《太上道德寶章翼》

Li Qing'an (a Daoist philosopher) said: The Dao that can be spoken of is not the eternal Dao. That true Dao existed before the universe began and cannot be defined by names. The moment we attempt to describe it, we deviate from its essence - to speak of it is already a mistake. If we say it can be described, then what exactly is this "Dao"? Since it cannot be described, how can we know it? To say it can be described is wrong, to say it cannot be described is also wrong - what then should we do? If one can resolve this question, their cultivation may be considered complete.

For those who haven't yet understood, they must constantly contemplate in daily life - whether eating, resting, or simply turning around - this sublime yet vibrant existence that stands in opposition to nothing. When one investigates to the point where no further investigation is possible, suddenly touching upon their true nature with a shock that brings cold sweat, only then will they realize this "Dao" was originally their own possession, unchanged through countless ages. Thus the true Dao cannot be separated from us for even a moment - we cannot walk, stand, sit, or lie apart from it. All things between heaven and earth are nothing but this Dao; past and present are all this Dao; the creation of heaven and earth was this Dao. Every movement in daily life is this Dao. All physical forms will eventually perish, only this Dao endures forever; even the vast emptiness of heaven and earth will vanish, yet this Dao remains indestructible.

Yet this Dao cannot be perceived even with eyes of iron or bronze. Why can't it be seen? Because people have never truly faced it directly. Even when encountering it face to face, they miss it. So what exactly is being missed? Don't speculate wildly. Ultimately, how should we understand this? Li Qing'an has already explained it clearly here - what's lacking are those capable of realization. When meeting a true companion on the path, one should open their eyes wide and recognize it clearly - as naturally as distant mountains remain visible after last night's rain by the riverbank.

As for the word "De" (Virtue/Power), this too is a forced designation. True De cannot be described or grasped. All deliberate acts of accumulating virtue and performing good deeds instead lose the essence of De. Genuine De is like withered wood - neither cultivated through effort nor sought with exertion, it simply exists spontaneously.

This passage elucidates two essential dimensions of Daoist cultivation:

The first dimension concerns the cultivation of De (Virtue/Power). When one deliberately strives for virtue, true De remains forever beyond reach. The highest De manifests without conscious display (superior De is not deliberate De), for genuine virtue arises through natural Wuwei (non-action). Practitioners must relinquish all acquired knowledge and conceptual understanding, applying the principle of "diminishment" in daily life—continuously reducing desires and attachments. When this reduction reaches its ultimate limit, profound Mysterious De spontaneously emerges, revealing the benefits of the Dao's non-interfering way. This wordless teaching and actionless benefit represent a rare, supreme state scarcely found in the mundane world.

The second dimension explains the significance of Jing (scripture). The text clarifies that even the term "Jing" constitutes a provisional designation, as sages established written teachings only after observing humanity's entanglement in desires and loss of original nature—thus creating a path for returning to the Dao. However, when studying scriptures, one must avoid both rigid literalism and abandoning the texts to seek externally. The crucial point lies in integrating scripture with personal practice through careful contemplation. Upon genuine realization, one discovers the entire scripture's essence already present within. At this stage, practitioners not only penetrate the meaning of a single text but achieve comprehensive understanding of the entire Daoist canon.

The concluding "Chapter on Embodying the Dao" succinctly reveals the Dao's fundamental nature: any "Dao" that can be verbally described is not the eternal Dao; the moment we name it, we've already departed from its authentic reality. The Great Dao remains perfectly simple (symbolized by the circle "○"), rendering all definitions and explanations ultimately superfluous.

This passage elucidates the essence and function of the Dao (the Way), along with methods for realizing it through cultivation practice. Laozi's (Lord Lao) entire philosophy is encapsulated here—his five-thousand-character Daode Jing essentially expounds this core teaching throughout.

"Non-being" (which is the Dao itself) serves as the origin of heaven, earth, and the myriad things (the Dao generates the One, this "One" being the source of creation). "Being" (from One comes Two, from Two comes Three, and Three generates all things—hence called "Being") functions as the mother that nurtures all existence (from emptiness emerges fullness, and all manifestations ultimately return to emptiness in an endless cycle).

Therefore, one must maintain the state of "constant non-being" (an empty mind free from distractions) to perceive the Dao's profundity (knowing the Dao through phenomena means realizing one's true mind—without attachment, one naturally aligns with the Dao's movement). Simultaneously, preserve the state of "constant being" (abiding in the Middle Way, embracing pure unity) to grasp the Dao's boundaries (while the body undergoes birth and death, the original mind transcends them).

These two—"non-being" and "being" (all manifestations return to emptiness, yet emptiness isn't absolute void, for it contains potentiality)—share the same source though named differently (all methods return to One; the original mind is fundamentally serene). Both may be called "mysterious" (the Dao doesn't deliberately pursue emptiness—emptiness naturally reverts to the Dao; when humans empty their minds, the Dao naturally arrives). This mystery within mystery (truth concealed in emptiness, being arising from non-being) constitutes the gateway to all wonders (entering through this realization brings infinite application—all methods originate here).

Commentator Fugui Zi remarks: Ordinary readers seeing the second mention of "Dao" assume it's something describable. If there exists a speakable Dao, there must be an unspeakable one—thus splitting the great Dao in two. But can the true Dao ever be captured in words? The moment we conceptualize it, we've lost the eternal, unchanging Way.

The Dao's essence shouldn't even bear a forced name, let alone rigid definitions. The seasons revolve and creatures grow in silent operation—what name given to the Dao could remain constant? Emptiness generates substance, hence "non-being" is creation's origin—this is the Dao. The Dao produced heaven and earth, older than antiquity yet never aging, for it is Wuji (the Limitless) itself.

This scripture explains how the Dao gives birth to all things and how practitioners should comprehend the Great Dao. Initially, the Dao exists in a formless, imageless state of "non-being" (Wu), yet manifests the creative function of generating all things (hence called "the mother of all things"). From the "One" (Dao) emerges the two Qi of Yin-Yang (Two), whose harmonious interaction produces the harmonizing Qi (Three), ultimately giving rise to heaven, earth, and the myriad beings. All things are fundamentally united in the Taiji (Supreme Ultimate, the cosmic origin).

The text then shifts to cultivation methods: one must constantly maintain a state of "desirelessness" to apprehend the Dao's profound mystery, while also observing the realm of "being" to discern the Dao's operational patterns in concrete phenomena ("Jiao" refers to the subtle traces through which the Dao manifests). These two aspects appear contradictory yet originate from the same source—the "particular manifestation" (Qiao) arises from the "mysterious essence" (Miao), just as "desire" emerges from "desirelessness." Practitioners must grasp this unity within apparent paradox, a state called "Xuan" (profound and unfathomable).

Attaining this realm reveals the ultimate mystery behind the creation of immortals, buddhas, heaven, earth, and all beings ("the gateway to all wonders"). The text emphasizes that the "constant Dao" (eternal and unchanging) cannot be expressed in words; sages can only guide people through the "speakable Dao" (its expressible aspects). Like Buddhism using the Three Vehicles (Sravaka, Pratyekabuddha, Bodhisattva) and twelve divisions of scripture to teach—while the fundamental truth (the ineffable Dao) transcends doctrine—so too does the transmission of Chinese sages acknowledge that the root Dao surpasses verbal expression.

Note: The term "Jiao" is a Daoist technical term referring to the Dao's manifest traces in the phenomenal world; "Xuan" describes the Dao's profound and mysterious nature; the "Three Vehicles" and "twelve divisions of scripture" are Buddhist classificatory systems used here analogously to illustrate the Daoist distinction between expressible and inexpressible levels of truth.

This scripture explores the profound nature of the Dao (the Way) and the dialectical relationship between "being" (you) and "non-being" (wu). When Laozi (Laojun) composed the five-thousand-character Daode Jing, his purpose was to reveal truth to the world, not to retreat into solitary cultivation. The opening lines about "the Dao that can be spoken" and "the name that can be named" refer precisely to what is expounded in those five thousand characters; the deeper truths not transmitted by sages are precisely what cannot be expressed in words.

The author particularly emphasizes that true "non-being" does not simply negate "being." If one deliberately abandons "being" to pursue "non-being," then "non-being" becomes a concept opposed to "being," thereby deviating from true "non-being." Authentic "non-being" exists when "being" is present yet fundamentally empty. Thus, there's no need to deliberately eliminate form (se) to seek emptiness, for emptiness resides within form; no need to forsake worldly affairs to pursue emptiness, for emptiness is found within worldly affairs.

Li Qing'an further explains: "Desirelessness" (wuyu) means not acting deliberately but following natural spontaneity (ziran); "having desire" (youyu) refers to conscious cultivation practice. Wuwei (non-action) enables one to comprehend the mystery of the nameless and preserve one's true nature; conscious action allows recognition of the boundaries of the named and fulfillment of one's life purpose. "Being" and "non-being," "nature" (xing) and "life" (ming) are essentially identical though differently named—both are called "profound" (xuan). When "being" and "non-being" interpenetrate, when both "nature" and "life" are perfected, one attains the state of "the profound within the profound" (xuan zhi you xuan).

The text cites Zisi's words: The tranquil state before joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure emerge is called "centrality" (zhong)—the root of heaven, earth, and all things, equivalent to "observing the subtle through desirelessness." When emotions emerge yet remain perfectly measured, this is called "harmony" (he)—the principle connecting all under heaven, equivalent to "observing the boundaries through desire." Achieving this state of centrality and harmony allows heaven and earth to occupy their proper positions and all things to flourish naturally—this manifests "the profound within the profound." Here, "desire" refers to pursuing realms fundamentally beyond human attainment.

Finally, the "Nourishing Life" chapter is referenced: When all under heaven recognize beauty (pursuing beautiful reputations), the concept of ugliness arises; when all recognize goodness (pursuing good reputations), the notion of badness appears. Beauty and ugliness, good and evil exist in mutual dependence.

This passage elucidates the dialectical thinking in Daoist philosophy. What is considered "good" often contains the seeds of its opposite (virtuous actions may ironically become the cause of harmful consequences), just as "being" and "non-being" mutually transform (all existence emerges from emptiness, and all forms ultimately return to nothingness). Difficulty and ease complement each other (what begins as hard becomes easy, or vice versa).

Length and shortness are relative concepts (the Dao itself is formless and beyond measurement; such distinctions are merely comparative). High and low are interdependent (as heaven and earth revolve, there are no absolute heights or depths). Sounds require mutual resonance (a single breeze can evoke countless echoes), just as front and back are inseparable companions (the past is the prelude to the future, and the future will inevitably become the past).

Thus, the sage (one who has realized the Dao) acts through Wuwei (non-action), embodying natural principles, teaching through deeds rather than words (the Dao manifests in all things). All beings arise spontaneously without refusal (emergence from emptiness is inevitable—how else could the Dao's eternity be revealed? One must transcend attachment to material forms). The Dao nurtures all yet claims no possession (all forms are illusory; one must transcend fixation on physicality), acts without self-importance (dwelling in the present, freed from emotional bondage), and withdraws when the work is done without claiming merit (how can illusions be taken as reality? One must transcend success and failure). Precisely because no merit is claimed (forgetting externals while preserving inner truth), the achievement never fades (the true self endures eternally).

Master Fugui (likely a Daoist practitioner) further explains: The great Dao (cosmic origin) was originally nameless, without distinctions of beauty or ugliness, good or evil. Only after the primordial chaos divided did such dualities emerge. Ultimate beauty shows no outward beauty; supreme virtue reveals no visible goodness. Beauty contains ugliness; goodness harbors evil—this is beyond ordinary comprehension. What people call beautiful or virtuous may not be truly so.

All things under heaven arise from "being," yet "being" itself is born from "non-being"—this is "the mutual generation of being and non-being." Towering trees begin as tiny seeds; hundred-foot platforms crumble from ant holes—this is "the mutual completion of difficulty and ease." People habitually label things as long or short, unaware these are inherently relative (what seems long may be short elsewhere, and vice versa). Heights and depths appear fixed (the high cannot become low, nor the low high), yet the Dao of heaven, though lofty, descends to operate below, while the Dao of earth, though low, rises upward—is this not "the mutual dependence of high and low"? Echoes resound in empty valleys; breaths harmonize in call-and-response; clear and turbid tones alternate—this is "the mutual harmony of sounds." The ancients saw their present as the "after" that followed predecessors, while moderns see their present as the "before" that successors will follow—this is "the mutual sequence of front and back." All these demonstrate relationships of mutual generation and interdependence.

All six relationships of interdependence, mutual influence, harmonious coordination, and reciprocal following among the myriad things of the world arise from artificial human constructs. Only the sages profoundly comprehend this truth. Though they may have experienced refinement and adornment, they ultimately return to their original simplicity, governing affairs with an attitude of wuwei (non-action) while following the great Dao. They teach not through verbal instruction but by embodying the Way through personal example.

The myriad things grow naturally, and the sage merely follows their developmental patterns without interference—this is the state of "forgetting objects." The myriad things multiply naturally, yet the sage does not claim them as possessions—this is the state of "forgetting form." Just as the Creator can bring forth all things yet does not presume upon this ability—this is the state of "forgetting emotions." The four seasons complete all things yet claim no merit—this is the state of "forgetting achievement." Precisely because they claim no merit, the creative accomplishment belongs to Heaven and Earth, while the supportive work of teaching belongs to the sages. In truth, Heaven-Earth and the sages are one body—how could virtue and merit exist apart from them?

Master Bixu (a Daoist adept) said: What people consider beautiful and good originates from false emotions—they deem beautiful what pleases them and bad what displeases them. If one indulges these false emotions, even if not evil, how can it be considered good? To regard as good what one personally approves and as bad what one disapproves—indulging such subjective judgments—where then would true beauty reside? Zhuangzi said: This is not what I mean by true emotion. What I call emotionlessness means not allowing personal preferences to harm one's inherent nature, always following spontaneity without artificial additions. This is the realm of authentic appropriateness.

The sage is not without beauty and goodness, but possesses them without boasting—equivalent to having none. Not boasting preserves virtue; being equivalent to nothing keeps harm at bay. When virtue is complete and harm distant, beauty and goodness reach their ultimate expression. If one uses beauty and goodness to teach the world, making people recognize what is beautiful—this still doesn't constitute the most perfect goodness.

When people develop discriminating minds, concepts of good and evil mutually arise, standards of difficulty and ease oppositionally appear, inevitably leading to competition in honoring virtue. Hence follows the teaching of "not exalting the worthy."

Chapter Three discusses how to pacify the people: By not deliberately honoring the worthy (just as children should naturally be filial and ministers loyal), the people won't contend; by not overvaluing rare goods (regarding gold as equal to dirt), the people won't steal; by not displaying desire-arousing things (while maintaining solid inner reality despite what the eyes see and ears hear), the mind won't become disordered.

Therefore, the sage's method of governing the world is: Purifying the people's minds (as Heshanggong's commentary explains: reducing selfish thoughts), enriching the people's livelihood (satisfying basic needs), weakening competitive ambitions (diminishing desires), and strengthening the people's physical constitution (fortifying sinews and bones).

This passage elucidates the fundamental principles of self-cultivation. Cherishing Jing (essence, the vital life energy) and valuing generosity lead to robust marrow and strong bones. One should maintain people in a state of simple naturalness, free from excessive desires and cunning thoughts. Even the clever dare not act recklessly.

