

This passage expounds on the principle that "the soft and weak overcome the hard and strong." Laozi uses humble self-designations like "solitary," "desolate," and "unworthy" that nobles adopt for themselves, demonstrating how seemingly lowly things often contain genuine power.

The law of development reveals that: sometimes what appears as loss actually brings gain (as in retreating to advance), while apparent gains may prove detrimental (like excessive sharpness that invites breakage). What people teach (typically binary distinctions), I too teach—but only by following the Great Dao. The violent meet untimely ends (for aggressors inevitably meet stronger opponents), and I take this as the foundation of my teaching (the flawed serving as warnings for the virtuous).

All these principles show how the Dao (the Way) honors diminishment. When reduction reaches its limit, it turns to increase; when increase peaks, it reverts to decrease. This interplay of gain and loss mirrors the cycles of fullness and emptiness, being and non-being. Understanding this, one avoids extreme preferences. What others teach, I teach likewise, blending with the light and merging with the dust (adapting harmoniously). To abandon softness for hardness is to become violent—and the violent invite calamity. How could such ones attain peaceful ends?

Thus the Great Dao is empty yet inexhaustible, absent yet ever-present, diminishing yet enriching, yielding yet unyielding. This I take as my teaching's foundation—here "father" signifies "root."

Chapter 43 further elucidates: the world's softest substance (the formless Dao) masters the hardest (proving softness conquers strength). The intangible penetrates what lacks crevices (like metal or stone), revealing the benefit of wuwei (non-action) through form reaching formlessness.

Yao Hua Di Jun's commentary notes: Hardness and softness, being and non-being exist in mutual relation. All know this principle, yet few apply it skillfully. Those unaware that softness overcomes hardness—who meet force with force—rarely escape breakage. Only when the softest masters the hardest can both remain unharmed: this is supreme mastery.

This scripture primarily discusses the dialectical relationship between "being" (you) and "non-being" (wu), as well as the Daoist wisdom of "non-action" (wuwei). It states that becoming attached to "being" (concrete things) easily leads to confusion. True mastery lies in grasping "non-being" (the origin of the Dao), from which "being" naturally arises. The mutual transformation between being and non-being constitutes the profound mystery of the Dao. The highest form of teaching is wordless influence, and the most beneficial action is effortless action—yet few can attain this state.

Chapter 44 expounds on the wisdom of life's choices. It poses several questions: Which is more important—reputation or life? Which is more precious—life or wealth? Which is more harmful—gaining or losing? The Jade Blossom Sovereign (a Daoist immortal) explains that chasing empty fame may cause one to lose oneself, ultimately forfeiting even reputation; thus life takes precedence over fame. Hoarding wealth may seem to nourish the body, but what truly nurtures life is virtue (De) rather than material possessions. If life is lost, what use is wealth? The truly wise do not pursue fame or riches but focus on cultivating the Dao.

The concluding lines serve as warnings: Excessive craving inevitably leads to great depletion, and over-accumulation invites severe loss. Only by understanding contentment can one avoid disgrace. The phrase "great perfect awakening" (dayuanjueman) refers to this state of contentment and constant joy—the realm of complete enlightenment.

To know when to stop is to avoid danger, and thus one can endure long. The worldly pursuit of fame and profit stems from covetousness. When fixated on something, people struggle desperately to obtain it, sparing no expense. Yet what is gained against the Dao will ultimately be lost against the Dao—the more one acquires, the more adversaries one attracts, making great loss inevitable.

Only those who understand contentment can remain forever satisfied. Knowing satisfaction means acting within one's capacity, fulfilling one's duties without craving the unattainable—how could disgrace follow? When ascending heights, guard against falling; when nearing abysses, beware of missteps; in rushing currents, know when to withdraw. This is the wisdom of foresight. To achieve this is called "knowing when to stop"—with such awareness, can one not endure long?

What is most perfect seems flawed (for it transcends itself), thus its efficacy never falters (concealing its radiance); what is most full seems empty (for it restrains itself), thus its function is inexhaustible (attaining the realm of emptiness). The Jade Blossom Sovereign (a Daoist immortal) explains: All formed things in the world inevitably decay, for they have visible form and competitive tendencies. Yet the Dao, though seemingly formed, holds no deliberate intent—it always appears incomplete, as if unfinished, never self-satisfied. How could it decay? What overflows is detested by heaven, earth, and spirits; a vessel too full overturns, hindering progress. Only the Dao, though full, maintains emptiness—seeming void yet dynamic, dynamic yet omnipresent. How could its function ever end?

The straightest seems bent (yielding to nature); the most skillful seems clumsy (governing through wuwei); the most eloquent seems tongue-tied (unattached to words). Extending this principle: by bending, one preserves; by not insisting on straightness, one avoids breaking. Thus, the Daoist does not flaunt rectitude but observes propriety in interaction, appearing constrained yet unbroken—this "bending" is true straightness. As for skill, the truly skillful never deem themselves so; to claim skill is to lose it.

This scripture expounds the principles of serene non-action (Wuwei) and contentment.

Regarding debate and wisdom, the truly wise never deliberately showcase their eloquence. What appears as clumsiness often embodies great wisdom, while seeming inarticulateness may contain the most profound art of discourse.

On the balance of movement and stillness: agitation can dispel cold but not heat, while calm can dissipate heat but not cold—both represent extremes. Only by maintaining serenity can one embody the true Dao (the Way) of the world. Losing this equilibrium leads to chaos and turmoil.

Chapter 46 teaches the wisdom of contentment: In times of peace, warhorses are used for plowing fields; in times of chaos, they roam battlefields. The greatest transgression is indulging desires, the greatest calamity is insatiability, and the gravest fault is unbridled greed. Only those who understand contentment can truly attain fulfillment.

The commentary by Emperor Yaohua (a revered Daoist deity) adds: Agriculture is the foundation of governance, while militarism harms it. In peaceful eras, soldiers till the land, and people live in prosperity; in turbulent times, warhorses trample the countryside, bringing suffering to the masses. These disasters stem from deceitful ministers pandering to rulers' greed—when sovereigns remain unsatisfied and endlessly demand, catastrophe inevitably follows.

(Note: "The mind's wild horse" refers to restless thoughts, as untamed as a galloping steed; "Hongjun" signifies the primordial source of the Dao; "Emperor Yaohua" is a venerated immortal in Daoism.)

This passage expounds the principle of contentment and inner cultivation. Laozi teaches that the greatest calamity stems from insatiable greed—when one possesses much yet remains unsatisfied, driven by desires to grasp for more, ultimately inviting disastrous consequences. Who is there to blame? These so-called "calamities" and "misfortunes" serve as profound warnings for humanity.

The insatiable can never attain true fulfillment, for they perpetually feel lacking. Only by recognizing the sufficiency of what one presently possesses can eternal contentment be achieved. As the "Chapter on Mirroring Distant Truths" states: The truly wise need not step outside their doors (referring to devoted spiritual practice) to understand worldly affairs (wisdom penetrating all phenomena); without gazing through windows (transcending bodily senses), they comprehend the Dao of Heaven (surpassing form and cunning). Those who exhaust themselves chasing external things (with scattered minds) ironically understand less (as their hearts become obscured by material pursuits).

The Celestial Lord Yaohua (a revered Daoist deity) comments that while the Book of Changes speaks of "prosperity through social interaction" and Han Yu warns of "limited vision from viewing the sky through a well," these seemingly contradict Laozi's "not going out the door, not peering through windows." Yet Laozi speaks from the perspective of inherent perfection—human hearts interpenetrate, and the Great Dao is universal. One person's heart contains ten thousand hearts; through such realization, the entire world can be encompassed within a single room, making external seeking unnecessary. The Dao of Heaven mirrors human nature—our emotions resonate with Yin-Yang transformations, and the human body forms a microcosm.

Worldly people often assume the Dao lies afar, yet the farther they search externally, the more distant they become. Thus sages (those who embody the Dao) know without traveling (their minds mirror all phenomena), understand without seeing (their wisdom cuts through delusions like a sword), and accomplish without striving (effortlessly). Such is the perfect nature of Dao, such is the luminous wisdom of the heart. Sages remain unconstrained by form and untroubled by thought—their wisdom manifests without action, their achievements benefit all without pursuit. True accomplishment (effective action) arises from Wuwei (non-action), for Wuwei constitutes the highest form of action.

This passage discusses how Daoist practitioners should pursue the state of "diminishing" (损) rather than "augmenting" (益). Confucius taught people to continually expand their knowledge (益), while Laozi (the Supreme Venerable Sovereign) instructed cultivators to progressively reduce (损) external attachments.

Ordinary people often indulge in pursuing extensive knowledge and ornate appearances. Though diligent and focused, this remains at the level of "augmentation." Those who truly comprehend the great Dao (道) relinquish delusional thoughts, restrain indulgent temperaments, seek truth from its root, and abandon complex knowledge to grasp the essential principles—this is what is meant by "diminishing."

Consciously beginning to reduce attachments still involves intentional effort. Only when one diminishes to the point where even the thought of "diminishing" vanishes does one truly attain the state of Wuwei (无为, non-action). Upon reaching Wuwei, the Dao fills one's entire being, and one naturally becomes capable of accomplishing all things without striving. Governing the world follows the same principle—the most enlightened approach appears as "doing nothing" (无事), allowing the people to transform naturally through subtle influence.

If one deliberately embellishes peace or pursues superficial achievements, it only fosters a culture of exaggeration and hypocrisy. The true sage has no fixed private mind but instead takes the hearts of the people as their own. They treat the virtuous with kindness and extend the same kindness to those who lack virtue—only then can they genuinely earn the trust of all.

The Dao (the Way), as the cosmic origin, possesses no subjective consciousness—it spontaneously gives birth to heaven and earth. Likewise, heaven shows no partiality, impartially nurturing sages. Thus, the sage does not cling to personal opinions or preconceived notions but instead takes the will of the people as their guiding principle.

How can we recognize that the sage regards the people's hearts as their own? Because among the people, some are virtuous while others are not; some are sincere while others are deceitful—this is the natural differentiation of human nature. Though people's conduct varies, the sage's mind embraces all: they treat the virtuous with kindness and the unvirtuous also with kindness. Regardless of others' actions, the sage's benevolent heart remains unchanged—this is the highest manifestation of "De (Virtue) in goodness." They treat the sincere with honesty and the insincere also with honesty—regardless of others' truthfulness, the sage's integrity remains unwavering—this is the highest manifestation of "De in trustworthiness."

When governing the world, the sage maintains a reverent and cautious attitude, merging their heart with all things in unity. The people closely observe the sage's every word and deed, yet the sage embraces all like infants, allowing them to develop naturally.

Though the sage does not judge people by distinctions of good and evil, truth and falsehood, the people remain entangled in such conflicts. Deeply concerned by this, the sage dissolves all discriminatory thoughts in their mind, forgetting distinctions with the people in the Dao. While others still calculate gains and losses, the sage has already transcended preferences, harmonizing with the world like an innocent child.

Regarding the laws of life: Just as the moon waxes and wanes in cycles, birth and death follow natural principles. The period of flourishing life occupies roughly three-tenths (like the moon's growth from new to full), while the period of decline also occupies three-tenths (like the moon's waning to darkness).

