《太上道德寶章翼》Vol. 2

Chapter 38 of the Daode Jing discusses varying levels of virtuous attainment. The highest "superior De (Virtue/Power)" makes no conscious display of virtue—this is true possession of De. Conversely, "inferior De" anxiously clings to virtuous appearances, thereby losing De's essence. This resembles how obsession with form contradicts the Dao itself.

Those embodying superior De follow nature's flow without forced action (Wuwei), while those of inferior De strain to act, attempting to impress others with virtue. Supreme benevolence may appear active yet remains inwardly still; supreme righteousness seems reasonable but risks attachment to external standards that obscure one's true heart. As for ritual propriety, the more rigidly enforced, the more artificial it becomes—like forcibly rolling up sleeves to compel obedience.

Thus human society develops accordingly: only after losing the Dao do we emphasize De; only after losing De do we emphasize benevolence; only after losing benevolence do we emphasize righteousness; and only after losing righteousness do we stress ritual. Ritual in fact marks the decline of sincerity and trust, becoming the seed of disorder. Those who pride themselves on foresight merely grasp superficial traces of the Dao—this is precisely folly's beginning.

The truly noble person establishes themselves in fundamental simplicity rather than superficial ornamentation, preserving inner substance over external pomp. Therefore we must relinquish artificial embellishments and return to authentic being.

Li Yuansu's commentary explains: The previous chapter discussed "the Dao's constant non-action (Wuwei)," hence this chapter continues with "superior De not being virtuous." The Wuwei of superior De accords with the Dao, while the forced action of inferior De does not. Benevolence and righteousness still approximate De and may serve as steps toward the Dao, but ritual is entirely artificial fabrication, mostly inauthentic. Attempting to regulate all things through ritual only creates greater disharmony, for deliberate action inevitably produces deviation.

If one does not lose the root, one can gradually enter the realm of perfection. Returning from benevolence and righteousness to De (Virtue), and from De back to the Dao, one ultimately attains the state of Wuwei (non-action). What is called "foreknowledge" (the ability to foresee the future) is actually a manifestation of intellectual knowledge, and this very knowledge marks the beginning of losing the Great Dao. Thus it is said that the Dao is but superficial ornamentation—those who truly attain the Dao do not cling to such things.

Shen Jiaomen (Note: possibly a Daoist scholar) said: The highest beings follow nature, eliminating cleverness and contrived wisdom, adhering to the principles of heavenly movement. Without speaking, they communicate like spirits; without deliberately displaying benevolence, righteousness, or ritual, they naturally respond to all things in an endless flow, formless and traceless. This is the supreme De (Virtue) of "never departing from my root"—seeming to have gained nothing, yet thereby truly possessing De.

From this point downward, any state involving deliberate thought and action—anything that can be named and labeled, such as benevolence, righteousness, or ritual—belongs to inferior De, barely able to prevent moral dissipation. Once the concept of "gaining something" arises, the original purity begins to disperse, wholeness starts to fragment, and one drifts further from true De—hence this is called "lacking De."

Another interpretation states: The Dao is omnipresent while De has concrete manifestations; when the Dao descends, it becomes De. De has no form while benevolence has expression; when De fragments, it becomes benevolence. Benevolence makes no distinctions while righteousness draws lines; when benevolence decays, it becomes righteousness. Righteousness requires no adornment while ritual emphasizes form; when righteousness declines, it becomes ritual. So-called superior benevolence, righteousness, and ritual are not yet deliberately fabricated things, yet even these have their flaws—how much more so those that are deliberately contrived?

Thus ritual is the product of diluted loyalty and sincerity, the beginning of disorder. True loyalty and sincerity are contained within, requiring no words to convey harmony. The natural courtesy between father and son is simple and unadorned—if one focuses solely on external manners while neglecting genuine feeling, it breeds resentment instead. Ritual emphasizes elaborate bows and gestures of deference, strict rules of etiquette—when one party performs rituals, they inevitably demand reciprocation, and when equal return is not given, contention arises. Thus when ritual is established, superficial display flourishes while true feeling fades, people begin harboring contempt and deceit, and chaos is born.

The aforementioned "foreknowledge" is cleverness—benevolence, righteousness, and ritual all stem from it—hence it is specifically identified as "the flower of the Dao" (superficial adornment of the Great Dao) and "the beginning of folly." Therefore, the great person establishes themselves on the solid foundation of loyalty and sincerity, not pursuing the shallow forms of ritual; they dwell in the substance of the Dao, not coveting the flashy ornaments of cleverness. Seeking the realm of supreme De, they return to natural simplicity, never willing to abandon the root for the branches.