The truly wise approach is to follow nature's course without forceful interference—thus nothing remains ungoverned. Venerating the worthy stirs competition for fame and gain; if leaders do not exalt such honors, people naturally won't contend for them. Treasuring rare goods fuels greed; if rulers show no lust for wealth, theft naturally ceases. Consider how Bo Yi starved at Shouyang Mountain for reputation, or how the robber Zhi perished at Dongling for profit—both outcomes stemmed from their superiors promoting fame and gain. When leaders conceal such desires, people settle peacefully into their roles, their hearts undisturbed.

The sage's governance can be summarized in eight characters: "Empty the heart, fill the belly; weaken ambition, strengthen bones." This is the foundational method for practicing the Golden Elixir (Jindan) path of Daoist Neidan (internal alchemy). The reason people struggle to comprehend the Dao lies in hearts cluttered with desires for fame and profit, leaving Shen (spirit) ungrounded. Only when the mind becomes like vast sky—untroubled by passing clouds—can one stabilize the three foundational energies (Yuanjing, Yuanqi, Yuanshen) to achieve "filled belly" perfection. The heart houses Shen, while ambition is its outward expression. Excessive ambition depletes bone strength; thus weakening stubborn determination fortifies primal bone Qi (vital energy).

Like water—supremely good at nourishing without contention, seemingly soft yet overcoming hardness—human bones grow feeble when desires dominate. Returning people to innocent, desireless simplicity ensures even the clever won't disrupt this natural state. True cultivation progresses from conscious effort to Wuwei (non-action); only upon reaching this state do the mysteries reveal themselves. Great practitioners become models for the world—governing effortlessly through their very being.

Governing a state is like practicing Neidan (internal alchemy) — the key lies in maintaining unwavering spiritual stability (Jing bu dongyao), so that the people may live in peace and prosperity. Only when a nation's Shen-Qi (vital spiritual energy) is abundant can it be considered truly prosperous. Yet why do some states remain poorly governed?

Su Zhe's commentary observes: Excessive admiration for the worthy makes people ashamed and contentious when they cannot match such virtue; overvaluing rare goods drives people to steal what they cannot obtain; flaunting desires incites disorder when cravings go unfulfilled. Though these three harms are recognized, attempting to abolish them completely would be misguided. The Sage (one who embodies Dao) acts differently: they neither suppress talent nor deliberately exalt it; they do not discard material goods but refrain from overvaluing them; they do not extinguish desires to become like withered wood or dead ashes, but maintain inner non-attachment without outward traces.

Lü Dongbin further explains: The Sage's method of governance keeps the mind empty (Xu qi xin) while nourishing inner cultivation (Shi qi fu); it tempers competitive ambition (Ruo qi zhi) while strengthening foundational vitality (Qiang qi gu). For the heart houses the Shen (spirit), and the abdomen is its dwelling — when the mind is empty, the spirit remains undiminished and inner fulfillment naturally arises. The kidneys store willpower, and bones are their extension — when will is harmonized, Jing-Qi (essence-energy) does not scatter, and bones grow robust.

When rulers maintain mental stillness with inner substance, the people refrain from petty cleverness; when their will is balanced with strong roots, the people do not breed greed. The wise understand that worthiness and wealth are not objects of official admiration, and thus cease scheming for them. Only through such Wuwei (non-action) governance can true order be achieved.

Chapter Four, "The Source-less," describes Dao's (the Way's) nature: Dao appears empty (Chong) yet functions inexhaustibly; silent as an unfathomable abyss, it remains the root of all things. It blunts sharp edges (Cuo qi rui), untangles complications (Jie qi fen), softens brilliance (He qi guang), and merges with the mundane (Tong qi chen). Profound beyond presence or absence, its origin eludes knowing — it seems to have existed before Heaven and Earth.

Shi Deqing explains: This praises Dao's ineffable essence and function. "Chong" signifies voidness, "Ying" denotes fullness; "Yuan" describes silent depth, "Zong" means fundamental source. Though Dao's substance is supremely empty, it fills the cosmos with the ten thousand things.

The Dao is formless and without appearance, thus invisible to the eye, yet its function never exhausts. Profoundly silent in its essence, it nevertheless gives birth to all things, serving as their fundamental origin. It nurtures all beings without claiming possession, accomplishes all without asserting dominance—hence it is called the ancestral master of the myriad things.

Shen Jiaomen explains: Sharp edges invite collision, complex affairs breed confusion, dazzling brilliance creates distinctions, while blending with the dust leaves no trace. The Dao blunts its sharpness without revealing edges, resolves disputes without leaving entanglements, gathers its radiance without displaying splendor. It mingles with the mundane, dwelling among the masses without proclaiming its purity. The Dao is limpid and luminous, neither existing nor non-existing; in tranquil emptiness it naturally emits radiance, manifesting the mysterious state of perfect unity before our eyes. So profoundly empty and harmonized, I know not how it attains such transformative power—perhaps it is the primordial Qi that predates all phenomena, governing the origin of the cosmos, ultimately returning to pristine simplicity.

Fu Guizi observes: Blunting sharpness, resolving conflicts, and blending radiance with dust—these embody the profound cultivation methods of Laozi (the founding patriarch of Daoism). Later, when enlightening Yang Zhu, he said: "Who can dwell with one who stares wildly about?" and "Supreme virtue appears as deficiency, greatest fullness seems incomplete"—both express this same principle. Practitioners who comprehend this state and embody it in practice will find firm footing everywhere, and attaining the Dao will no longer be difficult.

The Dao, empty and still yet profoundly deep, serves as the root of all things. To investigate this root, one must first understand the principles of heaven and earth—thus we next discuss the mysteries of the cosmos.

Regarding the principle of "empty function": Heaven and earth show no partiality, treating all things like straw dogs (sacrificial objects) and letting them follow their natural course. The sage emulates this, likewise regarding the people as straw dogs without interference. The space between heaven and earth resembles a bellows—empty within yet never exhausted; the more it moves, the more energy it produces. Excessive speech tends to exhaust reason; better to maintain centered stillness.

Wang Chunfu remarks: "More words lead to exhaustion; better to maintain the center" represents Laozi's self-admonition. For the Dao fundamentally transcends speech, yet is described as "unmoved by love"; it cannot be named, yet is compared to a bellows. Those who understand will grasp it intuitively, while those who don't will only engage in futile debate without perceiving the truth.

This passage explores the core Daoist concept of "guarding the center" (shouzhong). The "center" refers to the ultimate state of formless emptiness that transcends verbal description. When one truly maintains this state, all mental activities and verbal expressions naturally cease, eliminating any concern about exhausting conceptual understanding. When Laozi (the Supreme Elder) composed the Dao De Jing (Classic of the Way and Virtue), he adopted this mode of expression out of necessity, as the Great Dao itself cannot be fully captured in words.

The text employs two metaphors: "straw dogs" (grass effigies used in rituals) and the "bellows" (ancient wind box). The straw dogs are treated with reverence during ceremonies but discarded afterward, illustrating nature's spontaneous flow. The bellows remain unchanged when empty yet generate endless wind when in motion - mirroring the Dao's paradoxical nature: seemingly void yet endlessly generative. Ultimately these metaphors are superfluous, for the fundamental practice is simply "guarding the center" - maintaining inner stillness.

Yan Junping explains: The operations of heaven and earth, the interactions of yin-yang, all occur through natural wuwei (non-action), never deliberately bestowing favors. Hence the Dao De Jing states "Heaven and earth are not benevolent, treating all things as straw dogs." Similarly, enlightened rulers govern without ostentatious displays of virtue. This apparent "lack of benevolence" constitutes supreme equality - like wind passing through the bellows' holes (the Mysterious Feminine's gate), seemingly purposeless yet containing infinite vitality.

Chapter Six's "valley spirit never dies" refers to our original mind's transcendence of birth and death. The "Mysterious Feminine" symbolizes the creative mechanism of yin-yang interaction, while its "gate" represents the subtle moment when thoughts first stir. These all describe the Dao's inexhaustible nature - empty yet never depleted, growing more abundant through operation.

This passage explains two key concepts in Daoist cultivation: "Valley Spirit" (Gushen) and "Mysterious Feminine" (Xuanpin). The so-called "root of heaven and earth" refers to the primordial source of all things in the universe. The human spirit-mind (Yuanshen, original spirit) is as ethereal as a mountain valley, residing in the Muddy Pellet Palace (also called Yellow Court, Kunlun, or Celestial Valley) at the crown of the head - the sacred abode of the original spirit. When this spirit remains, life continues; when it departs, death follows. During daytime, the spirit interacts with external phenomena, while at night it connects with dream states. If the spirit cannot attain stability, it will gradually dissipate over time.

The phrase "used without exertion" (from the Daode Jing) reveals that true advanced cultivation follows the principle of Wuwei (non-action), operating naturally without forced effort. Here we understand the Mysterious Feminine (referring to the source of Yin-Yang energies within the body) serves as the origin of ascending and descending Qi, functioning as the passageway for energy circulation. Ordinary people misunderstand this principle, mistakenly identifying the nose as "mysterious" (Xuan) and the mouth as "feminine" (Pin). In truth, the genuine Gate of the Mysterious Feminine lies between the kidneys and navel, to the left of the large intestine and right of the small intestine - this is the true root of heaven and earth.

The Mysterious Pass (Xuanguan, crucial gateway in cultivation) serves as the portal for the Mysterious Feminine's movement. It exists as the primordial True One Qi (Zhenyi Qi) in the undifferentiated chaos before the separation of heaven and earth, even before one's parents conceived. The Mysterious Feminine resembles the mother of all things, the pivotal hub through which all phenomena emerge and return. Since all things in heaven and earth originate here, it's called both "gate" and "root."

The expression "continuous, seemingly existent" carries three meanings: extreme softness, extreme subtlety, and extreme endurance. The state of "seemingly existent" cannot be described as either existence or non-existence. Those who attain the Dao never experience spiritual laxity, thus requiring no deliberate exertion. Ordinary people's efforts always involve intervals - the more forcefully they try, the harder it becomes to sustain.

This passage explores the core Daoist concepts of Wuwei (non-action) and the "Valley Spirit." Those who refrain from deliberate action naturally inherit the Dao of Heaven, just as the sun completes its daily cycle without apparent effort—what realized practitioners call "functioning without laboring."

Historical interpretations of the "Mysterious Feminine" (the generative maternal aspect of Dao) often miss the fundamental truth by failing to grasp the essence of the "Valley Spirit" (Dao's mysterious capacity to respond through emptiness). Sima Qian correctly observed that Laozi's revered Dao is essentially formless yet adapts to all transformations, accomplishing everything through Wuwei. The term "valley" signifies its non-material existence, while "spirit" confirms it's not mere nothingness. Though we perceive it through the changes of myriad things, its true substance remains invisible—what manifests are only traces of transformation, while the hidden reality is formless emptiness. Herein lies the wonder of the Valley Spirit, incomprehensible without spiritual awakening.

Heaven and Earth endure precisely because they don't strive for self-preservation (acting through natural Wuwei). Sages emulate this by positioning themselves behind others yet finding themselves ahead, disregarding personal safety yet achieving preservation. Isn't this because they transcend selfishness? (Recognizing the fundamental unity of all existence) Thus they ultimately fulfill their true nature. Just as Heaven/Earth and I share one origin, and all things form one body with me—only through selflessness can authentic selfhood be realized.

The eminent monk Shi Deqing explains this as extending the principle of "functioning without laboring." Heaven/Earth attain longevity precisely by not pursuing it; sages achieve enduring existence by forgetting limited selfhood. The longest-enduring entities in existence are Heaven and Earth, whose secret lies in not seeking survival for themselves. Sages modeling this virtue don't prioritize personal gain—content to stand behind others while forgetting petty selfhood, people naturally elevate them. This reveals the profound meaning behind "yielding precedence yet leading." Master Fugui further clarifies that although sages possess physical forms, they accomplish the Dharmakaya (true self transcending form).

This scripture discusses the fundamental difference between Dao practitioners and ordinary people in their approach to "body" and "spirit." True sages (those who have attained the Dao) do not cling to nurturing the physical form but focus on cultivating the original spirit (Shen, humanity's innate spiritual source), because the physical body will eventually decay while the original spirit remains eternal. This existence beyond the physical form is called the "Dharma body" (the eternal true form achieved through Dao cultivation).

The Dharma body of those who have attained the Dao can transcend the limitations of the material world, penetrate the boundaries between existence and non-existence, move freely through emptiness, and rise above all things. This Dharma body is not constrained by physical laws—it does not drown in water nor burn in fire, existing in harmony with heaven and earth. Ordinary people pursue physical pleasures, while sages alone seek spiritual liberation; the bodies of ordinary people will eventually perish, but the Dharma body of sages endures forever.

Some might wonder whether sages are being selfish in this pursuit. In truth, they are not. Sages do not wish to monopolize this state—it is simply that most people refuse to learn the way of the sages, abandoning themselves, which makes it seem as though the sages have hoarded the Dao methods for themselves. Xue Hui explains that the reason sages can achieve the state of "being first yet enduring" is precisely because they do not cling to the physical body and have no selfish desires. This attainment is not achieved through deliberate pursuit but arises naturally. If one strives for it deliberately, it will remain out of reach.

Cheng Ju elaborates further: Heaven, earth, and humanity share the same origin, so why can heaven and earth endure while humans cannot? Because heaven and earth have no self-awareness, whereas humans, once they possess a body, become attached to the concept of "I." People exhaust themselves pursuing external things to nourish life and wear out their minds to protect their bodies, only to end up harming their own vitality. Laozi pointed out this truth long ago, yet many misunderstand Daoism as seeking longevity out of fear of death. In reality, Daoism opposes precisely this attachment to physical life, considering it the root cause of losing one's true nature. Those who criticize Laozi's teachings are the very ones who have failed to contemplate this principle deeply.

Chapter Eight of the Dao De Jing expounds the principle that "the highest goodness resembles water." Water's nature most closely approximates the essence of the Dao, thus representing supreme virtue. Water nourishes all things without claiming merit (it contends not by intention, but simply conforms to its container's shape), willingly occupying low places people disdain (to water, high and low hold no distinction) - this is why it most closely approaches the Dao's state (as the commentator Heshang Gong explains, water's characteristics mirror the Dao's).

Specifically: it excels in choosing dwelling places (though in truth it chooses not, flowing naturally downward); its mind is profound as an abyss (for it nurtures all things); it treats others with kindness (making no distinctions between close and distant); its speech is trustworthy (responding authentically to all things); its governance is clear (purifying turbidity without being sullied, leveling heights without claiming credit); its work is capable (appearing wuwei (non-action) yet accomplishing all, adapting to forms without opposing external objects); its actions are timely (conforming to circumstance). Precisely because it contends not with others (having no inner struggle, opposing none and thus being opposed by none), it remains blameless (nor considers this fortune - this state of faultlessness represents the highest goodness).

Commentator Shi Deqing explains this illustrates how the virtue of yielding manifests goodness everywhere. Supreme goodness means being like water - humble and non-contentious. Water's profundity lies in nourishing all without contention; this non-contention means adapting to square or round without preference, willingly occupying low positions. While ordinary people prefer heights and disdain low places, only sages can embrace all, dwelling where others refuse. This state of universal goodness most closely approaches the Dao.