Human life follows cyclical patterns like the waxing and waning moon. When people deviate from their true nature toward the path of death, it resembles the mutual conquest of water and fire (where water represents Yin and fire represents Yang). There exist thirteen such death-inducing factors (note: ancient Chinese numerology considered water's completion number as six and fire's as seven, totaling thirteen).

The Exalted Sovereign Yaohua (a revered Daoist deity) explains: Though life and death appear as significant matters, human nature fundamentally transcends them. Only when we become attached to physical form does the distinction between life and death arise. By recognizing our true nature, manifesting it, and returning to it—transcending desires and contention—we attain longevity. Conversely, losing ourselves in material pleasures leads to self-destruction. The principle governing life and death is profoundly clear.

When people relinquish false pursuits for genuine sincerity, preserving their unadulterated nature, they practice the method of refining physical form for enduring existence—this constitutes the "Way of Life," which also manifests through thirteen pathways. Yet indulging in passions, drowning in sensual pleasures and material gains, represents reckless dissipation of vitality—the "Way of Death," equally expressed through thirteen manifestations. Though the principles of life and death are so evident, tragically, some who know the path of life succumb to external temptations, forgetting their wisdom to plunge into desire's ocean—this voluntary march toward death likewise appears in thirteen forms.

Thus we calculate: thirteen paths for life, thirteen for death, and thirteen for knowingly choosing death—each category containing thirteen manifestations (note: the original "summing to nine" likely refers to each group maintaining thirteen distinct expressions), while true nature remains singular. Why does our essential nature consistently prove weaker than desire's allure?

Because ordinary people cling too desperately to life. Excessive attachment to longevity ironically hastens demise. Those truly skilled in nourishing life harbor neither anger nor craving—they walk without encountering fierce beasts (symbolizing inner purity), examine their conscience without shame, and face battle unafraid of weapons (representing transcendence beyond life and death). Rhinoceroses find no place to gore them (through non-attachment to form), tigers no flesh to claw (through self-forgetfulness), weapons no target to harm (through liberated consciousness).

The fundamental truth is this: Originally there exists no life or death—only the gathering and dispersion of primordial Qi (vital energy). Obsessive clinging to life disrupts natural balance, just as the moon's excessive pursuit of fullness inevitably turns toward waning.

The Explanation of the Supreme Mysterious Primordial Dao De Jing primarily discusses two aspects: first, the state of "those skilled in nurturing life," and second, the cosmogony of "Dao generates and De nourishes."

Regarding the state of "those skilled in nurturing life": Ordinary people cling to life-nurturing practices yet cannot escape death, while those truly adept at nurturing life attain the realm of "originally having no birth." Such individuals walk on land without encountering rhinos or tigers, and enter battlefields without being harmed by weapons. This does not mean they avoid danger, but rather that danger cannot harm them—the rhino finds no place to gore, the tiger no place to claw, and weapons no place to strike. The reason sages have no "realm of death" is precisely because they have transcended the very concepts of life and death, reaching the supreme state of "neither born nor perished, neither drowned nor burned, neither withered nor maimed."

The "Chapter on Cultivating De" explains cosmogony: Dao (the cosmic origin) generates all things, while De (the manifestation of Dao) nourishes them. In heaven, things form celestial patterns; on earth, they take physical shapes. Thus all existence in the world reveres Dao and treasures De. The commentary by the Wondrous Dharma Primordial Lord (a Daoist immortal) explains: While Dao can create heaven, earth, and the myriad things, sustaining their growth requires De. De represents the accumulation and diffusion of Dao, enabling all things to develop according to their inherent nature. Though Dao generates and De nourishes, these must manifest through concrete phenomena. Just as without actual things between heaven and earth, people could never comprehend Dao's generative power or De's nourishing function. The forms of all things and the manifestations of natural laws are but appearances—trace them to their source, and none can exist apart from Dao and De. The reason Dao is revered and De treasured resembles how people honor teachers and respect rulers: all things equally receive and embody Dao-De, naturally recognizing their nobility.

This scripture primarily elucidates the primordial and spontaneous nature of Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue/Power). It first clarifies that the revered status of Dao and De isn't conferred by human agency but arises naturally. Like Mencius's (Master Ziyu's) concept of "heavenly nobility and genuine worth," these represent supreme values transcending human valuation. The Dao gives birth to all things yet claims no possession, accomplishes all yet takes no credit—this mysterious virtue constitutes the highest state of alignment with the Dao.

The text then explains the process of "Dao gives birth, De nurtures": Dao endows all beings with life essence (Jing and Qi), while De fosters their growth (perfecting form and capability), ultimately bringing them to maturity and completion (fulfilling their functions). Like a mother, the Dao nurtures and protects all things without interference or domination. This characteristic of "producing without possessing, acting without claiming" embodies the most profound virtue (Xuan De, Mysterious Virtue).

The "Chapter on Returning to the Origin" describes cosmic generation: All things under heaven originate from Dao (Dao generates One), this source being the mother of all things (One generates Two). Miaofa Yuanjun (a Daoist goddess) annotates that the initial state is "non-being" (Wuji, the Limitless), from which emerges Taiji (the Supreme Ultimate, transitioning from non-being to being). Though nameless, this source gives birth to all things, much like a mother bearing children. Understanding this principle (Two generates Three) enables comprehension of all things (Three generates the myriad things); yet after knowing all things, one must still return to safeguard the origin (each returns to its root). This reveals the essential Daoist cultivation principle of "returning to the root and restoring life."

The entire text emphasizes the Dao's spontaneous Wuwei (non-action) nature: While appearing to nurture all things, it actually follows natural laws completely, devoid of any deliberate effort. This virtue that transcends being and non-being, simultaneously metaphysical and physical (existing between being and non-being), represents the supreme state sought by Daoist practitioners.

This scripture primarily elucidates how spiritual practitioners should maintain their original heart-mind and return to the fundamental source. The text employs the metaphor of a "mother-child" relationship to illustrate the connection between the Dao and all things: the Dao is the mother that gives birth to all beings, while all things are her children. If the children (practitioners) focus solely on chasing external fame and fortune while forgetting their root (the Dao), it's akin to children busily running about while neglecting their aged mother at home—ultimately leading to spiritual exhaustion and severance from the Dao-root.

The crux of cultivation lies in "plugging the openings and closing the gates"—where "openings" refer to desires of speech and appetite, and "gates" signify sensory portals. This means reducing verbal desires and worldly cravings while restraining the habitual outward grasping of the senses, maintaining inner tranquility and purity. Acting contrary to this principle by indulging desires and chasing external phenomena leads to gradual degeneration, ultimately resulting in complete loss of connection with the Dao.

The text further emphasizes attending to subtle details ("perceiving the subtle is called clarity") and preserving gentle qualities ("maintaining softness is called strength"). Practitioners should employ their inner light of wisdom ("use its radiance") to illuminate themselves ("golden courtyard" refers to the human body), keeping their Shen (spirit) as clear as sacred sun and moon ("holy sun, holy moon"). Only through this can calamities be avoided and the eternal truth of the Great Dao directly realized ("inherit the constant"). Just as an unextinguished spark may cause a great fire, uncorrected minor faults may lead to grave errors—thus spiritual cultivation must begin with attention to the smallest details.

Here Laozi speaks of the worldly wisdom of Dao cultivators. Those who truly understand the Dao carefully guard what they see and hear, never revealing it lightly. They yield when encountering situations, viewing all things as insubstantial, never contending with others over gain and loss. This seemingly soft attitude is precisely what is most indestructible - this is true strength.

Our sensory faculties (hearing, seeing, smelling, tasting) are all innate "light" bestowed by heaven. Dao practitioners must use their original spirit (primordial consciousness) to govern these senses rather than being controlled by desires. Although sages (those who have attained the Dao) close their sensory gates, they don't completely cut off external things - instead they employ their original spirit to utilize these sensory functions. Even when using the senses, they don't allow their essence (Jing) and vital energy (Qi) to dissipate outward, but concentrate them to return to the original state of clarity, like a child protecting its mother. Only then can they maintain inner illumination without dispersion, avoiding harm to the body. This leads to the state of neither indulgence nor agitation, neither decline nor deficiency, attaining eternal luminous continuity.

Chapter 53 explains: If I were to suddenly comprehend the true meaning of the great Dao, what I would most fear while walking the path is deliberate action. The Mysterious Lady of the Nine Heavens (a Daoist goddess) clarifies: The great Dao itself is non-action (Wuwei), requiring neither deliberate knowing nor doing. True knowing and action exist naturally, influencing all things without words. "Sudden knowing" refers to abrupt realization, but if this realization is deliberately displayed, it will instead make ordinary people fearful. This illustrates the principle that "good governance actually makes people afraid."

The great Dao is inherently smooth and easy to follow, yet people always prefer shortcuts. Here "the people" refers to ordinary individuals. Though the Dao is plain and accessible, people often seek quick success, always looking for shortcuts to rapidly achieve their goals. The problems arising from this shortcut mentality are endless.

Several metaphors follow: The court requires upright energy (the heart must be correct), fields need cultivation (one's nature must be clear), granaries must be filled (the spirit must be agile), and wearing splendid robes (referring to the inner cultivation where true Qi flows like embroidered garments within). These are all essential points of internal cultivation that Dao practitioners must attend to.

Waving a precious sword and fluttering hundred-foot banners, indulging in lavish feasts (why not cultivate and absorb the Great Harmony's Qi instead?), hoarding vast wealth (better to return to the true Dao, for accumulated merit becomes like a golden mountain). These are all acts of stealing Heaven's secrets (such thievery of celestial mechanisms) that fundamentally contradict the Great Dao!

Consider how virtuous officials serving in court, if overly eager for quick results, inevitably heed slander and alienate worthy ministers, until all good people are pushed aside. In farming, deep plowing and careful cultivation—if rushed by pulling seedlings to hasten growth—will only leave fields barren. Managing granaries with only immediate gains in mind ultimately depletes reserves, leaving storehouses empty. Such are the harms of chasing short-term gains.

Thus, leaders should reject superficial glamor for substantial worth—like Duke Wen of Wei who wore coarse cloth and plain caps with dignity. Those who favor ornate robes, sharp swords, extravagant feasts, and wealth accumulation are like the leading yu (an ancient wind instrument) in an orchestra, guiding others astray. When rulers themselves steal Heaven's secrets, the people will surely follow—is this not "as above, so below"? Does this not exemplify "the thieving yu"?

Chapter 54 teaches that what is well established cannot be uprooted (for it aligns with the Dao), what is well maintained cannot be lost (for it never departs from the Dao), and ancestral sacrifices may continue for generations (for the Dao endures eternally). The Mysterious Lady's commentary notes: When foundations meant to last centuries collapse swiftly, their establishment was flawed; when tightly grasped possessions slip away quickly, their maintenance was misguided. Only when building upon the Dao's foundation and preserving through De's principles can things remain unshaken through generations.

In self-cultivation practice, one's virtue becomes genuine (beginning with refining Jing in foundational practice); applied within family life, virtue becomes abundant (during the stage of transforming Jing into Qi); extended to village communities...

This scripture primarily discusses the different levels and realms of cultivating the Dao and accumulating De (Virtue/Power). It first outlines the process of refining one's moral character: beginning with personal cultivation (refining Qi to return to Shen), progressing to governing a nation (refining Shen to return to emptiness), and ultimately embracing the world (refining emptiness to unite with the Dao). At each stage, one's De grows increasingly profound and expansive. Whether applied on a grand or modest scale, it produces corresponding effects.