Laozi's words are all meant to clarify principles for those of penetrating wisdom—they are not discussions for those rigidly clinging to rules and forms. Thus his Dao...

This passage discusses the hierarchical relationship between Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue/Power), as well as the distinctions between Confucian concepts of benevolence, righteousness, and ritual propriety versus Daoist philosophy. At the highest level stands the "Great Dao," which is undifferentiated and beyond names or forms. Next comes "Dao-De," which, though named, encompasses all things. Further down are the specific ethical norms of benevolence, righteousness, and ritual propriety.

The author employs a familial metaphor: losing Dao leads to its descent into De, and losing De further reduces it to benevolence, righteousness, and ritual, much like an ancestor becoming a father, and a father becoming a son—a generational decline. Laozi (Laojun) primarily expounds on the origin of the Great Dao, avoiding fragmented explanations, in hopes that later generations might preserve the root. However, considering the varying capacities of people, Confucius meticulously established the lower-level norms of ritual propriety so that ordinary individuals could follow them.

Fu Guizi further analyzes: Confucianism speaks of the Dao of Heaven and the Dao of humanity, while the Supreme Elder (Laozi) divides De into superior De and inferior De. Superior De corresponds to the Dao of Heaven—spontaneous and non-acting (Wuwei)—like the simplicity of ancient times when knots were used to record events. Inferior De corresponds to the Dao of humanity—deliberate action requiring cultivation of spirit, much like the increasingly complex rituals of the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties. Benevolent governance benefits the people; the highest form of benevolence, though involving action, ultimately returns to non-action—the realm of true kings. Righteousness demands decisiveness, but excessive emphasis leads to unnecessary complications, as seen with the Five Hegemons of the Spring and Autumn period.

Ritual propriety was originally established to curb disorder, but those who fail to grasp its essence believe that simply increasing rituals can reverse the decline of moral customs. Instead, this only makes rituals ever more elaborate. The author traces the progression: the Great Dao descends first to De, then to benevolence, righteousness, and finally ritual. Originally, ritual was meant to stop chaos, but later generations reversed the root and branches.

This passage explores the relationship between superficial splendor and inner substance. When ornamentation becomes overly elaborate, hypocrisy arises; when outward appearances grow excessively luxurious, true martial strength weakens. Is this not precisely the beginning of chaos caused by the dilution of loyalty and trustworthiness?

So-called "foreknowledge" (superficial wisdom) was originally meant to dispel ignorance, yet those who don't understand mistake it for promoting the Dao (the Way) and illuminating darkness. They fail to realize that when authentic nature is lost, ostentation emerges; when intellectual knowledge awakens, all manner of cunning appears. Is this not the beginning of the Dao's empty embellishments and foolishness?

Embellishments lack substance, while substance possesses depth—embellishments can never be profound. How can a true man of virtue not pursue depth? Those who wish to attain profound states should abandon hollow rituals and discard superficial knowledge, for only then can they approach the Dao.

Xue Hui comments: Master Cheng (Cheng Yi) believed that after losing the Dao comes De (Virtue/Power), after losing De comes humaneness, after losing humaneness comes righteousness, and after losing righteousness comes ritual. This divides Dao, De, humaneness, righteousness, and ritual into five grades. Laozi's passage actually examines the beginning and end of Dao and De, revealing the process of their transformation from substantial to superficial. Originally unified, they gradually drift from their root, and De undergoes mutation.

When Laozi states "ritual marks the thinning of loyalty and trustworthiness," he merely notes its superficiality without denying these virtues; when calling "foreknowledge the flower of Dao," he merely points to its ornamental nature without rejecting the Dao itself. Laozi's meaning is actually quite clear—perhaps Master Cheng didn't contemplate it deeply enough.

Some critics argue: Humaneness, righteousness, and ritual laws are the tools sages use to govern the world, yet Laozi's teachings would discard humaneness and righteousness while severing ritual laws. If his words were followed, how could the world avoid chaos? Later generations indeed saw those who prized empty talk over practice and pursued unrestrained freedom while abandoning Confucian ethics—like the Jin dynasty scholars—plunge the world into disorder. This calamity resulted from emulating Laozi's Dao.