Su Zhe (Su Ziyou) cites the Yijing: "The alternation of yin and yang is called the Dao; that which continues it is goodness; that which completes it is nature." He further notes how the celestial One generates water, just as the Dao's operation manifests as goodness and qi's movement forms water. Both water and goodness transition from formless to formed, hence their principles interconnect. The Dao permeates everywhere and benefits all things - qualities water shares. Yet once taking concrete form, slight divergence from pure Dao occurs, hence being "almost Dao." Among all things called good, none embody goodness' essence more than water, thus "highest goodness."

Water avoids heights and flows downward unopposed - this is "excelling in location." Empty, silent, and unfathomably deep - this is "excelling in depth."

Water nourishes all things without seeking reward, embodying the highest goodness and benevolence. It circles round objects, turns at square corners, stops when blocked, and flows when released—demonstrating perfect integrity. It cleanses filth and balances high and low, manifesting the wisdom of governance. Adapting to any container without clinging to form, it reveals extraordinary capability. Freezing in winter and thawing in spring, receding in drought and overflowing in abundance, it always follows seasonal rhythms. Water's ability to possess these seven virtues without fault lies precisely in its refusal to contend.

The Dao's essence is emptiness, valuing moderation over fullness. Chapter Nine teaches the way of restraint: pursuing perfection is inferior to knowing when to stop; polishing sharpness cannot match preserving simplicity. Like filling halls with gold and jade (symbolizing excessive sensory indulgence), such excess cannot be maintained (as desires harm body-mind, and wealth becomes burden). Arrogance in wealth and honor (when one should cultivate inwardly) invites calamity (whereas inner stillness prevents misfortune). When achievements peak (like the moon at zenith or breeze over water), timely withdrawal aligns with heavenly law (retreat leaves enduring grace—this is the Dao of heaven and earth).

Master Fugui explains that this chapter extends the previous teaching on "supreme goodness resembling water." "Holding" means grasping, "fullness" means overflow, and "stopping" means restraint. Rather than forcing completion, one should follow nature's flow. "Polishing" implies deliberation, "sharpness" denotes refined thought, yet human schemes cannot rival heaven's will. Knowing fullness yet forcibly retaining it, knowing sharpness yet aggressively pursuing it—these are already unvirtuous acts, let alone the behavior of those without restraint. The "gold and jade" mentioned are not worldly treasures but the Three Jewels within the human body (essential Daoist cultivation elements: Jing [essence], Qi [vital energy], and Shen [spirit]). The true wealth lies in the Golden and Jade Nectars (Neidan terms for refined internal elixirs). "Filling halls" parallels saturating the body—every person inherently possesses the potential for immortality, yet most exhaust their primordial endowments (original spirit, energy, and essence), leaving only coarse postnatal qi. Those obsessed with worldly riches and arrogance not only lose their inner gold and jade (innate vital substances) but also fail to preserve external wealth. Like the seasons' turn, advancing and retreating timely—the sun declines after reaching its zenith—this is nature's constant principle.

(Note: "Master Fugui" is the Daoist name of a commentator; terms like "Golden and Jade Nectars" and "Three Jewels" are briefly explained upon first use; Neidan concepts are clarified through metaphors and contextualization; while preserving core ideas like "better to stop in time" and "retire after success," the text is reorganized in contemporary language.)

When the moon reaches fullness, it begins to wane. Even Heaven cannot maintain perpetual perfection—how much less can humans? Thus the ancient saying states: When merit is achieved and fame attained, one should withdraw promptly—this is the supreme principle that accords with the Dao. This passage particularly reminds those in positions of wealth and honor that they should retreat from the swift current to cultivate truth and seek the Dao, visiting realized adepts to investigate the patterns of Heaven and Earth.

Bai Yuchan (a renowned Song dynasty Daoist) said: To comprehend the secrets of longevity, one must trace back to the origin of creation. The ancients held that from emptiness (xu) emerges spontaneity (ziran), from spontaneity emerges the Great Dao, the Great Dao transforms to produce the single Qi, this Qi divides into yin and yang, yin and yang form Heaven and Earth, and Heaven and Earth nurture the myriad beings—this is the root of creation. Those immersed in wealth and honor are the slowest to awaken to this truth, hence the special reminder.

Master Liu Xuan (a Daoist perfected being) further explained: Fullness inevitably turns to emptiness—guard against complacency; extreme sharpness will break—guard against rashness; halls filled with gold and jade become burdens—guard against greed; wealth breeds dissipation—guard against arrogance; the moment of achieving merit and fame is most perilous—the key lies in knowing when to stop without losing the correct path. These words contain profound compassionate intent to save the world, showing that cultivating the Dao doesn't necessarily require retreating to mountains and forests to sever human affairs—even amid merit, fame, and wealth, one can still diligently practice.

Rather than chasing external things, becoming self-satisfied, and coveting wealth and honor, maintaining pure unity with the Dao can avert calamity. Hence we now discuss the essential method of "carrying the hun (ethereal soul) and embracing unity" (uniting spirit and form):

Chapter Ten explains how to attain flawless perfection. Like a mother cradling her infant, tightly unite spirit and form without separation, concentrating primordial Qi to reach utmost pliancy (maintaining purity and clarity). Cultivation at its pinnacle becomes as spotless as an infant, returning to original simplicity. Wipe away distracting thoughts like polishing a mirror (worldly matters neither retained in mind nor disturbing the spirit), achieving the luminous state of body-mind unity. Governing body-mind resembles governing a state—emphasize nourishing spirit-Qi without forcing (no deluded thoughts, no artificiality, no overthinking, maintaining stillness), thus the Dao's methods manifest spontaneously and the age becomes clear. When the gate of the heart opens and closes (mind penetrating understanding), maintain centered correctness (constant as One, entering and exiting realms of being and non-being without pride). Though wisdom may illuminate the four directions (penetrating understanding of principles), preserve simplicity (great wisdom appearing foolish, sheathing brilliance to blend with the mundane). The heart nurtures all things (with single-heartedness embracing all phenomena, operating the four virtues of benevolence, righteousness, propriety and wisdom to nourish living beings), yet remains like the Great Void—claiming nothing (mind clear and empty).

This scripture elucidates the essential principles of cultivating the Golden Elixir (Jindan) in Daoist practice. The author criticizes Confucian scholars who attempt to interpret the Dao De Jing solely through Confucian classics without understanding the esoteric arts of internal alchemy (Neidan).

The crux of cultivation lies in "embracing the One" (concentrating on the fundamental). Just as a cart carries its cargo, an ordinary person's body carries the hun and po souls. The adept must achieve the inseparable union of these souls—what Patriarch Lü (Lü Dongbin) described as returning essence (Jing), energy (Qi), and spirit (Shen) to the Three Treasures, uniting the four directions into one household. The "One" is the Golden Elixir itself. Through this focused practice, essence transforms into energy, energy into spirit, and spirit returns to emptiness—the singular path to immortality.

Practice begins with breath regulation, observing the breath until it becomes as subtle as smoke, gradually reaching a state of extreme refinement—this is "concentrating Qi to achieve softness." The innate primordial Qi (Yuangi) exists in its most complete form only during infancy; practitioners must recover this prenatal state through postnatal cultivation. "Mysterious observation" refers to comprehending the Dao, yet the true Dao is beyond description. Thus, one must purify all subjective views to maintain flawless clarity.

The body is likened to a nation: the heart serves as its ruler while essence-energy constitutes its people. Nurturing essence-energy resembles governing the populace—when accumulated sufficiently, the "medicine" (the energy required for refinement) emerges. As skill matures, the body naturally attains harmony, reaching the realm of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)." Finally, the "Celestial Gate" (the Niwan Palace at the crown) is mentioned as the abode of divine spirits. When this gate opens and closes freely through cultivation, one achieves the supreme state of pure Yang without Yin.

The entire process unfolds in three stages: refining essence into energy, refining energy into spirit, and refining spirit into emptiness—ultimately realizing unity with the Dao.

This scripture discusses the realm of cultivating Neidan (internal alchemy) and realizing the Dao. When that wisp of pure Yang Qi (primordial energy), mist-like yet electric, rises from the Mysterious Gate (lower Dantian), traverses the Long Valley (spine), and finally reaches the Muddy Pellet Palace (crown of the head), a sudden awakening occurs.

Authentic cultivation requires balancing opening and closing—one must neither remain perpetually open nor exclusively closed. At the pinnacle of practice, it is like thunder suddenly bursting through the Celestial Gate (crown point), whereupon the True Self (original spirit) manifests, displaying great spiritual powers. At this moment, the entire void is illuminated by one's own radiance, yet the practitioner does not cling to this state. Instead, they withdraw the divine light and return to the condition of emptiness. This is not unconscious oblivion but the work of refining spirit to merge with the Dao.

Heaven and Earth nurture all things without claiming possession, act without boasting, and foster growth without domination. This profound De (virtue/power) constitutes the "mysterious" realm pursued by sages, immortals, and buddhas. Zhu Xi commented that Laozi's teaching of "concentrating Qi to achieve softness" represents an exceptionally subtle practice—requiring uninterrupted focus of breath and achieving ultimate pliability, where the slightest manifestation turns to rigidity. Sadly, few attain this skill.

Three metaphors then illustrate the wondrous function of "non-being" (wu): Thirty spokes (representing thirty days) converge at the hollow hub (symbolizing a month) to make the wheel turn; clay is kneaded into vessels precisely because their emptiness allows containment; doors and windows are carved for dwellings because their void spaces permit habitation. These all demonstrate that while "being" (substance) provides utility, it is "non-being" (emptiness) that truly enables function. Just as the mind must be empty to receive the Dao, a house requires space for living. We receive this physical form (from our parents) precisely for the purpose of cultivation.

The "Precious Chapters of the Dao and De with Wings" (Taishang Daode Baozhang Yi) elucidates the wondrous function of "non-being" (wu), revealing the Daoist wisdom of "being and non-being giving birth to each other" through everyday objects.

People all recognize the usefulness of a wheel's spokes, yet what truly enables its function is the empty hub at its center; all know vessels can contain things, but the key lies in their hollow interiors; all acknowledge houses serve practical purposes, yet their true functionality stems from the empty space within. Just as heaven and earth possess form, their actual operation depends on the formless, imageless void at their core. Thus while "being" (you) has practical value, what truly facilitates function is "non-being." Yet "non-being" cannot operate alone—it requires "being" to manifest, hence the saying "being provides convenience, while non-being creates function." The essence of Laozi's thought lies in observing "non-being" through "being," whereby one may possess without attachment—this is the profound mystery of the Dao.

Ancient war chariots' thirty spokes symbolized a month's thirty days, all converging in the hub's central void; pottery vessels derive usefulness from their hollow forms despite being shaped from clay; the value of houses lies precisely in the empty spaces created by doors and windows. While everyone understands the conveniences brought by "being," only Laozi could thoroughly illuminate the wondrous function of "non-being." The Zhuangzi also repeatedly discusses the "usefulness of the useless."

The subsequent "Chapter on Restraining Desires" warns against sensory excess: overindulgence in the five colors (blue, yellow, red, white, black) dulls vision (eyes deluded by hues); excessive exposure to the five tones (gong, shang, jue, zhi, yu in Chinese music) weakens hearing (ears seduced by sounds); overconsumption of the five flavors (sweet, pungent, sour, salty, bitter) deadens taste (mouth beguiled by delicacies); unrestrained hunting and chasing agitates the spirit. These all result from excessive pursuit of external sensory stimulation at the cost of inner clarity.

The human mind is like a restless monkey or galloping horse—if left uncontrolled, it will descend into madness (when thoughts are unsettled, both body and mind become ungrounded). When the heart is led astray by external circumstances, even rare treasures like gold, jade, and precious stones become hindrances (what truly matters is one's original mind; only by preserving it can one attain focus). If thoughts are swayed by external objects (sages emphasize enriching the inner self), their joy springs from within (their inner realm remains unperturbed), never chasing sensory pleasures (ears enslaved by sounds, eyes beguiled by colors. Thus one must withdraw the gaze and turn inward to listen). Therefore, we must relinquish external temptations and grasp the inner root (when seeing forms, understand the original mind; when hearing sounds, awaken to the Dao).

The monk Deqing explains: This passage speaks of the harm of material desires and teaches methods to eliminate them. The human heart is originally empty, tranquil, and clear—external sights, sounds, food, and wealth are not truly worthy of craving, yet people treat them as objects of greed. When eyes become addicted to colors, they lose the "true color beyond colors" (original purity), hence called "blind"; when ears become addicted to sounds, they lose the "true sound beyond sounds," hence called "deaf"; when the tongue becomes addicted to flavors, it loses the "true taste beyond tastes," hence called "tasteless"; when the mind indulges in chasing external realms, it loses proper stability, thus becoming "mad"; when actions crave wealth and profit, they lose moral integrity, thus becoming "hindered." Only sages understand moderation. "Being content with the belly" means enriching the inner self, preserving the five constant virtues (humanity, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and faithfulness), eliminating the six emotions (joy, anger, sorrow, pleasure, love, and hatred), regulating willpower, and nurturing the spirit. "Not chasing the eyes" means using this principle to govern the four senses of eyes, ears, nose, and tongue: even a thousand chests of fine silks serve only for warmth; a table laden with delicacies serves only to satisfy hunger—all else is mere vanity. Thus, sages value inner fulfillment over external extravagance, discarding superficial splendor to grasp inner truth.

Because "being content with the belly, not chasing the eyes" speaks of transcending self-attachment, the following thirteenth chapter discusses "being startled by favor and disgrace": both favor and disgrace startle the heart (in truth, there is no honor or disgrace—the mind should remain equanimous. Understand that favor is the beginning of disgrace). Valuing great calamity as one values the body (anticipate and prevent it early, for the body is the root of misfortune—thus cherish it). What is favor and disgrace? (High and low, rich and poor are mere appearances.) Favor is actually base (for it is bestowed by others). Gaining it brings alarm (if undeserved), and losing it brings alarm (not even a speck should be coveted)—this is "being startled by favor and disgrace" (what meaning do these hold for me?). What does "valuing great calamity as one values the body" mean? (Safety and danger burden the heart; gain and loss harm one's nature.) ...

When people feel inner unrest and physical discomfort, they experience suffering and vexation. This stems from our persistent attachment to the notion of "self" (believing "I" is a truly existing entity). If one can relinquish this attachment to "self" (reaching a state of mental clarity and unity with the Dao), what then remains to worry about? (Forgetting both self and worldly concerns, returning to natural authenticity)

What is truly precious is regarding self-cultivation with the same importance as governing the world (where the mind is like the ruler, and the body like the nation's territory). Only then is one worthy of shouldering the responsibility of governing (a century of human life passes like a fleeting guest, all things are but temporary lodgings). Cherishing oneself as one would cherish the world (cultivating oneself is like governing a state) enables one to truly bear the world's burdens (and maintain it without loss).

The commentator Fugui Zi notes that while this passage discusses many points, its core lies in the single phrase "relinquish attachment to the body." Understanding this illuminates the entire text. The ancient sages regarded honor as they regarded disgrace, knowing honor would eventually turn to shame. They valued the body as they would a great calamity, recognizing the body itself as the root of suffering.

What does "startled by favor and disgrace" mean? Those above bestow favor, those below receive it. Though favor and disgrace are opposites, disgrace carries no gain or loss, while favor always involves both. When gains and losses suddenly reverse, none can avoid being startled. What constitutes life's great calamities? There are mainly two: calamities not caused by humans, and disorders of Yin-Yang balance. When encountering such misfortunes, the body becomes a burden.