The text then presents five observational levels through the principle of "observing the body through the body": from individual body-mind (the heart within the heart), to family nature (the nature within nature), to community spirit (the spirit within spirit), to national Dao (the Dao within Dao), and finally to all things under heaven (the nothingness within nothingness). It emphasizes understanding the world through self-reflection, as all phenomena follow the same principles. Just as observing oneself reveals others, examining the part illuminates the whole.

Chapter 55, "The Mystery of Correspondences," uses the metaphor of an infant to describe the state of one who has attained the Dao: maintaining the natural innocence of a newborn (embracing the Dao) without artificial knowledge or desires. Such realized individuals achieve a state of "no form, no appearance, no action, and no mind," containing profound De like an infant without displaying it outwardly.

Finally, it explains why those who attain the Dao avoid calamities: because they don't actively provoke conflict. The examples of venomous insects not stinging, fierce beasts not attacking, and birds of prey not striking symbolize an inner state free from fear, worry, or scheming—naturally repelling external misfortunes. Disasters often arise from one's own making; attachment to form and appearance inevitably leads to strife and affliction.

This passage uses the state of an infant (the "red child") as a metaphor for the pure and natural realm that Dao cultivators should maintain. When people become too entangled in worldly environments, they inevitably suffer various harms—just as one cannot avoid poisonous insect stings, fierce beast attacks, or predatory bird strikes. But by preserving profound De (Virtue/Power) and embodying Wuwei (non-action), calamities naturally cannot take hold.

The text describes how infants, though their bones are weak and sinews soft, can clench their fists tightly (a manifestation of complete Shen-Qi integration). Though unaware of sexual matters, they exhibit natural physiological responses (evidence of abundant Jing-Qi). This condition originates from the primordial source, representing the ultimate expression of vital essence. An infant may cry all day without growing hoarse, because their Qi remains perfectly harmonized (existing in a state of hazy, undifferentiated chaos).

Understanding how to maintain this harmonious state is called grasping the "Constant" (the eternal, unchanging truth). Comprehending this eternal truth is called attaining "Clarity" (the illumination of wisdom). Forcibly pursuing longevity, by contrast, invites misfortune (for the true Dao requires no artificial augmentation). Harmonious pliancy constitutes the essence of the Way—motherlike in its formless silence. People often err by failing to recognize this, but those who truly understand can eternally preserve the root of Dao-De.

Cultivators should emulate infants by preserving their innate purity, allowing Shen-Qi to flourish naturally. By recognizing the nature of harmony, one apprehends eternal truth and thereby awakens luminous wisdom. Deliberate striving for enhancement disrupts natural equilibrium, for the great Dao is inherently complete—requiring no artificial additions.

This passage conveys two main teachings: a warning against "violent force" (qiangliang) and an explanation of the state of "mysterious unity" (xuantong).

First, it addresses the concept of "violent force" (referring to domineering or aggressive behavior). The scripture states that when human minds are driven by desires to forcibly manipulate Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy) - key terms in Daoist cultivation referring to life force - this constitutes violent force. Just as things decline after reaching their peak, excessive human desires cause one to lose their natural disposition, thereby violating the Dao. Actions contrary to the Dao should be stopped promptly. Those who understand harmony will attain mental stillness; a tranquil mind naturally softens essence and energy. Conversely, forcibly driving these energies leads to reckless agitation - the very manifestation of violent force. Since ancient times, those relying on brute strength are like objects too rigid to bend - even if unbroken, they remain prone to damage. History shows few domineering heroes who endured.

Next comes the explanation of "mysterious unity" (the supreme state of merging with the Dao). True Dao-knowers don't engage in empty talk - those constantly speaking of the Dao likely don't understand it. Cultivation requires: "blocking the mouth" (speaking sparingly), "closing the gates" (reducing sensory distractions), "blunting sharpness" (avoiding contention), "untying tangles" (maintaining inner clarity), "softening glare" (eschewing ostentation), and "mixing with dust" (not deliberately standing out) - this achieves "mysterious unity."

The commentary by Miaofa Yuanjun (a Daoist immortal) adds: The Dao can and cannot be spoken. What can be discussed are its manifestations and branches; what cannot are its essence and source. True knowers understand the Dao is nameless and beginningless, hence rarely speak of it lightly. Those collecting superficial knowledge to hold forth don't truly comprehend. Here "blocking the mouth" means speaking less; "closing gates" means controlling verbal outflow, naturally eliminating frivolous agitation and resolving inner conflicts; "softening glare" means not deliberately withdrawing from society. Achieving such natural cultivation constitutes "mysterious unity."

This scripture primarily discusses the transcendent nature of the Dao (the Way) and its wisdom for governing states and self-cultivation.

Regarding the transcendence of the Dao: The true Dao cannot be deliberately approached (just as Shakyamuni had not yet attained complete enlightenment in his meditation), nor can it be intentionally distanced (just as Laozi had not yet fully mastered the Dao in his studies). It is neither tempted by profit (as Fuxi had not exhausted the mysteries of the Yi Jing) nor threatened by harm (as Confucius still dreamt of funeral rites on his deathbed). The Dao itself is neither noble (because the Dao is the essence of the mind) nor humble (because the mind is the function of the Dao), and precisely because of this, it is the most precious treasure in the world (when all illusions vanish, only the true Dao remains eternal).

Mencius said that Zhao Meng could elevate or demean people, but the true Dao stands transcendent and independent. If one silently upholds the great Dao, others can neither become excessively close (for extreme closeness inevitably turns into distance) nor truly distant. The same principle applies to relative concepts like profit and harm, nobility and humility. The great Dao transcends all appearances—formless, imageless, simple, and natural—thus becoming the treasured jewel revered throughout the ages.

In governing the state and self-cultivation: Govern the state with uprightness (by concentrating the spirit and calming the Qi), command the military with ingenuity (by illuminating the mind and realizing one's true nature), and win the world's allegiance through Wuwei (non-action, by awakening to one's inherent nature). The Mysterious Lady of the Primordial explained: The straightforward method is "uprightness," adaptive strategy is "ingenuity," and acting without intention is "non-action." Governing a state does not require grand gestures; one must share both joys and sorrows with the people, using ordinary principles that everyone can understand and practice—this is "governing the state with uprightness." But in warfare, one cannot adhere to convention and must employ adaptive tactics—hence "commanding the military with ingenuity." To win the hearts of the world, there is no need for deliberate recruitment; subtle influence suffices—this is "winning the world through non-action."

How do we know this is the right approach? Because those who have attained the Dao understand: The more prohibitions in the world (external changes affecting one's Qi), the poorer the people become (as the original mind is easily lost); the more weapons among the populace (wild thoughts flying about), the more chaotic the state grows (as the true nature remains obscured); the more clever techniques people possess (when the nature should be tranquil and at ease), the more bizarre phenomena flourish (as the Shen-spirit becomes agitated and weary); the stricter the laws (using deluded minds to govern deluded minds), the more thieves and bandits proliferate (as distracting thoughts grow even more intense).

This passage discusses three approaches to governance: following the righteous path, employing political stratagems, or practicing Wuwei (non-action). How do I know these principles? Through understanding the Dao. When rulers constantly harass their people, prohibitions multiply—with more taboos, people only dare report good news while concealing hardships. How can the populace avoid poverty under such circumstances?

The so-called "sharp tools" refer to political machinations. If rulers prefer superficial harmony, upright individuals find no place while opportunists thrive. Over time, rulers grow increasingly arrogant while ministers become more sycophantic, with deception permeating both upper and lower ranks. How can a state avoid chaos? Continued this way, society deteriorates further.

People's fascination with opportunism resembles playing with power tactics. Those exotic crafts and extravagant skills may seem harmless to the state, but once glorified, bizarre novelties proliferate endlessly. As this develops, legal statutes grow increasingly convoluted—commoners offend at every turn, not knowing where to place their hands and feet. Under such conditions, how could people avoid turning to banditry?

Therefore the sage says: I practice Wuwei (non-action), and the people transform spontaneously (without glorifying stratagems); I maintain stillness, and the people correct themselves naturally (without employing tactics); I refrain from harassment, and the people prosper autonomously (without pursuing rare treasures); I remain desireless, and the people return to simplicity (thus cultivating self and governing state).

All these disorders stem from rulers' excessive meddling. Were governance based on the "Dao of No Beginning" (the fundamental principle of Daoism), how could such ills arise? Understanding this truth, sages steadfastly uphold Wuwei as their foundation. Through Wuwei one maintains stillness and reduces complications, embodying desirelessness through personal practice. Thus the people either become naturally influenced or consciously correct their conduct, focusing on essential work rather than superficial matters—prosperity follows naturally; when people remain simple and upright, adhering to Dao's principles, purity emerges spontaneously.

Consider how much disorder stems from meddling, yet how much benefit comes from Wuwei—what reason remains not to implement governance through non-action? Is this achievement unique to sages alone?

(Note: The "Chapter on Following Transformation" refers to the core concept of Chapter 58 in the Daode Jing (Classic of the Way and Virtue). Daoism maintains that rulers should emulate nature's way, minimizing human interference to allow people to spontaneously form good order. Concepts like "sharp tools" and "rare goods" in Daoist thought often symbolize artificial political tactics and superficial luxuries.)

This passage elucidates the Dao of governance and the interdependence of fortune and misfortune. In governance, if a relaxed and natural approach ("unassuming") is adopted, the people will retain their simple and honest nature ("genuine"); but if laws and decrees become overly strict and meticulous ("scrutinizing"), the people will instead grow cunning and alienated ("deficient"). Fortune and misfortune are like twin siblings—within calamity lies hidden blessing, while within good fortune lurks the seeds of disaster, endlessly transforming into one another.

The commentary by Miaofa Yuanjun (a Daoist goddess) points out: The great Dao values simplicity and naturalness, not clever calculation. Governance through natural non-action (Wuwei) allows the people to transform themselves, whereas deliberate action inevitably breeds various malpractices. People always seek good fortune and avoid calamity, unaware that fortune and misfortune are two sides of the same coin. When disaster strikes, fortune is already gestating within it; when enjoying blessings, misfortune quietly plants its seeds. Yet worldly people, long immersed in delusion, see only the surface appearance of fortune and righteousness, failing to perceive the accompanying calamity and abnormality.

Thus, the sage who has attained the Dao (one who embodies the great Way) interacts with the world harmoniously: principled yet not injurious ("square but not cutting"), incorruptible yet not harsh ("sharp but not piercing"), upright and candid yet not unrestrained ("straight but not reckless"), radiant yet not dazzling ("bright but not glaring"). Ordinary things tend to extremes—squareness becomes cutting, incorruptibility turns severe, candor becomes reckless, and brightness grows blinding. But the sage deeply understands the principle that "things turn into their opposites when they reach extremes," maintaining balanced moderation between polarities.

Note: This passage embodies the core dialectical thinking of Daoism, emphasizing natural non-action in governance and harmonious moderation in conduct. The concept of "fortune and misfortune being interdependent" shares the same lineage as Chapter 58 of the Daode Jing: "Disaster is where good fortune leans; good fortune is where disaster lurks."

This scripture expounds the core principle of cultivating the Dao and governing a state—the wisdom of "restraint" (se, frugality and simplicity). Laozi believed that whether in governing people or cultivating one's body and mind, the best approach lies in maintaining simplicity and restraint.