These critics neither understand Laozi's original intent nor fully comprehend the Jin dynasty's failings. The Jin scholars weren't truly following Laozi's teachings—their chaos stemmed from other causes. When Laozi advocated discarding humaneness and righteousness or severing ritual learning, was this without reason? He discarded humaneness to return to Dao and De; he severed ritual learning to restore loyalty and trustworthiness. But the Jin scholars? We see them discard humaneness without returning to Dao and De; we see them sever ritual learning without restoring loyalty and trustworthiness.

After the Taikang era of the Western Jin Dynasty and throughout the Eastern Jin's partial rule south of the Yangtze (the region east of the lower reaches), scholar-officials became obsessed with empty fame and high positions, indulging in pleasure-seeking and comfort, scrambling for power and profit while reveling in sensual entertainments. Their greed and baseness reached extreme levels—even their much-touted "pure conversation" (the metaphysical debates popular during Wei-Jin times) and penchant for unrestrained behavior weren't the worst offenses. The Jin Dynasty's decline and chaos stemmed precisely from these tendencies.

Did Laozi's teachings ever advocate such things? The Daode Jing clearly states: "The purest white seems sullied" (suggesting true nobility doesn't flaunt itself)—does this endorse chasing empty fame? "Those who persevere have firm resolve"—does this promote self-indulgence? "Diminish selfishness, reduce desires"—does this encourage power struggles? "Don't display what excites desire"—does this condone sensual pleasures? "More words mean quicker exhaustion"—does this justify licentiousness? Measured against these standards, the Jin scholar-officials' conduct stood diametrically opposed to Laozi's teachings—as incompatible as squares and circles, black and white. How could this be called inheriting Laozi's Dao?

Xuántóngzǐ (possibly the author's sobriquet) lamented: Alas! The Three Teachings (Confucianism, Buddhism, Daoism) should support each other like a tripod's three legs—they should never vilify one another. From the late Three Dynasties (Xia-Shang-Zhou) through the Warring States period, historical records like the Spring and Autumn Annals documented ministers assassinating rulers and sons murdering fathers. From Qin-Han to the Five Dynasties and Ten Kingdoms, the Tang-Song transitions witnessed countless upheavals. Those wielding power and influence outwardly promoted Confucian benevolence and ritual learning while secretly committing the most heinous usurpations—some worse than Jin Dynasty figures—as dynastic histories plainly attest.

Eminent Confucians like Cheng Yi and Zhu Xi should have surveyed history comprehensively, noting how certain dynasties claiming to follow Confucius produced certain ills, while others emulating Laozi yielded different problems. Yet they failed to recognize how cunning manipulators exploited the names of sage-kings like Yao-Shun and Tang-Wu or virtuous ministers like Yi Yin and Duke of Zhou, while actually following usurpers like Wang Mang, Cao Cao, and the Sima clan. These crimes provoked cosmic wrath—how could they reflect flaws in Confucius' or Laozi's great Dao? This eternal truth brings righteous satisfaction. Why ignore these facts to wrongly target Jin Dynasty "pure conversation" in mutual attacks?

Alas! Mencius opposed Yang Zhu and Mozi during the Warring States out of necessity. Must we today remain trapped in such either-or debates? Does this align with studying the Three Sages' (likely Confucius, Laozi, and Buddha) original intent? Moreover, I've heard true gentlemen form no factions—would sages engage in partisanship? Those truly understanding Laozi's teachings would never harbor anti-Confucian sentiments.

"Reject that and take this" (Daode Jing Chapter 12) means discarding the peripheral to grasp the essential. The essence is "the One" (Dao's fundamental nature), hence the subsequent chapter "Those of old who attained the One" (Daode Jing Chapter 39: all ancient attainers followed this primal unity).

Those who in ancient times comprehended the "One" (i.e., the Dao): Heaven attains clarity through the One, Earth attains stability through the One, the divine attains efficacy through the One, valleys attain fullness through the One, the myriad things attain growth through the One, and rulers attain governance through the One.

All these stem from grasping the same fundamental principle. Should Heaven lose its clarity, it would likely collapse (like stars deviating from their orbits); should Earth lose its stability, it would likely quake (like mountains crumbling); should the divine lose its efficacy, it would likely dissipate; should valleys lose their fullness, they would likely dry up; should the myriad things lose their vitality, they would likely perish; and should rulers lose the foundation of governance while pursuing lofty status, they would likely fall.