"Relinquishing attachment to the body" doesn't deny physical existence but liberates from bodily constraints, making these calamities powerless to harm. As the Daoist adept Bai Zhenren said: Though heaven and earth are vast, they govern only the formed, not the formless; though Yin-Yang are profound, they act only upon what has Qi, not the Qi-less. This "body-free" state represents transcendent cultivation focused on self-liberation rather than worldly governance.

Yet to govern worldly affairs, one must first perfect oneself before governing others. Without valuing self-cultivation, being driven by worldly toil leaves one incapable even of self-management—how then could one shoulder the world's burdens? Without cherishing one's body, exhausting one's vital essence leaves one unable to preserve oneself—how then could one preserve the world? Therefore, value yourself with serene detachment, cherish yourself beyond wealth and status—though favored, remain unattached; though honored, remain unentangled.

This passage expounds the supreme state of Daoist mental cultivation. When sage rulers like Shun and Yu governed the world, they never treated it as personal property—such individuals alone are truly worthy of entrusting with the world. Lu Xisheng explains that if someone's heart is swayed by gain and loss, constantly calculating distinctions between self and objects, then honor and disgrace, fortune and misfortune will leave them unsettled. How could such a person become the world's true master?

The truly enlightened cherish their bodies to better govern the world and care for themselves to serve all beings. What they value is the welfare of all under heaven, not personal gain. Having reached this state, neither gain nor loss affects their inner peace, nor do worries trouble their being—only then can they shoulder great responsibilities. Zhang Hongyang adds that overemphasizing honor and disgrace indicates attachment to empty fame, while excessive concern with calamities shows fixation on physical form. Only by transcending the shackles of reputation and bodily form can the mind attain true freedom.

The following is Chapter 14 of the "Hymn to the Mysterious": What the eyes cannot see is called "Yi" (referring to one's innate heart-mind, like the formless Dao); what the ears cannot hear is called "Xi" (the original substance of mind-nature); what hands cannot grasp is called "Wei" (the original spirit [Shen] within nature). These three states defy verbal description (as Heshanggong notes: having no color, no sound, no form—they cannot be spoken by mouth nor written in words, only silently apprehended through heartfelt contemplation), existing as an undifferentiated unity.

This state appears neither bright above (because original nature has no concrete form) nor dark below (as the spirit [Shen] transforms endlessly). Stretching across past and present yet defying names (not being any particular color that the five hues could distinguish; not being any specific sound that the five tones could identify; not having any shape measurable by length or size), it ultimately returns to the state of "no-thing" (perceiving external objects stirs mental activity—the true Dao leaves no trace when concealed). This is form without form (mind-nature is intrinsically formless, yet the Dao, though shapeless, gives form to all things), an image without substance (original nature has no concrete appearance, appearing as emptiness yet manifesting all phenomena).

This scripture describes the characteristics of the Dao (cosmic origin) that transcend sensory perception. It states: The Dao coexists with all forms of existence yet remains elusive, appearing indistinct and unfathomable. When you look for it, you cannot see its beginning; when you listen for it, you cannot hear its sound; when you grasp for it, you cannot hold its form. These three characteristics are respectively called "Yi" (invisible to sight), "Xi" (inaudible to hearing), and "Wei" (intangible to touch). Though three in description, they are ultimately one—united as the essential nature of the Dao that transcends form, sound, and conceptual thought.

The great Dao resides in emptiness, more sublime than heaven and more profound than earth, continuously generating all things. It is neither bright nor dark, revealing no names or forms in the process of creation. Ultimately, all things return to this formless, nameless state. The Dao appears as empty nothingness, yet contains the potential to generate all under heaven; it leaves no trace, yet manifests through all things. This is what is called "form without form" and "image without substance."

The Dao has neither beginning nor end, neither completeness nor deficiency, neither birth nor death. To comprehend this primordial Dao of Wuwei (non-action) and spontaneity that has existed since antiquity, and to apply it to the present world of deliberate action—allowing natural flow while understanding the origin of all things without altering their inherent nature—this is called the "Dao's guiding principle."

Xue Hui's commentary points out: What the ancients called the "Dao" is precisely "non-being," which becomes clear through its contrast with "being." The so-called "ancient Dao" is not something newly emerged, but refers to the eternal cosmic principle that has existed from past to present.

The Treasure Chapters on the Supreme Dao and Its Virtue explores the core wisdom of Daoist engagement with the world. A common human failing lies in forgetting the fundamental emptiness at the origin of all phenomena when facing external matters, thereby becoming deluded and burdened by them.

Those who have truly attained the Dao employ the eternal Way to respond to present affairs, taking Wuwei (non-action, or following nature's course) as their foundation while treating "youwei" (engagement with worldly matters) as surface manifestations. Though worldly affairs change endlessly, the Dao-realized maintain an unchanging "One" (the primordial source of Dao) within. This governing principle that commands all phenomena is called the "Dao's Guiding Thread" (the essential discipline of the Way).

The text cites Sima Tan and Liu Xiang's observations: Daoism enables concentrated spiritual focus and actions aligned with the formless Dao, nourishing all beings while managing mundane affairs through methods that are simple yet profoundly effective. Grasping the root, maintaining purity and emptiness, and practicing humility—these constitute the art of rulership. Yet the author notes how Confucian scholars often fundamentally misunderstand Laozi (Lord Lao), wrongly assuming he advocates mere emptiness and withdrawal from human affairs. In truth, Laozi's teaching to "hold fast to the ancient Dao to govern present existence" precisely means applying the Dao's emptiness to engage with reality—not escape from it.

The crux for Daoist practitioners lies in studying texts without comprehending their true meaning. Though Laozi's words are perfectly clear, commentators distort their original intent, straying not only from textual accuracy but even further from grasping the Dao's profound significance.

The passage then describes the inscrutable depth of ancient Daoist adepts (those "skilled in the Way"): their enlightened minds perceive reality's subtlety with perfect integration, maintaining the Middle Way. Because their realization is too profound for ordinary recognition, we can only approximate their qualities—they move through affairs with the caution of treading on thin ice, act with the wariness of one surrounded by neighbors, carry themselves with guest-like reverence, yet flow with the melting ease of thawing ice. Substantial as uncarved wood yet receptive as mountain valleys, they embody the turbid simplicity of unsettled waters. Such beings maintain clarity amid chaos and constancy within change.

This passage describes the inner state and behavioral principles that Daoist cultivators should maintain, employing vivid metaphors to illustrate them.

The cultivator should be as cautious as crossing a winter river (dong she chuan), proceeding carefully with each step; as alert as being wary of neighbors (wei si lin), maintaining constant reverence; and as dignified as a guest (yan ruo ke), showing respect toward all things. The inner mind should flow naturally like melting ice (huan ruo bing jiang shi), be as simple as uncarved wood (dun ruo pu), as open as an empty valley (kuang ruo gu), and as inclusive as turbid water (hun ruo zhuo).

The key points emphasize: Who can maintain stillness amidst chaos, gradually settling into clarity (zhuo yi zhi jing zhi xu qing)? Who can preserve vitality within tranquility, slowly generating new life (an yi jiu dong zhi xu sheng)? Those who truly attain the Dao do not deliberately pursue perfection (bu yu ying), and precisely because they don't seek perfection (bu ying), they can maintain eternal renewal (neng bi bu xin cheng). Like a hidden dragon that does not readily reveal itself (qian long wu yong), forcefully pursuing a state of "absolute stillness" actually deviates from the Dao.

Master Fugui comments: Modern scholars act ostentatiously, fearing others won't notice them, whereas ancient true cultivators did the opposite—they concealed their brilliance (cang qi tao guang), shed superficial understanding, and delved into profound mysteries. When reaching the pinnacle of profundity, one becomes omniscient. Such deep states are difficult to measure, hence the forced use of metaphors like "crossing a winter river" and "wary of neighbors" to describe them.

Further explanations are added: Hesitating like crossing a winter river (dong she chuan) means not daring to advance rashly; being wary as if of neighbors (wei si lin) means not acting lightly. Dignified as a guest (yan ruo ke) signifies reverence and humility; melting ice (huan ruo bing jiang shi) describes a state of vigilance against indulgence. These all demonstrate the extreme caution of perfected beings in navigating the world.

Simple as uncarved wood (dun ruo pu) means being unadorned; open as a valley (kuang ruo gu) means emptiness can contain all; blending with the turbid world (hun ruo zhuo) refers to embracing all things and harmonizing with the mundane. These three states embody the realm of primordial chaos, reflecting how perfected beings move through the dust of the world. Su Zhe (Su Ziyou) remarked: Ordinary people become muddled when external things disturb their nature, while ascetics who forcibly suppress their nature become lifeless and stagnant.

This scripture primarily discusses how practitioners can attain unity with the Dao (the Way) through returning to stillness and original nature.

It first explains that when the mind is chaotic, one should cease deluded thoughts and return to tranquility. When stillness reaches a certain depth, clarity naturally arises. If one indulges in comfort, it will erode their innate nature; thus, moderate activity is needed. When movement reaches a certain degree, vitality will spontaneously emerge. As the Yijing (Book of Changes) states, in the deepest stillness, one can perceive and connect with all things under heaven. True "movement" is not reckless agitation but this state of natural responsiveness.

Excessive pursuit of perfection leads to its opposite. Just as all worldly things become old when they are new and decay when they age, only by not deliberately seeking perfection can one transcend the cycles of new and old, creation and destruction. The true Dao is neither deficient nor subject to decline. Those who can coexist with heaven and earth, enduring as they do, are the practitioners who maintain a state of stillness and emptiness.

Chapter 16, "Attaining the Utmost Emptiness," further elaborates: one must reach the ultimate state of emptiness (forgetting the physical form) and abide in profound stillness (free from distracting thoughts). While all things are in motion and transformation (transcending attachment to external objects and self), the practitioner can observe their return to the source (through inner contemplation, perceiving the original mind of heaven and earth).

The myriad complex phenomena (referring to non-attachment to external actions) ultimately return to their root (realizing innate luminous awareness). Returning to the root is called "stillness" (transcending life and death, returning to the origin). When stillness reaches its peak, one returns to the Mandate of Heaven (realizing that life and death are mere illusions—the true self is beyond birth and death). Returning to the Mandate of Heaven allows one to embody the eternal Dao (perceiving everlasting radiance, unmoving and unchanging). Understanding this eternal principle is true wisdom (only by relinquishing grasping thoughts can the original spirit [Shen] manifest; only by eliminating desires can true nature flourish).

Those who fail to grasp this principle (because the Dao cannot be separated from for even a moment) will act recklessly and invite calamity (all deluded thoughts produce illusions). Those who comprehend the eternal Dao can embrace all things (boundless and vast). Embracing all leads to impartiality (false thoughts naturally dissolve). Impartiality allows one to become the master of all things (unchanging with the seasons). Such a master aligns with the Dao of Heaven (the inherent principle that permeates all). Aligning with the Dao of Heaven means uniting with the Dao (returning to the origin of primordial Qi [Yuanqi], the ancestor of all phenomena—this is true permanence).

The essence of the Dao is eternal and everlasting (the Dao is the mind, the mind is the Dao—neither has limits). Even when the physical body perishes, the Dao does not vanish (the mind knows neither life nor death, the Dao neither comes nor goes. Though heaven and earth transform, this fundamental Dao remains undiminished).

Master Fugui (a Daoist practitioner) said: Emptiness and stillness are the original face of the Dao. Those who attain the Dao relinquish emotional desires, their internal organs purified and unstained, like drifting clouds passing through the sky while the void's essence remains unchanging. When emptiness and stillness reach their ultimate state, one attains the equilibrium of Zhonghe (the state of yin-yang balance). Regarding the mind's nature, human essence is originally tranquil. If one thought is still while the next is not, this cannot be called true stillness-maintenance. Even subtle attachments during stillness indicate impure practice. Thus one must continually pursue greater emptiness and stillness to fulfill the injunction to "reach the extremity of emptiness, maintain perfect stillness."

"Activation" (zuo) and "return" (fu) operate like the mutual generation of yin and yang. Practitioners observe not the flourishing of phenomena (zuo), but their return to origin (fu). In the Yijing, this return manifests as the Fu hexagram (symbolizing the eleventh month) where thunder lies hidden beneath earth. Shao Yong (styled Yaofu) called this the "moon's cavern and heaven's root" (the meeting point of yin and yang), while Daoism terms it "where the Five Phases cannot reach, before father and mother were born" (the prenatal state), and Chan Buddhism calls it "the original face." Ordinary people only observe prosperity (Tai hexagram) and perfection (Qian hexagram), failing to comprehend the observation of return (Fu hexagram), thereby allowing life to decline (Bo hexagram) and perish (Kun hexagram), ultimately terminated by pure yin qi.

Though the myriad things flourish abundantly, all must return to their roots. Spring and summer growth belongs to movement's phase; returning to the root is stillness' domain—this is the moment for observing return, called "returning to life's mandate." Pines and cypresses can return to their roots and fulfill life's mandate, thus maintaining verdancy for millennia. Why alone does humanity fail to understand this? Returning to the root is the key to obtaining the "medicine" (cultivation materials), while fulfilling life's mandate is the essential method for forming the Golden Elixir. The Most High Lord Lao used the Great Dao to instruct the world, yet previous commentaries resemble speaking of dreams within dreams.

"Constancy" (chang) is the unchanging truth. Only at death do people comprehend impermanence, yet "returning to life's mandate" is the true constant, capable of enduring as long as heaven and earth. Humanity's flaw lies in not recognizing this constant. Understanding it constitutes "illumination" (ming)—this character combines "sun" and "moon," representing yin-yang unity. Those who ignore the constant and recklessly practice heterodox methods inevitably encounter misfortune. The truly illuminated perceive worlds within a millet seed, infinite cosmos within a grotto-heaven, and eternal sun and moon within a gourd (symbolizing attained cultivation realms).

This scripture primarily elucidates how cultivators can transcend worldly concerns to unite with the Dao, while also delineating different levels of social governance.

The genuine Dao-realized individual embraces all things—a state of inclusivity surpassing even the bodhisattva's vow to liberate all beings. While earthly emperors rule kingdoms, the Heavenly Dao governs cosmic creation. The truly "impartial" (referring to Dao-realized beings) have transcended Yin-Yang dualism, participating in creation yet remaining unbound by it. Such a state resembles emperors emulating celestial principles—where one's heart becomes the Heart of Heaven, and one's path becomes the Dao of Heaven. Union with the Dao brings immortality; one's life becomes the Mandate of Heaven, and physical dissolution signifies true liberation—for while all things perish, this "Dao" alone remains eternal.

Patriarch Bai Yuchan taught: Within the body, the original spirit (Shen) is sovereign (as spirit is the root of form); within the spirit, true nature is fundamental (for nature is the root of spirit). By cultivating the spirit within the physical form to harmonize with innate nature, we call this "returning to the origin" and "recovering the Heavenly Mandate."

Those who comprehend this eternal truth become one with Laozi's Dao. The text continues with "Chapter Seventeen on Pure Customs":

The supreme state (referring to the mind's pure spiritual condition, called "sagehood") remains incomprehensible to ordinary people though they know it exists (all things contain this principle). The next level of governance sees people affectionately praising their ruler (this involves tangible actions, already departing from naturalness). Further down, authority inspires fear (people use things daily without understanding their source). The worst scenario involves public contempt and rebellion (complete disregard). When sincerity becomes deficient (due to excessive discrimination), distrust arises (the Dao resides in ordinary mind, requiring no forced distinctions). Therefore, sages speak sparingly (what need for many words?), accomplishing things effortlessly (principles exist inherently, original mind is complete), and people perceive everything as perfectly natural (radiantly bright, utterly pure).