The phrase "governing people and serving heaven" is first explained: Ruling the populace requires the same care as tending to one's own heart, while venerating the heavenly Dao should be like being in perfect resonance with it. The most marvelous method operates through formless spontaneity, leaving no trace of deliberate action. When a ruler achieves utmost restraint, the people will naturally be influenced and submit willingly—this is "early submission" (zaofu), a heartfelt and spontaneous compliance.

"Accumulating De (Virtue) abundantly" refers to the continuous cultivation of this virtue of restraint. When such virtue is fully accumulated, one becomes invincible, reaching the state where "none can fathom its limits" (mo zhi qi ji)—the influence of this virtue becomes so profound and boundless that it naturally transforms the people without deliberate instruction, achieving governance through wuwei (non-action). Such virtue naturally preserves the state.

"The mother of the state" points to the fundamental principle of "restraint," which manifests as softness, emptiness, and non-being—essentially the ineffable Dao itself. Governing the world with this root principle is as natural as a mother nurturing her child, and only such a foundation can ensure lasting stability.

The commentary by the Divine Wonder Primordial Lord (a Daoist goddess) further clarifies: Ordinary people, when governing, often indulge in extravagance, and when serving heaven, they pursue elaborate rituals, only creating disturbances. In truth, the most fundamental method is maintaining restraint. Because hearts are interconnected, governing with restraint naturally draws the people's submission; serving heaven with restraint naturally aligns with the Dao. When this virtue of restraint is deeply accumulated, worldly order is achieved without deliberate effort—this is the root principle for preserving a state.

This passage elucidates the fundamental methods for cultivating longevity. The concept of "deep roots and firm stems" refers to stabilizing one's vital essence (Jing) through profound breathing techniques—this constitutes the essential secret of immortality. Just as all living things with shallow roots are easily uprooted and weak stems quickly wither, so too in Daoist practice: only when the Dao's methods take deep root in one's heart can they become unshakable.

This cultivation path not only governs states and brings peace to nations, but more importantly extends human lifespan. By refining oneself to benefit others, one ultimately brings blessings to the world, attaining a state of enduring as long as heaven and earth. This is the true meaning of "longevity and perpetual vision"—not physical immortality, but rather the eternal existence of one's spirit (Shen) with the primordial Qi (the primal energy of Dao).

In statecraft, governing a large country resembles cooking small fish—the crucial point lies in controlling the fire. Governing the mind follows the same principle: seemingly simple yet requiring precisely measured effort. When using the Dao to rule the world, even ghosts and spirits (yin energies) submit. As the Mysterious Lady of the Primordial (a Daoist goddess) annotates, this appears contrary to Confucius' saying "Why use an ox-cleaver to kill a chicken?" yet in truth they complement each other.

Governing a great nation must avoid complexity, just as small fish shouldn't be overhandled when cooked. People fear ghosts and spirits because these entities represent the two spiritual energies of yin and yang. But when ruling through the Great Dao, one consolidates the purest vital essence (supreme Jing) and grasps the most authentic spirituality (supreme Shen). Seemingly devoid of essence yet containing infinite essence, apparently lacking spirituality yet encompassing supreme spirituality—when this state is achieved, ghosts and spirits naturally abide by their proper roles without causing disturbances.

It's not that ghosts and spirits lose their power, but rather their spiritual force ceases to harm people; not only do spirits refrain from harming humans, but sages also harmoniously coexist with all beings. This state of perfected form and spirit allows virtue (De) to merge and resonate with heaven and earth. While ordinary people fear spirits to avoid harm, when the world is governed by the Great Dao, all spirits comply with its principles—not only ceasing to harm humans, but their divine powers instead becoming mutually inclusive with the Dao.

This passage elucidates the core principles of governing a state and cultivating the self. Laozi uses the nature of water as a metaphor for the sage's way of being in the world—water always flows downward, yet nourishes all things. Truly wise individuals (sages) govern by fundamentally restraining desires (se) and maintaining a gentle, yielding posture.

The scripture states that sages appear effortless yet contain great wisdom, seem to practice wuwei (non-action) yet accomplish all things. They naturally merge with all beings under heaven without deliberate action, thus harming none. If even sages cannot bring harm, how could the divine spirits bear to harm people? This is the principle of "neither harming the other." People under heaven are drawn to the sage's De (Virtue), and even spirits are moved by this moral power—this mutual fulfillment is called "reciprocal return."

Chapter 61, "The Virtue of Humility," further elaborates: A great nation should position itself like water that willingly flows downstream (xialiu), for all things follow the principle that "the high returns to the low." The female (pin) often overcomes the male (mu) through stillness, demonstrating how soft tranquility masters restless agitation. The Radiant Emperor's commentary notes: People always strive for higher positions, unaware that things reverse at their extremes. True wisdom lies in consciously occupying the lower position—especially for great nations. Just as water accumulates more tributaries by flowing downward, a humble great nation naturally attracts allegiance.

Rulers who abandon arrogance, maintain simplicity, and preserve humility through self-restraint understand the wisdom of "occupying the lower position." All interactions under heaven value gentleness over force—the female's tranquil nature embodies this cosmic principle. The female overcomes the male through jing (stillness)—this stillness manifests as humility, restraint, and the posture of "occupying the lower position." Whether for great or small states, humility proves the best strategy: great states gain allegiance through humility toward smaller ones, while small states preserve themselves through humility toward greater ones.

This scripture primarily discusses the wisdom of interactions between large and small states, as well as the universality of the Dao (the Way).

Regarding statecraft: When small states maintain humility, they gain the goodwill of larger states, as seen in Tang of Shang serving the Ge state or King Wen of Zhou dealing with the Kunyi people. Conversely, when large states approach smaller ones with modesty, they win genuine allegiance – exemplified by King Goujian of Yue serving Wu or King Tai of Zhou interacting with the Xunyu tribe. Thus humility proves essential for both large and small states in their mutual relations. Large states seek to lead the four quarters, while small states desire protection; each achieves its proper place through this dynamic.

The text particularly emphasizes that large states should especially maintain a humble stance. Though vast in territory and strong in military, their true aspiration is simply to win the world's hearts; though limited in resources and power, small states merely seek shelter. Through mutual courtesy, yielding, and tolerance, both parties can fulfill their respective aspirations.

The passage then addresses the nature of the Dao: It is the profoundest principle of all things – a treasure for the virtuous, yet also sustaining those lacking virtue. Noble words can move people, and elevated conduct influences others. Even those without virtue are never abandoned by the Dao.

The commentary by Emperor Guangyuan (a Daoist deity) adds: While heaven and earth contain many principles governing human affairs, these represent only superficial gateways. The true Dao exists between being and non-being – perceptible to the senses yet not confined to concrete forms. This profound and mysterious quality constitutes the fundamental mystery of all existence.

This passage explains how the Dao (the Way) holds equal value for all people, benefiting both the virtuous and non-virtuous alike.

Those of virtuous nature inherently possess the Dao, as naturally precious as the luminous pearl beneath the forehead of the legendary Li Dragon. Though the non-virtuous may have lost connection with the Dao, through diligent seeking and steadfast adherence, they too can restrain their faults. This demonstrates the Dao's impartial nature—all may rely upon it.

Speaking and acting according to the Dao's principles establishes good reputation in the world, while living by its ways influences others. All people under heaven can be transformed through the Dao: the exceptional achieve greatness, while the ordinary are never cast aside. The Dao never distances itself from humanity—how could it possibly abandon anyone?

Therefore, even if one becomes the Son of Heaven (symbolizing sovereignty over the mind), attains the Three Dukes (representing the vital energies of Jing, Qi, and Shen), or acquires worldly treasures like jade and fine steeds, none compare to quietly cultivating this Dao. The ancients cherished the Dao precisely because through it, one attains inner fulfillment while cleansing faults and impurities to return to original purity. Nothing under heaven is rarer than that which both grants attainment and liberation—and the Dao embodies precisely this priceless quality.

Chapter 63, "Contemplating Origins," further clarifies: Act with Wuwei (non-action) to avoid disturbing the true mind; handle affairs with "non-interference" to preserve innate nature; savor the "flavorless" to keep the Shen (spirit) unmoved. Whether matters are great or small, numerous or few, in fortune or adversity, resolve grievances through De (virtue)—thus cultivation proceeds without error.

The Celestial Lord of Radiance (a revered Daoist deity) explains in his commentary: The essence of the Great Dao originates from "non-being" (wu), and this "non-being" is the very root of the Dao. People create contention and artificiality precisely because they chase after illusions. But the Great Dao is not like this—if one deeply comprehends this truth, there's no need to deliberately pursue "non-action" (wuwei), nor to artificially create a state of "non-affairs," nor to intentionally experience the realm of "flavorlessness." When one takes this "non-being" as the foundation for conducting oneself in the world, then whether encountering major or minor matters, abundance or scarcity, one can approach them with an attitude of non-action. Even when facing situations that might provoke resentment, though external things may invite grievance, the mind harbors no resentment. If one perceives nothing worthy of resentment, how can resentment arise? Only when one completely forgets the self yet still responds with virtue (De) does one attain true "resentment-free" existence. And the root of being "resentment-free" ultimately stems from the Dao's "non-being."

In dealing with difficulties, begin with what's easy (by guarding the root); in accomplishing great tasks, start with the subtle (by holding to the center). All difficult matters under heaven must begin with what's easy (those with virtue first face difficulties before reaping rewards), and all great undertakings under heaven must accumulate from the subtle (through the accumulation of essence [Jing] and qi to achieve true Dao). Therefore, the sage never considers himself great (the sage doesn't presume sagehood), yet thereby achieves true greatness (attaining a state equal to the void). Easy promises inevitably lead to little trust (what's easily grasped is easily doubted; what's easily gained is easily lost), and treating matters too lightly will surely encounter greater difficulties (after great confusion comes great awakening). Thus the sage always approaches matters as if they were difficult (not explaining things directly), thereby ultimately encountering no difficulties (allowing others to realize for themselves).

It is further said: If people don't understand the Dao of non-action, they will inevitably force artificial effort, exerting themselves where it's difficult while neglecting what's easy; striving in grand matters while overlooking the subtle. They fail to realize that easy matters are the gateway to resolving difficulties, and subtle points are the steps to accomplishing great things. Therefore, to solve difficulties, one must begin with what's easy; to achieve great things, one must start with small tasks. Progressing gradually from easy to difficult makes the difficult no longer hard; accumulating from subtle to grand makes the grand no longer overwhelming. All difficult and great matters under heaven begin from what's easy and subtle. Since great things grow from subtle beginnings, one need only focus on perfecting the subtle. The sage understands this principle, thus never considering himself great. Without deliberately pursuing greatness, greatness naturally manifests—such cases rarely fail. From this we can deduce that making easy promises and acting rashly may appear as two behaviors, but they stem from the same root. Those who make easy promises speak too casually and thus naturally struggle to earn trust; those who act rashly treat matters too lightly.

All things are easiest to manage in their initial stages, but repeated meddling often leads to dilemmas where one can neither advance nor retreat. Though sages accomplish great things by attending to minute details, they maintain within their hearts the caution of treading on thin ice. If this attitude of vigilance in facing affairs can be consistently upheld, no difficulty remains insurmountable.