Master Fugui explains: In the supreme era (ideal society, resembling ancient knot-record times), people knew neither intimacy nor alienation, merely aware of their ruler's existence—before preferences arose, governing through wuwei (non-action). The next level involves purposeful governance through benevolence, where people begin affectionate praise—a joyful harmony. Further down, laws constrain people who outwardly comply but inwardly resist, acting only from fear. The worst scenario features excessive prohibitions breeding deception and strife—the loss of trust originates from the ruler's own inadequacies.

When people no longer believe in the Dao (referring to the natural and effortless cosmic principle), various artificial moral standards emerge. When rulers and common people distrust each other, relying solely on words to maintain relationships is doomed to fail. Rather than this, it would be better to emulate the ancient sages who governed the world through the Dao of Wuwei (non-action). When their achievements were complete, the people did not even feel the ruler's presence—everything unfolded naturally.

The Dao is inherently Wuwei. Once distinctions like affection, fear, or contempt arise, the Dao becomes fragmented. Hence, the following describes the state after the Dao is abandoned: When people lose their original heart and nature, they deliberately emphasize benevolence and righteousness (which are no longer pure states). When cunning and scheming emerge (stemming from sensory desires), severe hypocrisy follows. Filial piety and kindness only become prominent when families are disharmonious, and loyal ministers are needed only when the state is in chaos (rather than maintaining harmonious governance from the start).

Master Fugui explains: The Dao is formless—even the name "Dao" is a forced designation. Once the labels of benevolence and righteousness are established, people compete to flaunt them, only moving further from the Dao. Thus it is said, "When the great Dao is abandoned, benevolence and righteousness arise." The Dao requires no embellishment. Once the reputation of wisdom flourishes, rulers govern the people through rituals, music, and laws, resulting in those who appear most loyal while being treacherous and those who feign trustworthiness while being deceitful—all operating under the banner of wisdom.

In the age when the Dao prevailed, Heaven and Earth were like parents, and the people were as one, like infants. Only when estrangement arose among kin, and each favored their own relatives, did the names of filial piety and kindness appear. Only when the state fell into chaos and right and wrong were inverted did the title of loyal minister emerge. Su Zhe (Wending) remarked: Yao was not unfilial, yet only Shun was called a filial son—because Yao did not have a father like Gusou. Yi Yin and the Duke of Zhou were not disloyal, yet only Long Feng and Bi Gan were called loyal ministers—because they encountered tyrants like Jie and Zhou.

This passage illustrates how, when the natural and effortless Dao is abandoned, artificial benevolence and righteousness become prominent. When cunning and scheming arise, severe hypocrisy follows. Hence, the next discussion will focus on the principle of "rejecting sageliness and discarding wisdom."

Chapter 19 ("Returning to Simplicity") expounds the path of returning to one's original nature. The phrase "abandon sageliness and discard wisdom" means relinquishing artificial cleverness to follow natural spontaneity (ren qi tianran), maintaining inner purity free from distracting thoughts (jiran wunian). Paradoxically, when rulers embody this clarity (qingming zai gong zhiqi ru shen), the people benefit a hundredfold. "Abandon benevolence and discard righteousness" refers to neither flaunting forced kindness nor obsessing over external moral codes (huang xu qita), allowing people to naturally return to filial piety and compassion (an shi chu shun).

"Abandon cleverness and discard profit" teaches us to forget scheming minds (wangji) and eliminate utilitarian desires (minlü), thereby preventing the rise of thieves and bandits (xin bing bu qi fangcun zhanran). These three principles ultimately describe a cultivation state where one forgets the body to nourish Qi, forgets Qi to nourish Shen (spirit), and forgets Shen to nourish emptiness (wangxing yi yangqi, wangqi yi yangshen, wangshen yi yangxu). Artificial teachings always fall short (shi qi shiran shu ruo ziran); it is better to let all things return to their intrinsic nature (ying wu suo zhuo dongran wuwo). The chapter concludes by advocating a return to simplicity (jian su bao pu) and reducing selfish desires (shao si gua yu).

The commentator Fugui Zi explains that when rulers govern through sagely wisdom, people respond with deception, so it is better to completely relinquish such methods. The Dao inherently contains benevolence and righteousness, but by artificially distinguishing between "kind" and "unkind," rulers strip people of their genuine nature. Mechanical calculations and petty scheming are manifestations of cleverness and profit, which stir internal turmoil (wu zei dao qi nei). Therefore, one must discard these three artificial constructs—sageliness, benevolence, and cleverness—to return to a state of primal simplicity.

Chapter 20 ("Uncommon Customs") discusses how "abandoning learning brings no worries" (wu shi wu wei wu si wu lü), meaning only by relinquishing forced scholarship can one be free from anxiety. The difference between compliance ("wei") and defiance ("a") is minute (yi qi ju san)—what passes transforms (suo guo zhe hua). Similarly, the distinction between "good" and "evil" (yi nian dong jing) is slight—what remains is spirit (suo cun zhe shen). The great matter of life and death that people fear (sheng si yi da yi) must indeed be revered. Yet the gap between ancient and modern times remains far removed from the Dao.

The matter of life and death is of utmost gravity, for impermanence arrives with startling swiftness. The retribution of good and evil is truly awe-inspiring, yet ordinary people wander lost in boundless wilderness (referring to entanglement in the cycle of rebirth). Common folk indulge in sensual pleasures, fearing only that their cultivation efforts fall short, while sages worry that their renunciation of worldly attachments remains incomplete.

People clamor after desires like chasing after lavish sacrificial offerings (the "Great Sacrifice" metaphor for worldly indulgence), attending grand feasts yet comprehending nothing of the Dao, like starving men imagining they could devour an entire ox. They revel in pleasure like springtime outings, while I alone remain serene and detached, pure as an infant who has not yet learned to smile (this "concentrated qi yielding softness" describes a Daoist meditative state). My mind stays in primal simplicity, unattached to anything.

The world appears replete with excess (unaware of restraint), while I alone seem perpetually lacking (the greedy are ever anxious, the unattached ever content). This foolish heart of mine remains free from all discrimination and grasping. Ordinary people display cleverness outwardly (indulging senses while losing their true nature), while I appear dull and muddled (the sage's wisdom lies concealed within). People exhaust themselves with petty calculations (wearying mind and spirit), while I remain placid and unfocused (seeming to think yet dwelling in no-thought).

My heart expands like the boundless sea (the Dao knows no limits), thoughts adrift without attachment. All people engage in purposeful action (yet human capacity is finite while affairs are endless), while I remain stubbornly uncultivated (body and mind still as withered wood and cold ashes). Alone I differ from the multitude (the Dao never distances itself from people—people distance themselves from it), treasuring most the realization of the Dao's origin ("mother" signifies the source of Dao).

Li Xizhai (a Yuan Dynasty Daoist master) explains: If cultivation cannot reach the state of "non-learning," it cannot be called true transcendent learning. The Dao takes "non-attainment" as genuine attainment, and study takes "non-learning" as true learning. If the Dao could be actively sought, it would merely be the semblance of benevolence and righteousness; if learning could be deliberately pursued, it would only be names and numbers. Therefore, sages regard non-attainment as realizing the Dao and non-learning as authentic study—only thus can one reach the worry-free state of transcendent learning. Those who have not yet reached this state...

This scripture primarily discusses the distinction between practitioners of the Dao and ordinary people, as well as how to attain the state of a perfected being (one who has realized the Dao).

Ordinary people acquire knowledge with inevitable gaps, whereas genuine cultivation involves endless learning. Outward reverence and flattery may seem similar, just as good and evil appear close—yet subtle differences lead to vast divergences, so one must remain vigilant in small matters. Life and death are grave affairs; though ordinary people fear them, they seldom contemplate how to avoid their grasp. The perfected being not only understands but truly reveres them, remaining ever watchful against the unexpected.

Most people indulge in desires, their minds in chaos, deluded by external things—as if feasting at a banquet or admiring beautiful scenery. The perfected being sees through illusion, maintaining inner tranquility, pure and desireless as an infant, body and mind relaxed like a drifting boat or falling leaf, merging with nature. Ordinary people flaunt wealth and intellect, while the perfected being regards fame and gain as chaff, their inner emptiness appearing foolish yet their spirit wholly complete.

Ordinary people display sharpness outwardly, while the perfected being conceals radiance within—plain in appearance yet treasuring jewels inside. People scrutinize with harsh clarity, while the perfected being remains profound and unassuming, seemingly dull. The ocean knows no bounds; likewise, the mind of the perfected being is limitless, drifting unfixed as if without reliance. Ordinary people value utility, while the perfected being treasures the "usefulness of the useless"—outwardly withered like dead wood or cold ashes, appearing obstinate and crude yet embodying the highest attainment.

Finally, the infant serves as a metaphor: the fetus depends on the mother's nourishment, and after birth still relies on her milk, yet upon growing up craves worldly flavors. Few understand returning to the source ("feeding from the mother" refers to returning to the primal Qi of innate truth)—only those with extraordinary gifts, transcending fame and gain, can achieve this. Here, the "mother" represents the original source of the Dao, the innate and true One.

When in the mother's womb, a person's innate primordial Qi (the foundational energy of life) is at its most abundant. By the age of sixteen, this maternal Qi reaches its peak state of completion, after which it gradually diminishes. For genuine practitioners, if they can restore their innate primordial Qi through "nourishing from the mother" (referring to returning to the source and drawing upon the energy of the Dao), then the entire process—from laying the foundation (cultivation basics) to forming the inner embryo (Neidan crystallization) and ultimately attaining liberation—is contained within this practice. Practitioners must understand this deeply.

The commentator Shi Deqing explains: The "mother" here refers to the formless and boundless Dao (the cosmic origin), which gives birth to and nurtures all things in heaven and earth. The Dao is the mother, and all things are her children. "Nourishing" here means the mind's return and reliance. Ordinary people turn away from the Dao to chase external things, like abandoning the mother to beg from her children; sages transcend external things and thus can directly return to the source of the Dao.

Wang Chunfu adds: "Abandon learning and there will be no sorrow" (a famous line from the Daode Jing) does not advocate mindless ignorance but rather urges the abandonment of worldly knowledge in favor of treasuring this practice of returning to the origin.

Chapter 21 describes how the appearance of great De (Virtue/Power) completely follows the Dao. The Dao is something elusive and indistinct, seemingly present yet seemingly absent. Within this elusive state, forms emerge; within these forms, substance resides; and within the profound and mysterious depths, the essence is contained. This essence is utterly real, harboring the principles of the cosmos.

From ancient times to the present, the essence of the Dao has never changed ("name" refers to its essence). By observing the origin of all things ("the multitude of beginnings"), we can understand: among the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water), humans are the most spiritually endowed, and all things are transformed from the essential Qi of the Dao. Fugui Zi concludes: The beginning speaks of the Dao's ineffability, then emphasizes that "non-being" is the origin of heaven and earth, fearing that people might mistake the Dao for absolute emptiness. Thus, this chapter specifically clarifies that "non-being" contains "being," dispelling attachment to abstruse mysteries. The Dao itself has no form, yet any form that can be described belongs to the realm of De. However, by recognizing the appearance of De, one can trace the footsteps of the Dao.

This passage describes the mysterious state of the Dao (the Way), the cosmic origin and fundamental principle. The Dao appears to exist yet is not concrete existence; it seems empty yet is not absolute nothingness. This ambiguous state defies precise definition.

Within the seemingly empty void, there appear to be embryonic forms (xiang) of all things—these are the laws governing creation. In the hazy indistinctness, there seems to be substantial matter (wu)—these are the foundational substances composing all things. Profound and obscure (yao xi ming xi), the Dao contains pure, unadulterated Jing (essence), utterly authentic and natural without artificial embellishment. The Dao embodies definite patterns (xin), boundless in scale yet without a core, verifiable in the distant movements of heaven and earth as well as in the immediate activities of human body and mind—all correspond flawlessly.

From ancient times to the present, heaven and earth endure precisely because they follow this eternal Dao, hence the name of the Dao will never vanish. The "myriad beginnings" (zhong fu, referring to all things in creation) all originate from the Dao, as if emerging from a single gate. The reason I comprehend the principles governing all things is through realizing this Dao. The Dao is like an eternal gateway—all things arise from it and return to it, yet the Dao itself remains unchanged by them.

The passage then discusses principles of self-cultivation: bending leads to preservation (compromising without harming one's true nature), yielding to others allows the upright path to prevail (wang ze zhi), low places are naturally filled (humility brings benefit), the worn-out is renewed, taking less leads to gaining more, while greed brings confusion. Thus the sage upholds "the One" (the fundamental principle of the Dao) as the standard for the world, because mind, innate nature, and Shen (spirit) are essentially interconnected.

(Note: Concepts like "bending to preserve" reflect Daoist wisdom of advancing by retreating and maintaining softness. "Embracing the One" refers to grasping the Dao's essence, consistent with the Daodejing's teaching: "The sage embraces the One and becomes the model for all under heaven.")

This passage from The Wings of the Precious Chapters on the Dao and De expounds the Daoist wisdom of "advancing by retreating." Its core message is: By not deliberately showcasing oneself, one's radiance naturally manifests; by not boasting of achievements, one's merits are truly accomplished; by not contending with others, no one in the world can contend with you.

Specifically: When you don't insist on displaying your cleverness ("不自见" - bu zi jian), you gain true clarity of perception; when you refrain from stubborn opinions ("不自是" - bu zi shi), right and wrong become self-evident; when you don't boast of accomplishments ("不自伐" - bu zi fa), your virtuous deeds endure; when you avoid arrogance ("不自矜" - bu zi jin), you maintain lasting capability. Precisely because you don't contend ("不争" - bu zheng), no one under heaven can contend with you. This is what the ancients meant by "the crooked shall be made straight" ("曲则全" - qu ze quan) - a truth far from empty words.

Fugui Zi further illustrates this principle with natural phenomena: The sprouting plant curves before growing straight; the nascent yang energy ("一阳初复" - yi yang chu fu) first lies dormant underground, gathering strength before flourishing; low-lying areas naturally collect water, just as humility naturally accumulates virtue; worn objects eventually break, and from extreme brokenness comes renewal. Scholarship follows the same pattern - mastering one discipline ("少则得" - shao ze de) yields greater rewards than superficial learning ("多则惑" - duo ze huo).

Thus the sage embraces unity ("抱一" - bao yi): maintaining simplicity ("见素抱朴" - jian su bao pu), reducing selfish desires ("少私寡欲" - shao si gua yu), preserving emptiness and stillness ("致虚守静" - zhi xu shou jing), and returning to the source ("归根复命" - gui gen fu ming). Those who achieve unity don't self-display yet see comprehensively through others' perspectives; they claim no merit yet the world credits them naturally. This is the Daoist way of being in the world.

This passage expounds the Daoist wisdom of "non-contention" (不争). Laozi teaches that things which endure never boast of their longevity, and thus the world naturally acknowledges their enduring nature. Self-display, self-righteousness, self-praise, and self-aggrandizement are all roots of conflict.

How could one possibly contend with the entire world? By refraining from self-promotion, blaming others, flaunting achievements, or harboring pride, one naturally avoids contention. When one doesn't contend, no one in the world can contend with them. These four attitudes embody the principle that "the crooked shall be made straight" (曲则全) - not merely applicable today, but an ancient truth of profound substance. True preservation isn't forcibly obtained; it manifests naturally even in apparent incompleteness.