Chapter 64, "Guarding the Subtle," states: Stability is easiest to maintain (preserving inner clarity and ease); affairs are easiest to plan when signs have not yet appeared (making arrangements at the budding stage); fragility is easiest to resolve (guarding against danger); subtlety is easiest to disperse (the cultivation of Dao values awareness of the refined). Handle matters before they take form (seize the unseen sprouts), and govern before chaos arises (exercise control without letting things spiral out of hand).

The Radiant Wall Emperor (a Daoist deity) comments: Stability is inherently an excellent opportunity for self-cultivation, yet people often indulge in comfort, making stability difficult to sustain. True stability requires active guardianship—this is when maintaining it becomes easy. Once a situation becomes obvious, it is harder to manage; planning is most effortless when signs are yet to appear, at the brink of manifestation. Just as fragile objects are easiest to break when newly formed, they become unmanageable once problems accumulate. Thus, the wise always resolve matters while they are still small—handling them before they take shape is the superior method (cutting them off at the source), while governing at the first signs before disorder emerges is the next best option (timely containment).

A tree thick enough to embrace grows from a tender sprout (from small to large); a nine-tiered tower is built by piling up earth (from low to high); a thousand-mile journey begins beneath one’s feet (from near to far). Those who force things will ruin them (the Dao cannot be seized), and those who cling will ultimately lose (the Dao cannot be possessed). Therefore, the sage follows nature and thus does not fail (united with the Dao, eternally indestructible); without attachment, nothing is lost (abiding with the divine, everlasting).

This passage further emphasizes: The sage’s ability to prevent calamity before it arises lies in valuing caution in subtle details. Just as cultivation requires awareness of every fleeting thought, governing a state demands attention to the faintest signs among the people. This wisdom of perceiving the subtle to foresee the obvious is the very foundation of accomplishing great things.

The minute is the foundation of the magnificent, and the subtle contains the seeds of manifestation. The giant tree that takes several people to embrace began as a hair-thin sprout; the nine-tiered tower started with baskets of piled earth; the thousand-mile journey commenced with single steps beneath one's feet. From small to great, from subtle to apparent, from near to far—this is the eternal law of transformation. Before signs of change appear, one should not intervene prematurely. Those who act recklessly will ultimately fail, and those who cling stubbornly to views are bound to suffer loss. The sage understands differently—they recognize that the Dao resides in wuwei (non-action), maintaining their fundamental nature through non-interference and guiding transformation through non-attachment, thus avoiding failure and loss. Hence it is said: Through non-action there is no failure; through non-attachment there is no loss.

Ordinary people often fail when their endeavors are near completion (because they don't comprehend natural laws—being careless at the outset makes perseverance difficult). If one remains prudent from beginning to end, maintaining constancy, nothing will fail (preserving the original mind without straying ensures perpetual avoidance of peril).

The sage's wuwei and non-attachment are difficult for ordinary people to attain. Common people are influenced by habits, blinded by appearances, and immersed in illusions—they only consider matters when they near completion. When circumstances become urgent, even desperate efforts often prove futile, with nine out of ten attempts failing to remedy the situation. People tend to be cautious at first but grow negligent later. If one could maintain consistent prudence throughout, how could failure result?

Therefore, the sage pursues what others do not pursue (seeking what is un-sought), not valuing rare possessions (prizing virtue and spiritual cultivation instead); they study what others do not study (learning what is un-learned), rectifying the faults of the multitude (returning to authenticity), assisting all things in their natural development (following the timing of things), while daring not to act recklessly (maintaining self-reflection and reverential awe).

The ancient sages understood this principle thoroughly. While all people have desires, the sage does not avoid speaking of desire—yet their true desire is the state of "no-desire." Since they take "no-desire" as their desire, how could they value rare possessions? While all people engage in learning, the sage does not avoid speaking of learning—yet their true learning is the wisdom of "not-learning." Taking "not-learning" as learning, they are still able to correct the faults of the multitude.

The ancient masters who truly understood the Dao did not seek to make the people clever and cunning (as Confucianism advocated with its "illuminated virtue"), but rather to preserve their natural simplicity (preventing excessive intellectual artifice). The Radiant Emperor Lord (a revered Daoist deity) commented in his annotations: Although sage-kings like Yao, Shun, Yu, Tang, and the Zhou rulers after the Three Sovereigns era were considered enlightened pioneers, they merely taught the people what they themselves understood—essentially still trying to make the people "comprehend principles." Yet this already deviated from the Dao, for the true essence of the Dao lies in Wuwei (non-action).

Thus, those who truly understand the Dao do not guide the people toward intellectual cleverness but let them remain in a state of simple innocence. This way, the people harbor no hypocritical delusions, preserving their innate honesty, while rulers can govern through Wuwei.

The difficulty in governing people (due to their chaotic thoughts) arises precisely from their excessive cleverness (as mental activity easily leads to confusion). Therefore, using cleverness to govern actually harms the state (because any deliberate action creates attachments). In the eras of the ancient rulers Wuhuai and Getian, how pure and virtuous the folk customs were—rulers needed no effort to maintain peace under heaven. But after the Three Dynasties (Xia, Shang, Zhou), worldly customs declined as people grew cunning, precisely because of excessive cleverness. When cleverness multiplies, deception flourishes, wickedness spreads, and even the strictest laws cannot restrain it. Since people become difficult to govern because of cleverness, clearly cleverness should be eliminated—how could governing through cleverness be advocated? To govern through cleverness not only fails to benefit the state but harms it—is this not the state's calamity?

Governing without cleverness is the state's blessing (guiding through Dao and De, the people naturally prosper). Understanding these two principles—"governing through cleverness is calamitous" and "not governing through cleverness is blessed"—means grasping the rule of statecraft (the Dao values what seems dull, yet such conduct becomes the world's model). Mastering this rule (maintaining emptiness and guarding the original mind) is called "Mysterious De (Virtue)" (the foundation of transformation). Mysterious De is profound and far-reaching (the more one pursues it, the deeper it seems; the more one explores it, the more distant it appears), completely contrary to worldly methods (not following the crowd), yet only thus can perfect harmony be achieved (seeming to go against the current while actually following nature).

This scripture primarily discusses the wisdom of governing a state and conducting oneself in the world. Laozi believed that ruling a country through cunning and contrivance would instead bring harm, while following natural spontaneity without artificial cleverness would be the nation's true blessing. Neither approach should be taken as the supreme principle—the true standard lies in the mysterious De (profound and inscrutable Virtue/Power) of wuwei (non-action). While ordinary people admire cleverness, the sage reveres mysterious De—these two attitudes are diametrically opposed. Valuing cleverness leads people to indulge in desires and violate heavenly principles, whereas honoring mysterious De can subtly and naturally transform all things, achieving perfect harmony.

Just as rivers and seas become kings of all waterways by excelling at maintaining low positions, the sage who wishes to lead the people must use humble speech, and to guide them, must place himself behind them. The Radiant Emperor Sovereign (a Daoist deity) explains that rivers and seas receive all tributaries precisely because they occupy lower ground. The sage understands one cannot remain aloof and therefore willingly humbles himself; knows one shouldn't contend for precedence and thus gladly stays behind. This isn't deliberate artifice, but the natural manifestation of the Dao.

Thus when the sage occupies high positions, the people feel no oppression; when standing ahead, they sense no harm. All under heaven gladly support him without weariness, precisely because he contends with none, making it impossible for anyone to contend with him. The scripture concludes by noting how those in high positions easily burden the people, and those at the forefront often cause them injury.

This scripture elucidates the worldly wisdom of those who have attained the Dao. The true sage, though occupying an exalted position, never considers himself superior; thus the people feel no oppression. Though leading the way, he never competes for prominence, causing no harm to the people, and the people remain unharmed. Naturally, the people follow him willingly, collectively upholding him as one who embodies the Dao, without any resentment in their hearts.

The crux lies in the principle of "non-contention" (bu zheng). The sage maintains a humble and yielding mindset, harmoniously coexisting with all things under heaven. As the ancient saying goes, "The benevolent have no enemies" - the sage contends with none, and others not only find it hard to contend with him but in truth cannot contend with him at all. This explains why the Dao's method venerates humility and yielding, and the sage precisely follows this principle.

The text then discusses the doctrine of the "Three Treasures." All people under heaven say the Dao is great (referring to its supreme nature), yet they also feel it appears rather ordinary (as if dull and simple). Precisely because of the Dao's greatness, it manifests as utterly unremarkable. If one constantly seeks to display oneself, one instead appears insignificant.

The commentary by Emperor Guangyuan (a Daoist deity) explains: Under heaven, nothing surpasses the Dao in greatness. The sage takes the Dao as his standard, thus becoming the greatest. People praise the sage for his greatness, yet perceive him as simple and unadorned, without any deliberate display. Therefore, though they praise his greatness, they also feel he seems rather ordinary. This is not contradictory - it is precisely the absence of deliberate display that manifests true greatness, while forced display only reveals smallness.

Finally, the scripture reveals the three great treasures of Dao cultivation: first is "compassion" (like the purity of an infant), second is "frugality" (reducing selfish desires), and third is "daring not be at the forefront of the world" (humbly withdrawing and maintaining oneself). Through compassion one becomes courageous, through frugality one attains expansiveness, and through not contending for precedence one paradoxically becomes the leader of the multitude. These three treasures embody the wisdom of following the Dao's natural way - humility and non-contention.

This scripture explains how sages achieve greatness without ostentation by upholding three treasures. Mastering and cherishing these treasures allows one to accord with heavenly principles, acting effortlessly through Wuwei (non-action) — these are the three essential keys to governing the world.

The three treasures are: First, "compassion" (慈), meaning merciful forbearance, referring to restraining oneself through benevolence; second, "frugality" (俭), meaning temperance and restraint, referring to self-discipline without indulgence; third, "daring not to be ahead of the world" (不敢为天下先), the principle of willingly staying behind with humility. People often err by losing these three treasures — failing in compassion, frugality, and humility.

If one practices compassionate forbearance, defensive restraint transforms into courageous action; if one maintains frugal self-discipline, one gains mastery over expansion and contraction; if one willingly stays behind, one naturally advances without striving yet attains more. Such a person becomes the "vessel of pristine simplicity" (浑朴之器) formed by nature itself, and the "vessel of great accomplishment" (大成之器) that fulfills the Dao.

Conversely, abandoning compassion for aggression (chasing external things), discarding frugality for indulgence (greed, anger, and delusion), and rejecting humility for competition (short-term gain) leads one toward ruin (deviation from the Dao). Compassion applied in battle ensures victory (the benevolent are invincible); applied in defense, it brings stability (stillness overcomes motion). When heaven wishes to save someone (the Dao aids virtue), it protects them through compassion (benevolent virtue preserves its place).

The scripture particularly warns against those who act contrarily today: abandoning compassion for aggression, discarding frugality for indulgence, and rejecting humility for competition — these three paths invite self-destruction. Focusing solely on "compassion": failing to endure small matters ruins great ones; acting fearlessly leads to regret. The compassionately forbearing never underestimate opponents, thus prevailing in battle; they also strategize thoroughly, making defense unshakable. Such compassion is heaven-sent — when heaven rescues people from suffering, it opens the sages’ compassionate hearts to protect them. Those protected by compassion reciprocate by safeguarding it, revealing its priceless value. The principles of "frugality" and "daring not to be first" follow similarly.