Complete preservation means preserving both self and external things, achieving harmony between inner and outer, ultimately returning to original authenticity. Therefore, sages uphold the practice of "embracing the origin and guarding the One" (抱元守一), becoming models for the world. Li Xizhai explains: Things cannot remain bent forever, hence bending leads to preservation; cannot stay crooked forever, hence crookedness eventually straightens; hollows become filled, the worn becomes renewed; taking little brings abundance, while greed brings confusion. These are fundamental principles of cyclical transformation.

Sages become sovereigns of all things precisely because they maintain the "embracing the One" (抱一) practice. "Embracing the One" means constant unity with the Dao - thus they don't self-display but follow others' perceptions, don't assert themselves but follow things' natural states, don't claim merit but follow others' contributions, don't flaunt strengths but follow others' virtues. By standing among all things without contending with them, none in the world can contend with them.

Sages follow heavenly principles - seeking incompleteness would be impossible, for they've never lost completeness, and cultivate through "attending to subtleties" (致曲). This preservation is most thorough, called "returning through sincere completeness" (诚全而归之).

Next comes "sparse words accord with nature" (希言自然). Violent winds don't last a morning, torrential rains don't last a day - who creates these? Heaven and earth. If even heaven and earth cannot sustain extremes, how much less can humans? Therefore Dao practitioners should understand: all phenomena originate from mind, all else is illusion. Cultivation focuses on mind refinement, not impatient striving.

When sudden storms and tempests arise, those who cultivate the Dao should merge completely with the Great Way (reaching a state beyond thought and deliberation, becoming one with the Dao). Those who cultivate De (Virtue/Power) should align themselves with its essence (acting with Wuwei [non-action], free from discriminating mind). Even when facing mistakes, maintain this same equanimity (letting go even the thought of "forgetting," attaining non-dual awareness).

Those who resonate with the Dao are embraced by it (as I merge with the Dao, the Dao merges with me). Those who resonate with De are fulfilled by it (as I align with De, De aligns with me). Those who resonate with mistakes transform them into gains (as I accept loss, loss becomes part of me). If one's inner resolve wavers (lacking firm conviction), doubt arises (like fleeing one's shadow at noon—running to exhaustion yet never escaping. Only those who truly understand the Dao remain unshaken by gain or loss).

Lü Jifu (a Song Dynasty Daoist) explains this passage as continuing the previous chapter's teaching on "non-contention." True "rare speech" means hearing without listening—understanding that words originate from wordlessness, where true meaning lies. "Rare speech" is speaking through the Dao, hence it is natural. Storms arise from violent Qi, contrary to the Dao's natural flow. Even heaven and earth cannot sustain such turbulence—how much less can human speech endure when divorced from the Dao's natural rhythm? Verbosity inevitably exhausts reason.

Fu Guizi (a Yuan Dynasty Daoist) observes that one should maintain quietude and restraint, avoiding clamorous outbursts like storms. "Rare speech" itself embodies the Dao. Sages practice the Great Way, mystically uniting with it: merging with those who have Dao through the Dao, with those who have De through De. Beyond distinguishing morality, beyond calculating gain and loss—thus they rejoice equally with the virtuous and non-virtuous. When loss and gain become one, ordinary people fail to perceive this unity. Dividing into factions of morality, celebrating gains and lamenting losses—what benefit comes from such ceaseless chatter? All stems from insufficient self-trust, making it hard to inspire trust in others.

This passage echoes the previous two chapters: storm-like displays, self-righteousness, and pride all stem from selfishness—which cannot endure. Hence the subsequent teaching: "Those who tiptoe cannot stand firm."

(Extended commentary on Chapter 24:) Tiptoeing cannot last (the mind must be stable as a wall to enter the Dao). Overreaching strides hinder progress (when the mind remains unpolluted, true nature manifests naturally). Those who self-display become blind (all forms and appearances are illusory)...

Those who cling stubbornly to their own views cannot manifest truth (truth cannot be pursued through sensory appearances nor comprehended through conceptual names). Those who boast of themselves cannot establish genuine merit (just as when a hundred delusive thoughts scatter like clouds, the wind ceases; when the mind becomes pure as frost, the water dries up). The arrogant and self-satisfied cannot endure (the true state is one of empty stillness, clear and transparent).

From the perspective of the Dao, such behavior is like leftover food or superfluous tumors (the benevolent see benevolence in it, the wise see wisdom in it). Even all things despise this condition (the sudden arising of delusive thoughts is the disease, while non-attachment is the remedy). Thus, those who attain the Dao do not act this way (they fear not the arising of thoughts, but only the lateness of awakening).

The Ming Dynasty Buddhist master Shi Deqing explained that this continues the principle from the previous chapter on "excessive words leading to exhaustion": it is like those who walk on tiptoe—they cannot stand firm, or those who take giant strides—they cannot walk far. Tiptoeing seeks only to tower above others but cannot last; striding seeks only to outpace others but cannot endure. These are all manifestations contrary to natural essence.

"Self-opinionatedness" means stubbornly clinging to one's views; "self-righteousness" means considering oneself infallible—such narrow-minded people inevitably fail to understand the great Dao. "Self-promotion" means boasting of one's merits; "self-aggrandizement" means flaunting one's abilities—such competitive people not only achieve no merit but hasten their own downfall. Because the great Dao fundamentally contains none of these contrivances, they are as detestable as leftover food or tumors. True cultivators of the Dao maintain humility and avoid such states, thereby aligning with nature.

The following twenty-fifth chapter describes the essence of the Dao: There exists something perfectly whole, born before heaven and earth. Silent and boundless, it stands alone and unchanging, cycles endlessly without exhaustion—it may be called the source of all things. We do not know its name; we reluctantly call it "Dao," or perhaps "Great"—so vast it has no boundaries, so dynamic it has no limits, so profound it cannot be measured.

This scripture elucidates the supreme nature of the Dao. It teaches that "returning to the origin" (a state of non-attachment) is fundamental. Thus the Dao is most vast, heaven and earth are equally vast (heaven shares the quality of beginninglessness, earth shares the quality of endlessness), and the "sovereign" (referring to the ruling principle within the human heart) is also vast. The cosmos contains four great things—Dao, heaven, earth, and sovereign—with the ruling principle of the heart occupying one of these (indicating the heart-mind is itself the Dao).

Specifically: humans emulate earth (having foundations, as Heshang Gong explains: harmonizing Qi can grow the five grains, digging earth yields sweet springs); earth emulates heaven (that numinous presence pervades the dharma realm, quiescent yet spontaneously generating all things); heaven emulates the Dao (operating mysteriously within clarity and emptiness); while the Dao follows ziran (natural spontaneity—the Dao simply is as it is).

Master Fugui explains this reveals the profound mystery of the great Dao, representing the realm of realized adepts. Before heaven and earth divided, what actually governed? There truly existed a perfectly integrated reality—it pervaded above and below, circulating ceaselessly, existing prior to heaven and earth. Silent and soundless, vast and formless, uniquely independent and eternally unchanging. This primordial Qi cycles endlessly, giving birth to all phenomena between heaven and earth, hence it's called "mother of all under heaven." This reality is supremely mysterious—indescribable yet reluctantly termed "Dao," and further reluctantly called "great."

How great is it? Speaking of its "flowing" (逝) reveals no boundaries; its "far-reaching" (远) shows no limits; its "returning" (返) demonstrates complete containment. It transcends the eight directions yet cannot be pursued, while simultaneously dwelling in the heart's depths with unfathomable profundity—circling endlessly, simultaneously distant and near. Ultimately, it can be found within the human heart.

This perfectly integrated reality existed before heaven and earth, hence the Dao is most vast, followed by heaven and earth. Only after heaven and earth manifested did the "sovereign" (heart-mind ruler) emerge, therefore the sovereign is also vast. The four greats of the cosmos are Dao, heaven, earth, and sovereign, with the heart-mind ruler occupying one position. This "sovereign" refers not to celestial or earthly kings, but to the true ruler within the human body—the original Shen (spirit) governing the entire being.

Master Xuantong observes that after examining various commentaries, most interpretations of "humans emulate earth, earth emulates heaven, heaven emulates the Dao, the Dao follows ziran" remain superficial. In my understanding, earth contains true Qi (primordial energy) that matures according to the seasons—its enduring stability when emulated leads humans to Dao-realization, hence "humans emulate earth." Heaven possesses...

The Precious Wings of the Supreme Dao and De scripture primarily elucidates how practitioners may attain unity with the Dao through "embracing the One and maintaining stillness." The text first expounds the operating principles of heaven and earth: the earth regulates cold, heat, warmth, coolness, wind, rain, thunder, and lightning to form seasonal rhythms (this is "earth modeling heaven"); the heavenly Dao operates through eternal, unchanging laws with ethereal subtlety (this is "heaven modeling the Dao"). The essence of the Dao itself is the state of natural non-action (ziran wuwei).

The crux of cultivation lies in unifying the three treasures: Jing (essence), Qi (vital energy), and Shen (spirit). When a practitioner can steadfastly hold this "One," essence transforms into energy, energy refines into spirit, and ultimately spirit merges with the void—this constitutes the cultivation process of "human modeling earth, human modeling heaven, human modeling Dao." Those who attain this state transcend material attachments, remaining unmoved by external phenomena.

Chapter 26, the "Chapter on Valuing De," further elaborates: Steadiness is the root of lightness (just as firm roots allow luxuriant foliage), and stillness governs agitation (like dragons transforming through stillness while tigers perish prematurely through restlessness). Dao-realized individuals cultivate ceaselessly, maintaining constant vigilance and gravity even amidst dazzling splendor, their spirits soaring above the material realm. The scripture warns practitioners: as the "sovereign" governing body and mind, if one becomes frivolous, agitated, or attached to externals, control over desires will be lost ("losing the ministers"), ultimately forfeiting one's true nature ("losing the sovereign").

The commentary by Heshang Gong supplements: A ruler lacking gravity loses authority; a practitioner lacking gravity dissipates Shen. Flowers wither due to their lightness while roots endure through steadfastness. Sages never depart from stillness and gravity in their perpetual cultivation. "Splendid vistas" signify worldly attractions, while "peaceful abodes" represent tranquil dwellings—yet the Dao-possessed remain transcendent in both. The conclusion emphasizes: whether governing a state or cultivating the self, frivolity severs one's foundation, and restlessness forfeits mastery.

This scripture primarily expounds on the Neidan (internal alchemy) cultivation principle that "the heavy is the root of the light, and stillness is the master of restlessness." Li Hongfu (the Ming Dynasty thinker Li Zhi) remarked: Just as a traveler carrying heavy luggage cannot afford frivolity, the Dao cultivator must take steadiness as their foundation; like one who remains unperturbed by worldly spectacles when dwelling in solitude, stillness should be their sovereign. Frivolity leads to losing the root of steadiness, while agitation causes one to forfeit the governance of stillness.

Master Fugui further explains through alchemical terminology: Lead (symbolizing kidney Jing/essence) possesses a heavy, descending nature, while mercury (representing heart Shen/spirit) has a light, ascending quality. Using lead to restrain mercury exemplifies controlling the light with the heavy—only thus can the internal elixir be formed. When the body is still, Qi (vital energy) stabilizes; stabilized Qi allows one to grasp life's foundation. When the mind is tranquil, the primordial Shen (spirit) becomes preserved; preserved Shen enables awakening to one's true nature—this is how comprehending one principle illuminates all.

The sage who attains the Dao perpetually regulates the "fire times" (breath control in Neidan practice). The so-called "heavy baggage" refers to the "River Chariot" (the pathway of genuine Qi circulation within the body)—this is the upright Qi of the northern quadrant that carries the golden Jing (primordial essence) upward to return to its source. Practitioners must maintain continuous Qi circulation, using lead to control mercury—this embodies the principle of "the heavy being the root of the light."

Even amidst worldly splendor, one should observe the mysteries of all things from a state of desirelessness—this is the realm of "true emptiness that is not empty." When dwelling alone in quiet chambers, transcend worldly attachments without contamination—this is the state of "true form that is formless"—demonstrating the principle of "stillness as the master of restlessness."

The text employs the metaphor of "the ruler of ten thousand chariots" to illustrate how cultivators should treasure their bodies more than the empire. Heavy lead resembles the sovereign, while light mercury resembles ministers. If the body grows frivolous and agitated, it's like ministers running amok; stillness governs restlessness—if the heart-mind becomes scattered and restless, primordial essence will inevitably dissipate. Every phrase in this chapter conveys essential secrets of the Golden Elixir path, requiring practitioners to contemplate them earnestly.

Final summation: Frivolity loses the ministers (primordial essence); restlessness loses the sovereign (primordial spirit)—like trying to stand firm amidst wind and rain. These two chapters follow the preceding discourse on the Dao's substance, leading into the next chapter's teaching on "skillful action."

Chapter 27 discusses supreme cultivation: being adept at action without leaving traces (perceiving mind with mind), skilled in speech without vulnerabilities (awakening to nature through nature—true expression transcends words), proficient in calculation without counting tools (using primordial spirit...[incomplete text])

This passage describes the state and wisdom attained by cultivators who have reached the supreme realm of Daoist practice.

Those who have truly realized the Dao (De) experience their spirit (Shen) completely penetrating and harmonizing with all things. They excel at closing the gates of their mind without using any physical latch, making it impossible for others to open. This occurs because they have merged their spirit with emptiness (Wu) - those who hold fast to the Dao remain impervious to external distractions while generating no delusions internally, requiring neither latches nor conscious effort to close themselves off.

Those skilled at maintaining connections need no ropes or bonds, yet no one can sever these ties. This represents complete fusion with the formless Dao, existing beyond all constraints. Therefore, the sage (whose mind is singular and undivided) always excels at saving others (viewing people as oneself, cultivating self to pacify others), hence never abandoning anyone (recognizing all living beings share the same origin and substance). They also excel at saving all things (seeing objects as seeing mind, seeing mind as seeing Dao, benefiting beings according to circumstance), thus never rejecting any existence (the mind transcends yet never separates from all things, elevating the worthy while instructing the simple). This constitutes true wisdom (stability generates insight, profound intelligence leads to sagehood).

The virtuous (who align themselves properly with all things) serve as teachers for the unvirtuous (things remain as things, I remain as I). The unvirtuous (who cannot transcend life-death to seek mind nor separate mind to seek life-death) serve as mirrors for the virtuous (life-death remains life-death, this mind remains this mind). They neither revere teachers (as the Dao cannot be learned, nor mind grasped) nor favor mirrors (remaining transcendent like cold ashes or withered wood). Though appearing profoundly wise, they embody great enlightenment (a single thought spanning eternity, great wisdom appearing as simplicity), representing the most sublime state (perfect union with the Dao).

Master Fugui comments: This chapter reveals the supreme realm of sages practicing the great Dao. Ordinary people leave traces in their actions, while those who act through non-action (Wuwei) influence all under heaven without leaving marks. Common speech inevitably contains faults, while those who express through non-speech reach all under heaven without error. Those who strategize about worldly affairs inevitably miss some aspects, while those who expand their awareness to embrace all things need no strategies yet contain all possible strategies within. Those who rely on latches to guard their spirit can be opened or closed, while those with empty minds who forget objects need no latches yet transcend all constraints. Those who depend on ropes to maintain human connections experience easy gatherings and partings, while the mind of one who dwells in effortless ease needs no ropes yet maintains eternal bonds.

All beings between heaven and earth are originally unconstrained, yet none of the world's rules can surpass their natural essence. The common people are all my kin—true virtue lies in impartially aiding all who need help, abandoning none. The same applies to all creatures: neither selecting specific recipients for aid nor neglecting any living being—this is genuine universal salvation.

The term "covering over" is like draping an outer garment over a fur coat. While superficially concealing inner radiance, it actually embodies deeper wisdom. As previously mentioned in descriptions like "leaving no wheel ruts," these all illustrate how sages influence all things naturally without deliberate display, accomplishing everything through non-action (Wuwei). The sage perceives the finest line between good and not-good, thus virtuous conduct becomes a model for the unvirtuous; recognizing how closely not-good neighbors upon good, the flawed become mirrors for cultivating virtue. Without honoring virtuous exemplars, one cannot learn goodness; without confronting the lessons of vice, faults cannot be rectified. This is the realm of "great wisdom appearing foolish"—only those profoundly wise can achieve it.

"Guarding the feminine," "abiding in obscurity," and "embracing humility" all involve withdrawing one's brilliance. Continuing the principle of "great wisdom appearing foolish":

Knowing strength (referring to the manifestation of Shen/spirit), yet dwelling in gentleness (referring to original nature), one becomes like the valley streams of the world (open-heartedness brings natural peace; only by relinquishing self-importance can one embrace all things). As the world's mountain brooks (unfathomably deep), constant De (Virtue) never falters (maintained steadfastly through all circumstances), ultimately returning to infant-like purity (free from overthinking).

Understanding illumination (referring to original nature), yet abiding in darkness (referring to life cultivation), one becomes the world's standard (emptiness enables union with the Dao; concentrated Qi achieves softness). As the world's paradigm (transcending sensory perception), constant De never errs (the Dao pervades all things; its measure remains unwavering), ultimately returning to the boundless (union with the Dao).

Recognizing glory (referring to heart-mind nature), yet embracing lowliness (referring to selfhood), one becomes like the world's empty valleys (inner stillness, unattached to form). As the world's hollow valleys (maintaining spaciousness), constant De naturally fulfills itself (body and mind liberated, transcendent), attaining luminous perfection.

This passage expounds the core Daoist concept of "returning to original simplicity" (fanpu guizhen). The primordial Dao (the cosmic origin) resembles uncarved wood (pu) in its natural state; when it disperses, it manifests as concrete phenomena (qi). As the Yijing states: "From Wuji comes Taiji (Supreme Ultimate), from Taiji emerge the two polarities (Yin-Yang)," which subsequently generate all things. The dispersed Dao manifests as celestial deities, the movements of sun and moon, and the transformations of the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water).

Wang Chunfu explains that worldly people often value strength, brilliance, and nobility, but true wisdom lies in understanding that strength requires softness to temper it, light needs darkness to contain it, and nobility must be grounded in humility. These surface qualities (the masculine, the bright, the glorious) represent only the branches of existence, while their counterparts (the feminine, the dark, the humble) constitute the root that nurtures all things. Therefore, sages choose to abide by these fundamental qualities—embracing the receptive humility of river valleys—and thus naturally attract the world's allegiance.

Master Fugui further elucidates the twelve-character maxim: "Know the masculine but keep to the feminine; know the white but keep to the black; know glory but keep to humility." Dao practitioners who comprehend this principle transcend dualities of existence/non-existence to attain longevity; virtuous individuals who master it wander freely to reach the Dao's realm. This manifests in three progressive stages:

The first stage, "knowing the masculine but keeping to the feminine," involves recognizing that softness surpasses strength, becoming innocent as an infant who knows no distinction between strong and weak. The second stage, "knowing the white but keeping to the black," means understanding that concealment outweighs display, returning to the undifferentiated Wuji state where black/white distinctions dissolve. The third stage, "knowing glory but keeping to humility," sees through worldly splendor's impermanence, willingly becoming the empty valley that receives all impurities, returning to nature's uncontrived simplicity.

When this pure state fractures, dualistic concepts like strength/weakness, light/dark, glory/humility emerge—tools sages employ to govern the world. Yet fundamentally, the highest state transcends all opposites, returning to the Dao's original undifferentiated chaos.

This passage elucidates the core principles of Daoist cultivation. It begins by clarifying that pursuits of power, fame, and glory are not aligned with the true "Great Dao." The authentic Dao never fragments the wholeness of existence, but maintains a state of softness, humility, and simplicity, returning to the pure, untainted state of an infant—what is known as the realm of "Wuji" (the primordial origin) and "Great Simplicity" (the uncarved block).

The text emphasizes that the crux of Daoist practice lies in mastering the balance of Yin-Yang. The Yang Elixir (the refined Qi obtained through cultivation) originates from the Kun Palace (the female reproductive system), appearing soft yet containing inner strength. Sages understand the principle of strength but abide in gentleness, just as valleys situated in low places can receive all rivers. Practitioners must recognize that "white" represents metallic essence (associated with the Western Dui trigram) while "black" symbolizes the watery foundation (Northern Kan trigram). Metal generates water, yet water contains metal; thus by knowing brightness yet dwelling in darkness, one naturally receives divine illumination.

True cultivators all follow "Constant De" (eternal virtue), maintaining perfect timing in their practice like master alchemists controlling firing times. Returning to Wuji completes the Taiji body (the integrated cosmic form). The text employs the mutual generation and restraint of the Five Phases to illustrate this: while metal normally restrains wood in conventional cycles, cultivation requires inverting this relationship so metal fells wood to foster prosperity. Buddhism speaks of enduring humiliation, while Zhuangzi observes how fragrance arises from foulness and sweetness from bitterness—all expressing the same truth.

Sages comprehend glory yet remain humble, embracing all things like mountain valleys while maintaining perfect virtue. When the firing process reaches completion, one returns to the undifferentiated primordial state. If this original unity fractures, it gives birth to the myriad things. Though sages understand the principles of heaven and earth, the true "Great System" (highest attainment) preserves the original face without dissection that would violate primordial wholeness.

The passage concludes by noting that through Wuwei (non-action) one avoids failure, and through non-attachment one avoids loss—continuing the previous chapter's theme of "abiding in femininity and humility." Those who seek to attain the world (referring to forced cultivation methods) through deliberate action will never succeed, for the Great Dao is fundamentally non-acting. The "divine vessel of the world" refers to the mind as the sacred dwelling place.

This scripture elucidates the core Daoist concept of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)." The Dao itself is inherently complete and self-sufficient (Dao ben yuan cheng). Deliberate striving and forced pursuits inevitably lead to failure and loss (wei zhe bai zhi, zhi zhe shi zhi). Consider these paradoxes: one walks ahead unaware of followers behind, blowing warm breath unknowingly creates chill, present strength belies future decline, a heavily loaded front cart portends the rear cart's overturning—all manifestations of forced action's inherent contradictions.

The sage (one who has attained the Dao) approaches affairs thus: When action becomes unavoidable, they maintain the attitude of non-action (wei wuwei), eliminating extremes (qu shen); when desires must arise, they preserve desirelessness (yu wu yu), discarding extravagance (qu she); when holding becomes necessary, they practice non-attachment (zhi wu zhi), removing excess (qu tai). This principle applies equally to self-cultivation and governing the world.

Xuantongzi (likely a commentator) adds: Internal alchemy (Neidan) texts often metaphorize the body as a nation and vital essence (Jing) as its people. Indeed, statecraft mirrors bodily regulation. In antiquity, pristine simplicity allowed true non-action, but later eras—marked by moral decline and calamities (alluding to historical invasions and rebellions)—necessitated measured action while preserving Wuwei consciousness. Though vast, the world operates like an exquisite vessel (shen qi): spiritual nature favors stillness, and human interference disrupts its natural state.

The conclusion emphasizes: Those who assist rulers with the Dao never glorify martial force (bu shang bing wu). This resonates with earlier injunctions against extravagance and excess (qu she qu tai), rejecting coercive measures as contrary to Daoist principles.

This passage explains that those who assist rulers with the Dao should not rely on military force to dominate the world. True mastery of victory lies in non-contention, for violence often brings retribution (what Daoism calls "returning consequences"). Those who depend on brute strength will soon meet with calamity.

Where armies encamp (symbolizing minds occupied by desires), desolation and chaos follow. After great conflicts (representing the mind distracted by external things and internal struggles), years of famine inevitably come (indicating severe depletion of one's vital essence and spirit). Therefore, the truly wise achieve their purpose and then stop, never seeking to dominate through force.

After achieving the goal, one should not become self-righteous (handling affairs quietly, for the higher one climbs, the greater the danger); not boast of accomplishments (holding fast in silence, as excessive perfectionism leads to the opposite); not grow arrogant (maintaining equanimity, as hubris brings self-destruction); and understand that using force is always a last resort (resolving conflicts through emptiness and stillness, aiming to resolve crises rather than conquer others). After success, one must never presume on strength (following the natural Dao).

Just as plants wither when they grow too lush, people decline when they become too forceful (when the mind is led astray by external things, one loses their true nature). Such coercive methods violate the great Dao. Whatever contravenes the Dao perishes early (when the spirit is clouded by desires, the true Dao is lost forever).

Lü Jifu (a Song Dynasty Daoist) commented: Rulers should govern through non-action (Wuwei), while ministers must act. Those who try to seize the world by force invariably face retribution. Su Zhe (Su Ziyou) cited examples: King Ling of Chu, King Min of Qi, Qin Shihuang, and Emperor Wu of Han—all either suffered personally or brought calamity upon their descendants. Such are the consequences of militarism. Where troops march, livelihoods wither; after war comes famine. All conflicts follow this pattern—how much more so for those who bully others with power?

The term "resolution" refers to decisive action. Only when virtue fails to transform and governance cannot persuade is force reluctantly employed. But one must never presume on this strength—thus after achieving the aim, there is no boasting (eliminating extremes), no flaunting (removing extravagance), no arrogance (avoiding excess), recognizing this as a last resort (fruit of non-intention), following nature without forcing (natural fruit). How dare one bully others? Know this: whatever reaches its zenith must inevitably decline.

All things in the world follow cycles of flourishing and decline, yet those who attain the Dao (the Way) maintain humility in times of perfection and emptiness when fully abundant. They never deliberately pursue dominance, thus avoiding the path to ruin. Those who rely on martial force may appear mighty, but how can they escape the fate of destruction?

The Daoist practitioner Fugui-zi comments: Previous interpretations of this chapter mostly adopted worldly perspectives, while only Patriarch Bai Yuchan (renowned Southern Song dynasty Daoist master) elucidated it from the fundamental source of the Great Dao. Cultivators should regard the heart-mind as their sovereign and the body as their kingdom, assisting this inner ruler with the supreme virtue (De) of water-like softness. This requires three practices: guarding the feminine (maintaining humility), guarding obscurity (concealing one's light), and guarding disgrace (enduring humiliation). Just as one should not flaunt military strength, adepts must refrain from displaying their锋芒 (sharp edges).

Where battles rage, thorns overgrow—likewise, when deluded thoughts run wild, the land of spiritual vitality becomes barren. Great wars inevitably bring lean years, just as rampant thoughts dissipate essence (Jing) and vital energy (Qi). Though supreme virtue appears gentle, it actually softens attachments while strengthening foundations—this is what Buddhists call "vajra" (diamond) and Daoists term "iron-willed." Those who attain the Dao never force outcomes but instead: blunt their sharpness (conceal锋芒), untangle complications (resolve conflicts), harmonize their radiance (blend with ordinary light), and merge with the dust (remain unattached to worldly affairs).

These manifest practically as: achieving without boasting (removing edges of pride), accomplishing without flaunting (forgetting merits), being capable without arrogance (transforming willfulness), acting as if compelled by necessity (free from contrived intentions), and ultimately following natural spontaneity (Wuwei, non-action). All these embody "daring not to seize dominance." Straightforwardness risks breaking—knowing when to bend shows maturity, yet excessive maturity leads to rigidity. When all things reach their peak strength, they begin aging, and aging inevitably brings death—this is the mark of disharmony with the Dao. Those ignorant of assisting the heart-mind's sovereign through nurturing life will find their inner landscape overgrown with thorns.

Heaven's mandate (ming) should flow unbroken—"premature cessation" signifies unnatural decline. Harmony with the Dao brings longevity; losing it causes early demise—this is cosmic law. Hence the subsequent teaching: "Fine weapons are inauspicious."

Chapter 31 "Laying Down Arms" states: Superior weapons are truly ominous (for using intellect to conquer external things never brings true victory—it only disturbs the spirit (Shen) and muddies harmonious Qi). Even the myriad things detest them (being seduced by externals). Thus those embodying the Dao never rely on such means (transcending life-and-death without striving for transcendence). Therefore noble persons value the left (symbolizing gentleness) in peacetime but honor the right (representing firmness) in war.

This passage primarily discusses the principles of warfare. Though weapons (symbolizing forceful means) are important, they remain inauspicious instruments that noble-minded individuals avoid using unless absolutely necessary for self-preservation. The truly enlightened state lies in maintaining a detached and tranquil mind—even victory in battle is not worthy of pride, and those who delight in killing can never attain true mastery under heaven.

In ancient ceremonial practices, auspicious events honored the left (representing Yang and generative energy), while inauspicious events honored the right (representing Yin and solemn restraint). In military formations, lieutenant generals stand on the left (emphasizing growth) while senior generals stand on the right (emphasizing destruction), applying funeral rites to the conduct of war. When lives are taken in great numbers, one must grieve sincerely, and victories should be treated with mourning rituals—this reflects how noble individuals prioritize De (Virtue) over martial prowess.

The commentator Fugui Zi notes that this chapter's essence lies in "tranquil detachment as the highest principle" and "taking no pleasure in killing." The human body is composed of Yin and Yang Qi—what we call "waging war" ultimately means using one's Yang Shen (the refined, active spiritual aspect in Daoist cultivation) to overcome Yin influences, a process fundamentally about eliminating selfish desires. The Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) in heaven and earth all serve human needs, weapons being no exception, but the crucial point is avoiding obsession with them. The most profound "waging of war" is actually the cultivation of mind—this "warfare of the heart" requires no physical blades yet generates formidable power.

This passage elucidates the Daoist distinction between "utensils" (tools, means) and the "Dao" (fundamental principle). Those who truly embody the Dao do not cling to external implements, just as noble individuals normally honor the left side, emulating the celestial Dao's leftward movement. The Yijing (Book of Changes) states that heaven's movement is vigorous and unceasing, so noble persons should constantly strengthen themselves. Yet in military affairs, the right side is honored, following the sun and moon's rightward motion. The art of warfare is none other than the transformations of Yin-Yang—using conventional forces represents Yang, while employing unorthodox tactics embodies Yin.

Weapons are inauspicious objects belonging to the realm of physical implements. Harboring intent to kill is mundane behavior unbefitting noble individuals. What the noble person employs is the metaphysical principle of the Dao—transcending external circumstances through inner cultivation, which constitutes the path to immortality. When compelled to take up arms in self-defense, one must maintain detachment. By reaching a state of selflessness and desirelessness, merging completely with Wuwei (non-action), one attains natural purity without needing to defeat enemies. To only return to one's original mind after vanquishing foes is already inferior virtue.