The adept commander does not rely on brute force (maintaining benevolence and equanimity), the skilled warrior does not act in anger (preserving composure and calm), the true victor does not engage in reckless combat (acting with prudence and thoroughness), and the wise leader of men remains humble and unassuming (ever maintaining caution).

The Radiant Wall Emperor (commentator) explains: The genuine military strategist finds victory through caution on the battlefield. It is precisely through understanding caution that one can overcome adversaries without depending on superficial displays of martial prowess. The skilled commander leads troops through Dao principles—advancing when necessary without fixation on offense, engaging when required without obsession with slaughter, always maintaining clarity unclouded by rage. Those who truly conquer enemies invariably regard warfare as a last resort; even in battle they maintain compassion, never deliberately contending for victory. As for the way of employing people, there is no special technique—only the need to maintain an open and receptive mind, restrain oneself, and remain humbly subordinate.

This constitutes the virtue of non-contention (noble De), this embodies the wisdom of employing others (naturally aligning with cosmic principles), this represents harmony with the Dao (sublime state)—the highest standard since ancient times (manifesting the truth of the Great Dao).

The commentary further elaborates: The refusal to flaunt strength, resist anger, contend for advantage, or willingly remain subordinate—all these manifest De. True virtue never boasts of its own power; precisely through non-contention, it gathers the strength of multitudes. This profound, expansive, and majestic state—is it not sufficient to match the Dao and walk the path of ancient sages? This indeed constitutes the supreme attainment.

Chapter 69 ("The Mystery of Application") discusses military principles through analogy: The ancients possessed this wisdom regarding warfare—I dare not initiate conflict but prefer responsive action, dare not advance an inch but would rather retreat a foot. This is called marching without visible tracks (the greatest weapon being not physical arms but mental cultivation), raising arms without apparent movement (acting only when compelled), facing enemies as if encountering none (establishing peace upon engagement), and wielding weapons as if empty-handed (sheathing锋芒 within, returning to the source).

The Radiant Wall Emperor annotates: Among the eighty-one chapters of the Daode Jing, those discussing military matters do not glorify martial power—on the contrary, they use military phenomena to profoundly warn against the perils of war. Though this chapter discusses warfare throughout, it actually employs military metaphors to illustrate Dao cultivation principles—readers must not cling to literal interpretations (but grasp the deeper meaning). The phrase "ancient military wisdom says" refers to the profound philosophical truths contained within classical martial knowledge.

This scripture primarily discusses the integration of military strategy with philosophical living. Regarding warfare, the side initiating attack (the host) often glorifies martial force, while the side responding defensively (the guest) need only maneuver to avoid defeat. Those truly skilled in combat never provoke conflict but maintain a defensive posture. Advancing one inch may seem insignificant, yet it constitutes aggression; retreating one foot still feels insufficient. This non-aggressive, yielding attitude embodies the Daoist wisdom of "guarding softness and emptiness" — neither rigid nor obstinate.

In military campaigns, conventional tactics involve forming battle arrays, raising weapons, and direct confrontation. Yet by adopting a defensive strategy, one may appear as if having no formation, no arms raised in combat, no enemies to fight, and no soldiers to deploy. This strategic yielding demonstrates profound mastery of warfare. The phrase "calmly capturing the foe" (from the Book of Songs) epitomizes this state.

No disaster surpasses underestimating one's opponent. Whether defending cities or fighting in open terrain, vigilance against danger is essential — complacency risks losing our most precious treasures (the "Three Treasures" mentioned earlier: compassion, frugality, and not presuming to lead the world). Thus when armies clash, the side maintaining compassionate resolve often prevails. Though counterintuitive, this aligns with cosmic principles.

Warfare itself constitutes calamity, and reckless militarism compounds the disaster. Since the greatest peril lies in underestimation, how can brute force alone prevail? Therefore, those who maintain compassion during conflict are the true lovers of humanity — they seek no victory over others yet frequently achieve it. Herein lies warfare's lesson for daily living: the Dao (the Way) is never far from us.

Chapter 70 ("Knowing Difficulty") states: My words are easily understood (the key lies in the heart) and easily practiced (the key lies in the Dao). Yet the world finds them hard to comprehend (lacking awareness of the mindless state) and difficult to implement (missing the Dao's true essence). The Celestial Sovereign Guangyuan (a Daoist deity) comments: The world's most ordinary and superficial aspects often contain its profoundest truths. The Dao inherently resides in plain simplicity. Expressed through such Dao, my words naturally become intelligible; enacted through such Dao, my actions naturally become practicable. Being easily understood, all should theoretically comprehend them; being easily practiced, all should theoretically perform them...

This passage primarily addresses common misconceptions about the Dao (the Way). Laozi points out that people often dismiss the Great Dao as too ordinary and superficial to merit understanding, while pursuing things that appear profound and mysterious instead. Consequently, they lose the capacity for genuine knowledge and practice—a clear indication of lacking deeper reflection.

"Speech should have its ancestral source" means one's words must be rooted in fundamental truth, while "action should have its sovereign principle" refers to grasping the essential in all endeavors. Only by maintaining a state of no-knowledge and no-desire ("obscure and still") can one truly comprehend the Great Dao. Rather than speaking without basis, it is better to remain silent; rather than acting contrary to principle, it is better to preserve one's original simplicity. Those who understand this fundamental truth speak and act with simplicity, yet ordinary people often fail to grasp this root and thus cannot comprehend those who have awakened to the Dao.

Genuine knowers of the Great Dao are few, which is precisely why those awakened to the Way are so precious. Like the ancient sages who wore coarse hemp garments ("clad in rough cloth") outwardly but inwardly embraced precious jade (symbolizing the truth of the Dao), their wisdom runs deep while their appearance remains unassuming. This cultivated restraint—the more it is withdrawn, the more its value shines through.

In the "Chapter on Knowing Illness," the Imperial Lord of Universal Refinement (a revered Daoist deity) annotates: The Great Dao is vast and subtle—even partial understanding may only scratch the surface, let alone complete ignorance. True knowledge serves as the gateway to seeking the Dao, but what matters most is not clinging to what one already knows. The highest wisdom lies in knowing without considering oneself a knower. To chatter about superficial understanding is itself a kind of sickness.

This scripture primarily expounds on the wisdom of cognition and Daoist cultivation.

It first points out that people's greatest flaw lies in pretending to know what they don't. Only those who truly recognize their own ignorance will continually pursue genuine knowledge, ultimately attaining a state of unity with the Dao. The reason sages remain free from cognitive biases is precisely because they consistently maintain the clear awareness of "knowing what they don't know." This unattached state of cognition allows them to harmonize with the great Dao of heaven and earth, attaining wisdom beyond ordinary people.

In the "Chapter on Self-Cultivation," the scripture discusses understanding the essence of life. Human nature is originally transcendent, yet ordinary people often become troubled by life and death, gains and losses, fearing external authorities. If one can see through the illusions of life and death, transcend concerns of gain and loss, and cultivate through refining the body (Jing), spirit (Shen) until reaching one's true nature, they can awaken the inherent "Great Majestic Virtue" (referring to the sublime power of one's true nature).

The key to cultivation lies in: not confining one's spiritual realm ("do not narrow your dwelling place"), nor excessively depleting one's vital energy ("do not weary your source of life"). By maintaining purity of mind, the spirit naturally finds peaceful abode within. The ignorant often chase external glamour, thereby binding their true nature. The awakened understand that the mind's nature is inherently vast, and one should abide peacefully within this expansive realm.

Note: The term "Great Majesty" refers to humanity's inherent sublime virtue; "refining the form," "refining the spirit," and "refining the nature" represent the three levels of Daoist cultivation, denoting the progressive process of cultivating through the physical body, spiritual essence, and ultimately one's fundamental nature.

This passage conveys two main layers of meaning:

The first layer discusses the principle of "knowing life." Ordinary people either confine themselves through ignorance ("narrow rigidity leads to losing one's nature"), or while recognizing that worldly splendor damages their essential nature, end up despising life itself. The sage understands that life is indispensable—neither restricting themselves nor loathing existence. Precisely because they don't despise life, they can maintain the purity of their original nature, and all things naturally align with them.

The second layer describes the sage's attitude toward life. The sage possesses self-awareness without self-display ("know themselves but don't show off"), and practice self-love without self-aggrandizement ("cherish themselves but don't consider themselves superior"). Ordinary people often lack self-knowledge, and even when aware, are eager to demonstrate it; they lack self-love, and once they do love themselves, easily become arrogant. The sage understands that true dignity lies in noble conduct without deliberate display, thus choosing "self-knowledge and self-love" while abandoning "self-display and self-exaltation."

The subsequent "Chapter on Assuming Action" explains the paradoxical relationship of "courage": the aggressive, competitive type of courage ("daring") invites fatal consequences, while the cautious, restrained courage ("not daring") preserves life. These two kinds of courage produce entirely different outcomes, yet the Dao's ways are inscrutable—even sages find them difficult to grasp. The commentary by the Universal Refining Celestial Sovereign adds: Courage is inherently virtuous, but when mixed with aggressive intentions, it becomes dangerous; conversely, when practiced with caution, it can preserve life.

This passage elucidates the operation of the Heavenly Dao (natural law) which transcends ordinary human comprehension. When people witness phenomena of life and death that defy conventional logic, they often scratch their heads in bewilderment, yet the preferences of the Heavenly Dao are inherently inscrutable. Even sages consider the Dao's workings subtle and unfathomable - its principles manifest through non-contention yet achieving natural victory (through cosmic evolution), through silence yet responding with perfect timing (seasonal changes), through non-summons yet spontaneous arrival (as all beings naturally turn toward sunlight). Appearing relaxed yet perfectly orchestrated (Wuwei accomplishing all things).

The Heavenly Dao embodies perfect justice and righteousness, requiring no anger to command awe, seemingly hidden yet omnipresent, both mystical and efficacious, neither omitting nor coercing. While most worldly affairs require struggle to prevail, the Heavenly Dao needs no competition - all things naturally submit. Its victories through non-contention and silence are countless. As the Book of Odes states, "The divine spirits' coming cannot be fathomed" - no summons needed, for the Dao exists above our heads and by our sides. Cooperating with Earth, it gives birth to all things: sun, moon, stars, mountains and rivers, arranging every detail for humanity without interruption.

The so-called "heaven's net is vast" (what can escape the Heavenly Dao?) appears loose yet leaves nothing unaccounted. Some, observing occasional irregularities in life's gains and losses, mistakenly assume the net's mesh too wide, not realizing temporary luck eventually yields to retribution. The Book of Documents declares "Heaven sees clearly," while the Book of Odes states "daily surveillance" - the heavenly net stretches boundlessly, seemingly lax yet never failing to judge, ensuring eventual reward for good and punishment for evil.

Chapter 74 reveals: When one no longer fears death (having seen through life's essence), what use is death as a threat? (Like seawater drying to reveal the seabed, yet human hearts remain inscrutable even in death)

The Universal Refining Imperial Lord (a revered Daoist deity) explains this paradox: What people fear most is death, yet why does the text say "they do not fear death"? Because when people become obsessed with pursuing material survival, they recklessly chase sensual pleasures, wealth and benefits—things that make life comfortable—even at the cost of their lives. How then could they possibly fear death? Rulers fail to understand that the people actually don't fear death, and instead try to intimidate them with various capital punishments. They don't realize these very punishments are what desperate people willingly risk violating. What use is threatening them with death?