Those who delight in victory often harbor bloodlust. Such individuals who esteem martial prowess over Daoist practice can never attain fulfillment under heaven. The true "utensil" of noble persons (the method of cultivation) lies not in killing others but in conquering oneself, as later stated in the scripture: "Those who know themselves are enlightened; those who master themselves are strong." Thus auspicious affairs honor the left, drawing upon the generative Qi of the east, while inauspicious matters honor the right, invoking the austere Qi of the west. The lieutenant stands on the left symbolizing the pliant, obedient Wood nature of the east; the commander positions on the right representing the unyielding, decisive Metal nature of the west. After battle, funeral rites should be observed, for even victory depletes vital energy—just as the struggle between principle and desire exhausts the Shen (spirit) even when desires are overcome.

The supreme approach maintains detachment, achieving victory without battle. During meditation, Yang energy ascends from the left ("advancing the Yang fire"), the Yin extreme generates Yang, and the two continuously transform into each other. Yet these subtleties are difficult to comprehend without oral transmission from realized adepts. Therefore noble individuals value serenity and Wuwei—this is the constant Dao. The following section will discuss the sagely virtue of "the Dao that is eternally nameless."

The Dao (the fundamental source and operating principle of the universe) originally has no fixed name, for it transforms without limit—manifesting as both Yin and Yang, expanding and contracting, appearing and disappearing. Like uncarved wood ("pu"), it appears insignificant yet contains infinite potential. Nothing in heaven or earth can surpass the Dao, for it governs the generation and transformation of all things.

If a ruler (or practitioner) can hold fast to the root of the Dao (what we call "guarding the One," maintaining unified consciousness), all things will naturally submit and follow. When body and mind achieve harmonious unity ("the union of heaven and earth"), it produces nourishing dew (metaphor for the saliva generated during cultivation, known in Daoist practice as "divine water entering the flowery pool"). At this stage, no forced control is needed—body and mind naturally balance and harmonize. When thoughts are pure, the body finds peace; when the mind refrains from artificial striving, the spirit naturally transforms.

The primordial Dao exists as undifferentiated wholeness without names. Only when it manifests as concrete phenomena do various designations arise ("the uncarved wood divides into vessels"). Though all things have their particular names and forms, one must understand knowing when to stop ("zhi zhi"), abiding in the Dao's original source. Comprehending this principle prevents the danger of chasing appearances—just as rivers ultimately return to the sea, the myriad phenomena ultimately return to the same root ("all methods return to One").

Master Fugui further explains: The true Dao transcends verbal description, hence its namelessness. Because it maintains primal authenticity, we call it "uncarved wood"; because it lies hidden and subtle, it appears insignificant. Yet all things in heaven and earth depend on it—who dares treat it lightly? Even ordinary people who attain the Dao can bless their surroundings, let alone rulers who preserve this genuineness. When inner Yin and Yang merge ("water and fire unite"), they produce life-nourishing dew. But if body and mind lack harmony, how can one expect such nourishment?

From nameless "uncarved wood" to named objects represents the Dao's natural unfolding. The key lies in understanding that "being" arises from "non-being," hence the importance of abiding in the origin. This wisdom of "knowing when to stop" means preserving the nameless, authentic state. Understanding this principle prevents external things from disturbing one's equilibrium—maintaining serene contentment naturally avoids peril. Just as the Dao permeates all under heaven, the simple, unadorned essence never changes.

This scripture elucidates the internal cultivation principles Dao practitioners should follow through metaphorical comparisons.

It first employs natural imagery: water remains placid when undivided, yet disperses to form streams and valleys. So too with Dao cultivation - seemingly scattered practices ultimately return to their source. Just as rivers merge into seas whose waters cycle back to their origins, practitioners should recognize that inward contemplation surpasses outward seeking. References to the Mud Ball Palace (a key acupoint at the crown), Jade Pond, Great Abyss Pool (source of salivary fluids), and Qi Sea (Dantian) all denote vital internal cultivation sites within the body.

Eight contrasting pairs then reveal essential cultivation truths:

• Understanding others demonstrates wisdom, but true enlightenment comes from self-knowledge
• Vanquishing others shows mere strength, while conquering oneself reveals true power
• Contentment constitutes real wealth
• Persistent practice defines genuine resolve
• Maintaining innate nature ensures endurance
• Physical death with undiminished spirit signifies authentic longevity

The commentator Fugui Zi emphasizes these eight pairs reveal surface-depth relationships requiring nuanced interpretation. For instance:

• "Knowing others" reflects external discernment, while "knowing oneself" demands inner observation
• "Defeating others" relies on brute force, whereas "mastering oneself" requires disciplined cultivation
• Like birds content with single branches or field mice satisfied after drinking, true fulfillment comes from sufficiency
• Yan Hui's persistent practice exemplifies resolve, while Zigong's abandonment demonstrates its lack

The conclusion stresses cultivation's essence lies in singular focus and perseverance - not Zigong's wavering but Yan Hui's steadfastness. As the Yi Jing states: "Heaven's movement is strong; the noble person ceaselessly strengthens themselves." Practitioners should emulate this cosmic dynamism through unremitting refinement.

The Precious Chapters of the Supreme Dao and Virtue expounds on the fundamental principles of life, death, and cultivation for Daoist practitioners. A true cultivator must attain an unshakable inner state, unaffected by external changes—only with a firm foundation can one endure. The "death" mentioned here does not refer to physical demise but to the spiritual state of "the death of the heart-mind brings the vitality of the spirit (Shen)." When worldly distractions perish, the primordial spirit (one's innate spiritual nature) awakens; when the influence of the seven emotions and six desires dissipates, the three celestial souls (heavenly, earthly, and human souls) flourish. This "death of form" actually signifies liberation from the constraints of the physical body, for the true spirit transcends life and death.

The key to daily cultivation lies in self-awareness, self-mastery, and self-strengthening—accumulating progress through perseverance. Those who seek the Dao must understand: the Great Dao (the cosmic origin) is the foundation upon which all things rely for existence. It gives birth to all things yet claims no merit. Like floodwaters that do not distinguish between left or right banks, the Dao is omnipresent. All beings depend on it for growth, yet it never refuses them. It nurtures all things yet does not dominate them. It appears subtle yet encompasses everything; seemingly vast, it remains hidden in formlessness.

Li Xizhai explains that the Dao fills all eight directions of heaven and earth, yet when applied, it is as accessible as something at hand. All things rely on the Dao for life, yet it takes no credit; they achieve completion through the Dao, yet it makes no boast. Fugui Zi adds that even the name "Dao" is merely a forced designation—the true Great Dao must be realized through a state of desirelessness and non-attachment.

This passage builds upon the earlier teaching that "those who do not lose their foundation endure." It illustrates how cultivators should emulate the Dao—nurturing all things while maintaining emptiness, stillness, and desirelessness—ultimately attaining the state of "dying but not perishing," the realm of the perfected being (Zhenren). Just as Buddhism speaks of "a mustard seed containing Mount Sumeru," true greatness often manifests in what appears to be the smallest existence.

The Dao itself has no desires, thus it enables all things to fulfill their own needs. Precisely because it clings to nothing, it can permeate the most minute details - this is why it's called "the most subtle." I (the Dao) return all things to their source without claiming lordship. Observing all things with this detached attitude, forgetting the mind of control, allows each thing to find its true master. The Dao embraces all - this is why it's called "the most vast."

However, note that the Dao's transformative function sometimes manifests and sometimes doesn't, yet its supportive role is omnipresent. Even sages cannot fully comprehend its mysteries. The Dao never proclaims itself as "great," just as the Neidan (internal alchemy) classics state: tracing the Dao's origin, it's initially no larger than a grain of millet. Yet this minute point can achieve infinite vastness, like the alchemical texts say: understanding the root of Kan and Li (Yin and Yang Qi) enables one to contain the Three Realms (desire realm, form realm, and formless realm) within one's body.

The Great Dao is boundless, simultaneously supremely vast and exquisitely subtle. Hence the following passage discusses "holding to the image of the Dao, and all under heaven will follow." Chapter 35 speaks of benevolent virtue:

Grasping the substance of the Dao (its great image), all things under heaven naturally follow. This following causes no harm, for within the Dao there are no controlling ghosts or spirits - it comes and goes freely without constraint. Thus one attains peaceful harmony (Anping Tai): when the heart is settled, one's nature becomes balanced; when nature is balanced, the spirit achieves serenity - all people find their proper place, all things naturally settle.

Just as music and fine food (Le Yu Er) can satisfy people without excess, improper thoughts naturally cease. Yet when the Dao is spoken, it seems bland (Dao Zhi Chu Kou) - this flavorless taste is actually the supreme flavor, like having no sound and no smell. Look for it and you see no form; listen for it and you hear no sound; yet use it and it's inexhaustible.

Shi Deqing explains: What has no concrete form is called "the great image" - though formless, it can merge with all forms. The sage governs the world with selfless attitude, hence all under heaven follows, because the sage and all things are fundamentally one. All things depend on the Dao for existence, so wherever they go, they meet no harm. Those who truly forget external things will find external things forgetting them - thus all things find their proper place, mutually forgetting without contention, naturally peaceful and harmonious, warm as spring.

Fu Guizi says: This continues from the previous chapter's final line. The "great image" is the Dao itself. By holding to the eternal Dao to respond to present circumstances, all things under heaven will follow. "No harm" resembles heaven and earth nurturing all things without injury. All things come bearing their needs, and depart with those needs fulfilled - this is peace. Peace reaching its zenith becomes supreme harmony.

Xuan Tongzi explains: In "music and fine food" (Le Yu Er), "Er" refers to material pleasures. Practitioners of the Dao find inner joy (Le), maintaining moderation when facing external temptations (Er). Improper thoughts cease like passing guests. When the Dao is spoken, it seems bland, yet this flavorless state surpasses all tastes.

The worldly pleasures of sensual delights, material wealth, and extravagant luxuries that sway human hearts and induce obsession are like bait. Since I have already grasped the great Dao (the "Great Image" refers to the Dao), what could possibly tempt my true nature? Even when temptations arise, I simply respond with equanimity—those illusory, unwholesome thoughts naturally dissipate like passing guests, vanishing without a trace.

The true Dao appears plain and flavorless, yet this tastelessness embodies the highest authentic essence. It seems formless, yet this formlessness constitutes the greatest form. It sounds silent, yet this silence resonates as the grandest sound. The Dao transforms endlessly, vast and boundless—its function never exhausts, thus achieving true greatness.

This inexhaustible function is the most subtle and profound instrument. It manifests in the delicate interplay between opening and closing, strength and weakness, rise and fall, giving and taking (the phrase "opening-closing, strength-weakness, decline-rise, giving-taking" refers to the laws of transformation between opposing forces). To gather inward, one must first expand outward; to weaken something, one must first strengthen it; to abolish, one must first let it flourish; to take, one must first give. These are the subtle omens ("subtle clarity") of transformation.

Master Fugui (possibly the annotator) remarks: The core of this chapter lies in the principle that "the soft and weak overcome the hard and strong." Before gathering inward ("contracting and concentrating"), one must first broaden the mind, or true subtlety cannot be attained. To temper sharpness, one must first invigorate the vital spirit (Shen). Cultivation ("gongfu," referring to inner alchemical practice) must begin with deliberate action before reaching the state of "concentrating Qi to attain softness" (a state of focused vitality and pliancy).

To discard sensory desires ("abandoning the ears and eyes, letting go of the limbs"), one must first mobilize inner energy ("Yang-Shen," the refined essence of vital Yang) to overcome distractions. To seize the mechanisms of creation (mastering natural laws), one must first harmonize with the shifts of Yin and Yang. The human spirit is the most pliant—it can penetrate metal and stone without obstruction, enter water and fire without harm. Just as water, the softest thing under heaven, can overcome the hardest substances, thus it is said: the soft and weak conquer the hard and strong.

Those who strive for dominance and victory are like fish trapped within the interplay of Yin-Yang (the complementary polarities of existence). Though they appear free, they can never truly leave the depths of the waters. They grasp sharp weapons yet fail to understand the wisdom of concealing their edges. In contrast, the sage who has attained the Dao transcends the constraints of Yin-Yang, like a divine dragon leaping from the abyss—unfathomable and ever-changing. The entire cosmos rests within their grasp, and all transformations manifest through them. How could such a person ever claim the workings of Heaven as their own achievement?

Lü Dongbin (one of the Eight Immortals of Daoism) once said: The movement of the celestial Dao, the patterns of all things, and the affairs of humanity are fundamentally interconnected. Only by understanding restraint can one comprehend expansion; only by experiencing softness can one grasp strength; only through decline can one recognize prosperity; and only by learning to give can one truly receive. Unless one has penetrated the mysteries of Heaven, who could fathom this truth? This is what is called "subtle wisdom." What truly governs contraction and expansion, weakness and strength, rise and fall, giving and taking is the formless and yielding power—while those dominated by these forces are the rigid and tangible things of the world. Thus, it becomes evident that the soft overcomes the hard.

A person must not abandon their innate softness, just as a fish cannot leave the depths. A fish out of water is easily caught, just as a person who forsakes gentleness hastens their own demise. The softest thing in the world can penetrate the hardest substance and enter where there are no gaps—is this not the sharpest weapon of all? To govern a nation with this intangible "sharp weapon" means all transformations occur effortlessly, without anyone perceiving their origins. Hence, the highest wisdom of governance cannot be casually revealed.

"The soft overcomes the hard" is the natural expression of Wuwei (non-action, or effortless action) in the Dao. Chapter 37, "On Governance," continues: The Great Dao eternally abides in Wuwei (yet its efficacy never wanes), while simultaneously accomplishing all things (acting without limitation). If rulers can uphold this Dao (aligning their minds with nature), the myriad things will transform spontaneously (all changes unfolding naturally). When desires begin to stir (with the arising of a single deluded thought), they are pacified by the nameless simplicity of one's original nature (returning to the genuine state, stilling the restless senses). Practitioners who embody De (virtue/power) inspire others to follow. This state of nameless simplicity (is the Wuwei of the Dao)—even the intention to seek simplicity must be relinquished (for the Dao is naturally Wuwei). In stillness (yet accomplishing all things), the world naturally returns to its proper course (body and mind united—acting with Wuwei ensures all is well governed).

Daoism teaches that the essential nature of the Dao (the Way) is natural Wuwei (non-action), yet its function encompasses all things. Like still water that perfectly reflects the myriad phenomena, only by maintaining a state of emptiness can one truly master all creation. Thus the wisest rulers emulate the Dao's non-action, allowing all things to evolve naturally. People often worry that without active intervention they cannot change circumstances, but such concern is unnecessary.

Since humanity departed from its original state of primal simplicity, selfish desires have gradually expanded, and artificial constructs have multiplied. Therefore, sages use the "nameless simplicity" (referring to the Dao's most authentic state of pristine purity) to restrain these human-made artifices. All man-made principles that boast of "what can be done," "what is valuable," "what is desirable," or "what can be controlled" are rejected. By maintaining this mysterious silent state over time, the ignorant naturally become desireless, while the knowledgeable dare not act recklessly, and restless hearts naturally become tranquil.

The true "nameless simplicity" is difficult to describe in words. The sage neither clings inwardly to thoughts of "embracing simplicity" nor outwardly displays deliberate "simplicity-embracing" behavior—this is genuine desirelessness and natural serenity. When those in power govern through non-action, the people can likewise be naturally non-active. This is the constant Dao of "non-action yet nothing is left undone." Just as heaven and earth operate without deliberate effort yet allow all things to grow naturally.