If we could truly teach people to value life (rather than merely clinging to survival without understanding death's terror), then for those who act perversely and violate natural principles (referring to those secretly committing evil), we could rightfully execute them according to law (though the true goal is eliminating the heart of wickedness). Who then would dare transgress?

The text further states that if people understood the principles of nurturing life, they would naturally revere death and avoid self-harm. But should any among them defy morality and indulge in licentiousness, we may execute them by law—precisely to deter others. Execute one to warn a hundred—who then would dare indulge their whims and willingly damage their own lives?

Between heaven and earth exists a natural arbiter of life and death (meaning when the human mind achieves purity, it naturally severs delusions). This arbiter is the Dao of Heaven. When people commit capital crimes, Heaven's Dao naturally punishes them—their death is ordained by celestial will, and enforcers merely carry out this mandate, not killing by personal volition. Those who presume to act as Heaven's executioners (though sharing the same intent, they overstep authority) are like unskilled men replacing master carpenters in felling wood (their very intention renders the effort futile). Those who substitute for master carpenters (imposing reckless judgments when handling affairs) rarely avoid injuring their own hands (those who trifle with life will inevitably reap calamity).

The text adds that when celestial will originally intends no execution, yet someone kills regardless, this constitutes arrogating Heaven's punitive authority. It's like having clumsy hands replace a master carpenter—while the master never errs, the substitute often wounds himself. If substituting in woodcutting causes injury, how much more dangerous is substituting in executions—would this not bring self-destruction? As the Treatise on Response and Retribution states: "Disaster inevitably returns to the perpetrator"—this is precisely that principle.

People become confused and lost because their rulers demand excessive taxes (symbolizing the incessant distractions of the mind), which leads them astray. The people are difficult to teach because those in power interfere excessively (symbolizing the ceaseless delusions of the mind), making it hard to return to the right path.

Annotated by Lüzu (the Daoist immortal Lü Dongbin): The foundation of a nation lies in agriculture, and the foundation of the people lies in sustenance. Yet the people often go hungry because the upper classes impose heavy taxes, depriving them of their food. Taxation is equivalent to taking away their sustenance—how can they not starve? In truth, all beings share the same inherent nature, and if one follows the natural Dao, they should be easy to guide. The reason some become stubborn and difficult to teach is that the rulers do not understand the principle of Wuwei (non-action). Instead, they disturb the people with forceful measures, causing unrest in their hearts. If the mind is not at peace, how can it be governed properly? Hence, they are difficult to teach.

People belittle life (deviating from the Dao) because they cling too tightly to survival (their emotions are impure), which leads them to disregard death. Conversely, those who follow the Dao all cherish life. The reason some do not value life is that they resort to any means to survive, disregarding danger and even treating death lightly. Tragically, excessive pursuit of life becomes the path to death. Once trapped in such a predicament, what use is there in clinging to life?

Only those who do not deliberately seek survival (able to let go of the self) understand the true meaning of life better than those who fear death (and thus can comprehend the Dao). Lüzu further explains: Those who truly attain the Dao do not entertain thoughts of seeking life, nor are they attached to nurturing it. They face life and death with equanimity, completely forgetting their own existence. This state of "forgetting life" preserves more of life’s essence—isn’t this far wiser than those who constantly fear death?

Chapter 76, "Warning Against Force," states: When alive, the body is soft (like water freezing into ice); after death, it becomes stiff (like ice melting into water). Plants and trees are tender and fragile when growing.

This scripture elucidates the Daoist core principle of "the soft and weak overcoming the hard and strong" through natural phenomena. Water ultimately returns to the ocean (symbolizing the return to the source), the moon never leaves the sky, yet overly rigid things perish easily (like withered plants). Death is actually the beginning of new life, while seemingly soft and weak things brim with vitality—though within this vitality lies the seed of death.

The commentary by Lord Puliàn (a Daoist immortal) points out: The Dao (the Way) honors softness and weakness, for they embody the wondrous function of "emptiness" (xu). Yet genuine softness contains the most resilient strength within. If humans comprehend this principle and adopt a soft and weak attitude in life, they can consolidate their Jing (essence), Qi (vital energy), and Shen (spirit) without dissipation. Even after death, they remain firm, unlike decaying plants. Just as all things are tender and soft at birth, withering and death occur precisely because they lose this quality of softness.

The example of "hard teeth falling out first while the soft tongue endures" illustrates how aggression and competitiveness lead to self-destruction (the path of death), while embracing softness and humility aligns with the principle of longevity (the path of life). Just as military aggression often leads to defeat (a scattered mind strays further from the Dao), trees that grow too tall invite the axe (incessant thoughts further disturb the heart). Strength leads to downfall (sinking lower), while softness enables ascension (rising higher).

The analogy of drawing a bow further illustrates heavenly principles: A bow drawn too taut (excessive force) easily snaps, just as military tactics that lack softness and rely on brute force inevitably fail. Like trees—no one cuts down tender saplings, yet towering trees (seemingly strong) attract the axe. Thus, the hard and strong are prone to breaking (disadvantaged), while the soft and weak are often preserved (advantaged). Though this truth is evident, why do people still revere hardness and despise softness?

In the "Heavenly Dao Chapter," the act of drawing a bow serves as a metaphor for cultivating the mind: The Dao of Heaven is like drawing a bow—one must maintain just the right tension (the mind must have balance). Lord Puliàn explains: The Dao is fundamentally indescribable and can only be manifested through "Heaven"; it is invisible and can only be observed through "Heaven." Yet what can be named is not the true name, and what can be seen is not the true form. Thus, we must resort to analogy—the Dao of Heaven is like drawing a bow, requiring the wisdom of the Middle Way, neither too loose nor too tight.

This scripture elucidates the core Daoist principle of "diminishing excess to supplement deficiency" through contrasting the Dao of Heaven with the ways of humanity.

The Dao of Heaven operates with the impartiality of adjusting a bowstring: when the string is too taut, it is loosened (symbolizing the reduction of excessive thoughts); when too slack, it is tightened (representing the cultivation of vital spirit). What is surplus must be diminished (restraining excessive desires), while what is lacking must be supplemented (nurturing harmonious Qi). The celestial Dao perpetually reduces abundance to compensate for scarcity, thereby maintaining universal equilibrium.

Yet human ways directly oppose this principle: people often deprive those in want to lavish upon those already satiated (clinging to personal preferences while forgetting the natural Dao). Only genuine Dao-realized individuals can emulate Heaven's way by offering their surplus to the world (restraining selfish desires to benefit others).

The distinguishing characteristic of sages (Dao-realized beings) manifests thus: though acting, they never claim personal ability (maintaining a mindset of Wuwei/non-action); though accomplishing, they never dwell on achievements (following innate nature while transcending utility). Their deliberate avoidance of displaying worthiness stems from profound realization of the Dao's essential nature—authentic Dao neither deliberately acts nor pursues fame, rendering concepts of worthiness or its absence ultimately irrelevant.

Through the vivid metaphor of bow adjustment, this passage demonstrates that maintaining centered harmony aligns with celestial Dao. Humanity's deviation from heavenly principles originates in selfishness—the perpetual hoarding of surplus while refusing to share. Only by relinquishing egocentric attachments can one approach the celestial realm of "diminishing excess to supplement deficiency."

This scripture uses the nature of water to illustrate how the soft and weak can overcome the hard and strong. Nothing in the world is softer than water (symbolizing the original mind), yet it can penetrate solid rock (symbolizing stubborn attachments that are hard to dissolve), and nothing can alter this fundamental quality of water (as attachments ultimately dissipate). Thus, the soft conquers the hard (inner strength dissolves fixation), and the weak overcomes the strong (only through Wuwei [non-action] can one embody the Dao). Though this principle is known throughout the world, few truly practice it.

Therefore, the sages say: Only those who can endure a nation's humiliation (referring to restraining thoughts without display) are worthy to be its rulers; only those who bear a nation's misfortunes (referring to relinquishing status without contention) can become true sovereigns of the world. Such paradoxical truths sound like contradictions (because they align with the Dao but defy worldly conventions).

The Immortal Lord Puliang further annotates: Water appears weak and is often dismissed, yet it can erode metal, shatter stone, traverse mountains to form rivers, and overcome all that is rigid—this is the clearest proof of the soft conquering the hard. Though people recognize this principle, they seldom embody it, and those who cling to forceful methods often bring ruin upon themselves. People resist appearing weak because they mistake softness for a path to disgrace, an inauspicious virtue—a failure to grasp the sages' teaching.

Chapter 79 ("The Covenant of Acceptance") elaborates: Forcing reconciliation of deep grievances (symbolizing using desire to suppress body and mind) inevitably leaves lingering resentment (as attachments persist)—how can this be true goodness (or genuine realization of the Dao)? The Immortal Lord Puliang notes: Sages and ordinary people share the same origin; all nature arises from the Dao. Understanding this unity allows harmonious coexistence—neither contriving kindness nor breeding resentment. This is how sages unite with the world. Those who lack this insight remain blinded by worldly emotions.

Resentment often arises from an inability to reconcile contradictions, leading people to attempt mediating major grievances. Though superficially resolved, the root of resentment remains unresolved. Forced mediation may bring temporary peace, but the conflict inevitably resurfaces—such superficial solutions can hardly be called skillful reconciliation.

Thus, the sage (one who has attained the Dao) holds the left half of the contract (maintaining right mindfulness) without harshly demanding from others (avoiding contention). Those with De (Virtue) honor agreements through heart-to-heart connection, while those without De cling to superficial formalities (how can one achieve natural harmony without inner purity?).

The contract resembles modern agreements where both parties hold matching halves for verification. Worldly people fail to truly resolve resentment because they lose their original nature, chasing fame and profit—no one can subtly transform them. Only the sage, serene and detached from sensory temptations, interacts through Wuwei (non-action) and heart-melting spontaneity, guiding all to relinquish delusions and return to their innate nature. When original nature is restored and delusions vanish, hearts naturally open, harmony prevails, and resentment finds no foothold.

This is like the sage holding the left contract while people naturally bring the right half to match—verification occurs seamlessly. The sage never demands harshly, yet transformation happens effortlessly. This illustrates the realm of those with De through the contract metaphor. Those without De exhaust themselves lecturing door-to-door; despite strenuous governance efforts, they achieve nothing—this is the meaning of "those without De enforce rigid compliance" (彻 denotes forced imposition).

The Dao of Heaven (natural law) shows no partiality (like radiant light transcending worldly distinctions), yet consistently favors the virtuous (free from attachment). The sage who upholds this contract principle clearly aligns with the heavenly mind. The Dao of Heaven diminishes excess and supplements deficiency, blessing the virtuous with perfect impartiality—neither alienating nor favoring anyone. To whom would the Dao extend its care if not to the virtuous?

(Standalone Chapter 80)

Regarding "small states with sparse populations" (within supreme wisdom), the Universal Refinement Emperor-Lord (a Daoist immortal) comments: This chapter contains the essential heart-method of Lord Lao's governance, where all fundamental principles converge.

This passage expounds Laozi's ideal approach to governance, advocating a return to primal simplicity. The author suggests that in an era of superficial literary embellishment, we should revert to unadorned authenticity. The ideal way to govern is to administer a small state with few people, akin to the ancient kingdoms spanning merely sixty or seventy li, or even fifty or sixty li.

The essence of governance lies in keeping the people simple and pure: even if there are tools capable of sustaining many, they remain unused (symbolizing national peace); the people value life (maintaining inner tranquility) and do not migrate far (focusing on the present). Though there may be boats and carriages (symbolizing the movement of the three vehicles—Jing, Qi, and Shen), there is no need to ride them (as there is no actual coming or going); though armor and weapons exist (representing protective talismans and incantations), they need not be displayed (indicating purity of the six senses). The people return to the simplicity of knot-tying for record-keeping (where sincerity is the root of the Dao).

Later rulers often sought to govern the people through cleverness and artifice, but once wisdom is awakened, all manner of delusions arise. The talented become arrogant, those who crave pleasure belittle life, pursuing either commercial gain or indulging in martial conflict—thus, the simple customs of antiquity vanish. The ideal state is one where the people live contentedly in their occupations, and even if there are outstanding individuals, they do not flaunt their abilities. People remain rooted in their homeland, cherishing life and unwilling to migrate lightly. In such a state, though boats and carriages exist, no one rides them; though weapons exist, no one uses them. Under this governance, written records become burdensome, inferior to the primal simplicity of knot-tying in ancient times.

The people would find their food delicious (experiencing the nourishment of the Dao), their clothing beautiful (feeling the protection of the Dao), their dwellings comfortable (abiding in the stability of the Dao), and their customs joyful (enjoying the harmony of the Dao). The author further explains: In a society of profound simplicity, the food may not truly be exquisite, but if it is deemed delicious, it is experienced as such; the clothing may not be ornate, but if it is seen as beautiful, it is genuinely felt to be so. The same applies to dwellings and customs—when the heart is content, peace and joy arise naturally.

This passage describes the most simple and natural way of living. People dwell in contentment, preserving their innate simplicity (the "unspoiled folk" refers to those uncorrupted by worldly influences), enjoying life just as the ancient ancestors did.

Though neighboring states are within sight of each other—so close that the crowing of roosters and barking of dogs can be heard (the Buddhist phrase "illuminating the emptiness of the five aggregates" is borrowed here to signify a clear and tranquil mind)—the people grow old and die without ever interfering in each other's affairs ("abiding in suchness" refers to maintaining one's authentic state). This illustrates that when a country is well-governed, the people are content with their peaceful lives of material sufficiency, existing in perfect natural harmony without the need for complicated social interactions. Even when neighboring states are within close proximity, the people can peacefully attend to their own affairs without mutual disturbance. Such simple customs (the "profound purity of honest traditions") eliminate countless disputes and troubles—this is the highest form of governance.

Chapter 81 speaks of the essence of simplicity. Truthful words are not ornate or pleasing to the ear (plain yet enduring in meaning), while beautiful words are often untrustworthy (sweet talk easily deceives). Truly good people do not rely on clever arguments (they act diligently with few empty words), and eloquent speakers are not necessarily virtuous (glib words often invite trouble). Those who truly understand the Dao do not seek vast knowledge (grasping the root allows one to comprehend truth), while those with extensive knowledge may not truly understand (excessive complexity only leads to confusion).

The Universal Refining Emperor (a revered Daoist deity) comments: Sincere words are like a great tree with deep roots rather than showy foliage—though not melodious, they contain genuine beauty. Those beautifully phrased yet empty words, though eloquently spoken, are ultimately false—what use are they? True goodness carries its own virtue—why should it need debate or display? Those who chatter endlessly are merely skilled in flattery. Understanding the Dao lies in grasping the root—once enlightened, one comprehends all things. Why chase after excess? Those who consider themselves erudite are actually lost in the tangle of knowledge, unable to see the truth.

The sage (one who has attained the Dao) does not deliberately accumulate anything. Like a mirror reflecting without being diminished, or a well that never runs dry no matter how much water is drawn—the more one helps others, the more one is enriched; the more one gives, the more one possesses. This is the natural law of the Dao.

This passage conveys two main ideas: first, it elucidates the essential characteristics of the Dao (the Way), and second, it illustrates the difficulty of comprehending Daoist principles through a personal narrative.

The text begins by explaining the nature of the Dao: What is truly precious requires no artificial embellishment (not beautified), no forced arguments (not debated), and no display of erudition (not erudite), for the supreme Dao is profoundly simple. The sage understands this truth, steadfastly maintaining this "Oneness" (the essence of Dao) without accumulating knowledge to impress others. This "Oneness" can be contracted and concealed, yet it can also expand to fill heaven and earth. To cultivate oneself with this "Oneness" means to enrich oneself with what one inherently possesses; to assist others with this "Oneness" means to give from one's own abundance. The characteristic of the heavenly Dao is to nurture all things without harming them (the greatest De [Virtue/Power] of heaven and earth is to foster life), while the sage's principle is to act without contention (the sage maintains position through benevolence and virtue).

The passage then recounts the author's personal experience to demonstrate the difficulty of awakening to the Dao: In his youth, the author was well-versed in Buddhist scriptures yet failed to comprehend the Daode Jing. Later, when exiled to Lingnan, he encountered a Daoist priest (huangguan, "yellow cap"—a term for Daoist practitioners) who clapped bamboo slabs and sang. When the priest asked if he truly understood the Daode Jing, the author replied "somewhat," whereupon the priest smiled and disappeared—revealing he had met a true Daoist adept. Two years later, upon returning to the capital, the author remained haunted by the priest's words and resolved to study the Daode Jing deeply. This story shows that even someone as learned as the author required special circumstances and persistent practice to genuinely grasp Daoist essence.

The term "wùmù" (沕穆) refers to the primordial, undifferentiated state of the Dao; "huangguan" (黄冠) denotes Daoist priests; while "Foyin" (佛印) refers to the famous Song dynasty Chan master. Through contrasting the Dao of heaven with the Dao of sages, the author emphasizes that "non-contention," "non-harm," and "non-accumulation" constitute the keys to returning to the Dao's original source.

This passage is Su Dongpo's (Su Shi) colophon for the Explanation of the Supreme Mysterious Dao and Its Virtue Scripture (Taishang Xuanyuan Daode Jing Jie), expressing his admiration and insights regarding this classic commentary.

He mentions that many had previously attempted to annotate the Daode Jing but failed to complete the task due to the demands of official duties. Later, he encountered versions annotated by his disciples, which he found quite profound. Yet upon seeing this new commentary jointly composed by the Eight Grotto Immortals (eight high-ranking Daoist transcendents), he was astonished—though written by eight immortals, it read as if from a single mind, achieving the state of "different bodies, one heart." He declares that with this commentary, no other annotations are needed, and the scripture will endure forever because of it.

Su Dongpo, humbly referring to himself as "one ranked last among the ranks of immortals," expresses his fortune in encountering this grand commentary and respectfully writes this colophon. He praises the Daode Jing as a secret scripture of the Dongzhen (Cavern of Perfection, the highest Daoist canon), comprehensible only to those of the most elevated spiritual attainment. He notes that while the world knows this scripture takes "stillness" as its foundation and "emptiness" as its function, advocating "governing through non-action (Wuwei)," it in fact encompasses all things—from statecraft to self-cultivation, nothing lies beyond its principles.

Quoting both the Great Compassionate Guanyin (a bodhisattva revered in both Buddhism and Daoism) and the Supreme Venerable Sovereign (Laozi), he emphasizes the importance of single-minded concentration and guarding the Qi (vital energy) to reach the state of ultimate softness. He points out that if one fails to cultivate with complete focus, what appears as stillness is not truly still, and what seems gentle may border on rigidity—thus falling short of the Dao's teachings. Finally, he reminds practitioners to deeply contemplate the samadhi (a Buddhist term for profound meditative absorption) within these teachings.

The compassionate teachings of bodhisattvas merge with the cultivation methods of immortals and buddhas—this constitutes supreme truth that can serve both as commentary to revered scriptures and as essential instructions for spiritual practice. Know that during daily study, bodhisattvas illuminate the profound meaning behind each phrase for practitioners. These words penetrate the mysteries of heaven and earth, encompassing all things—this is the true transmission from enlightened masters, where a single principle contains infinite truth. Therefore, I reverently compose these annotations as comprehensive commentary to the entire scripture, widely guiding destined disciples. Humbly recorded by Huijue.

Postscript to annotating the Daode Jing: Since ancient times, no fewer than eight hundred scholars have commented on the Daode Jing, yet some indulge in abstract theories while others force connections to alchemical practices—all clinging to personal interpretations without truly comprehending the origin of the Great Dao (the Way). Lord Lao (the Supreme Venerable Sovereign, highest deity in Daoism) is the source of all teachings; all buddhas, bodhisattvas, immortals, and sages originate from him. Just as the sun illuminates all things while beings perceive its light according to their capacity—since the dawn of creation, Lord Lao has manifested in different eras: during the Three Sovereigns of antiquity, he was called "Celestial Master of Ten Thousand Methods"; in the middle ancient Three Sovereigns period, "Primordial Lord Pangu" or "Great Ancient Sage"; during Fuxi’s era, he took the name Yuhua Zi, and during Nüwa’s time, Yumi Zi; for Shennong, he was Dacheng Zi, and for the Yellow Emperor, Guangcheng Zi; under Shaohao, he appeared as Suiying Zi, under Zhuanxu as Chijing Zi, and under Emperor Ku as Lutuzi; for Emperor Yao, he was Wucheng Zi, and for Emperor Shun, Yinshou Zi; during Yu the Great, he manifested as Zhenxing Zi, and during Tang of Shang as Xize Zi.

Not until the fourteenth year of Yangjia, eighteenth king of Shang, did Lord Lao divide a ray of divine light to enter the womb of the Mysterious Jade Maiden. After eighty-one years of gestation, at the mao hour (5–7 AM) on the fifteenth day of the second lunar month in the gengchen year of King Wuding’s reign (twenty-second Shang king), he was born in Quren Village, Lai Township, Ku County of Chu—emerging from his mother’s left armpit, he pointed at a plum tree (李 li) to claim his surname, naming himself Li Er, styled Boyang, and known as Lao Dan—the figure later known as Laozi. During the Shang, he served as Archivist (keeper of imperial records); under King Wu of Zhou, he became Pillar Historian (court chronicler). In the twenty-third year of King Zhao of Zhou, while departing west through Hangu Pass, he was detained by the gatekeeper Yin Xi and composed the five-thousand-character Daode Jing at that blessed site.

Now, we are fortunate to receive line-by-line commentary from Sovereign Lu (the immortal title of Lü Dongbin), where every character reveals profound mystery. Though concise, each sentence strikes at the heart of the matter.

This Commentary on the Supreme Mysterious Dao and Its Virtue (Taishang Xuanyuan Daode Jing Jie) synthesizes the annotations of eight patriarchs (referring to eight key lineage holders in Daoism), presenting a comprehensive and flawless interpretation. The commentary is grounded, balanced, and lucid, entirely free from the fragmented and forced explanations of the past. It truly deserves to endure alongside the original Scripture of the Dao and Its Virtue (Daode Jing) for generations to come.

Now, together with fellow practitioners, I have meticulously collated and edited the entire text in accordance with orthodox teachings. As a humble student of the tradition, I undertook the task of proofreading and transcribing this classic. With reverence, I record these words at the end of the volume. Zheng Huazi (a Daoist monastic name), a lineage descendant of the Pure Yang Perfected Being (Chunyang Zhenren, the Daoist title of Lü Dongbin), En Hong, pens this colophon with utmost respect.