Thus, nobility takes humility as its root (just as the divine takes innate nature as its basis), and high position takes lowly status as its foundation (just as innate nature is the root of the heart). Therefore, rulers (symbolizing the human mind) refer to themselves as "the solitary one," "the desolate one," or "the unworthy one" (meaning uselessness as self-effacement)—is this not taking humility as the root? The true Dao manifests in oneself. Hence it is said that only when many parts are assembled is it called a chariot (symbolizing the state of "no-self"). Do not be like jade that draws attention (not clinging to possession), but be like an uncarved stone—whole and natural (preserving oneself naturally). Just as wheel parts assembled make a chariot, the four great elements (earth, water, fire, wind) harmonize to form the "self."

Master Fugui explains: This "ancient times" refers to the undifferentiated chaos before Heaven and Earth separated. The "One" is the essence contained within chaos, circulating to form the Taiji (the cosmic origin). When unfolded, it is the "One," which is the Dao. This "One" existed before Heaven and Earth and does not age. Did not Heaven and Earth attain clarity and stability precisely because they obtained the "One"? This shows the "One" permeates all things. Did not the divine and valleys attain efficacy and fullness precisely because they obtained the "One"? This shows the "One" penetrates both the manifest and unmanifest. Did not the myriad things and rulers attain life and flourishing precisely because they obtained the "One"? This shows the "One" fills the entire cosmos. Though expressed differently in each case...

Clarity, tranquility, vitality, abundance, growth, and steadfastness—these seemingly different states are all manifestations of the One in essence. Heaven maintains its clarity without being fragmented; Earth maintains its tranquility without being destroyed. As long as Heaven and Earth endure, the One remains eternal. The divine spirits (Shen) maintain their vitality without ceasing; the valleys maintain their abundance without drying up. As long as the spirit and the valley endure, the One remains eternal. All things grow without perishing; lords and kings uphold righteousness without falling. As long as all things and rulers continue to function, the One never ceases.

Master Bai (Bai Yuchan) commented on the phrase "Those of ancient times who attained the One" by saying: Who am I to speak of this? Yet contemplating these four words deeply, if the ancients could realize the state of the One, modern people should not lag behind. Heaven does not monopolize clarity, Earth does not monopolize tranquility, the divine spirits do not monopolize vitality, valleys do not monopolize abundance, all things do not monopolize life force, and lords and kings do not monopolize the right path. I use the One to penetrate all things, without distinctions of nobility or baseness, high or low, root or branch, great or small, refined or coarse—their essence is all the One. Where is there any separation?

Consider how lords and kings, though supremely noble, and common people, though supremely humble, are interconnected. If the people scatter, the ruler stands isolated above. Does this not show that nobility takes humility as its root, and height takes depth as its foundation? Practitioners of the Dao compare the body to a nation, the heart to the ruler, and the vital essence (Jing) and energy (Qi) to the people. Yet beginners must start by accumulating Jing and Qi—this is the principle of "the noble taking the humble as its foundation."

Nature (Xing, innate essence) belongs to Heaven and often dwells hidden at the crown of the head; life (Ming, acquired vitality) belongs to the sea and often dwells hidden below the navel. To seek only Xing is like fishing for the moon in water; to seek only Ming is like needing a path for a journey of ten thousand miles. Hence it is said, "The high takes the low as its foundation." Therefore, those who study the Dao, before attaining it, do not fear hardship in their pursuit, and after attaining it, maintain a mindset of "having nothing gained" and dare not show off—just as lords and kings humbly call themselves "solitary," "desolate," and "unworthy."

The Dao (Way) is originally ineffable; when dispersed, it becomes specific concepts like benevolence, righteousness, and propriety—just as dismantling a carriage leaves only its shafts, wheels, and spokes. Those who attain the Dao can neither be revered nor despised, hence it is said, "They do not wish to be jade-like in their rarity, nor stone-like in their coarseness." So how should those who attain the Dao act? Simply by "carrying the soul and embracing the One without separation"—maintaining the unity of form and spirit (Shen) without division, being neither precious jade nor coarse stone, but preserving the simplicity of natural wholeness.

This passage explains the operational patterns of the Dao. "Reversal is the movement of the Dao" means the Dao's operation often manifests through complementary opposites, just as nobility takes humility as its foundation mentioned earlier. The Dao's movement appears contrary yet actually returns to the origin; its function seems soft and weak yet encompasses all things.

All natural phenomena arise from "being" (concrete existence), which in turn originates from "non-being" (formless source). As Master Fugui observed, heaven and earth operate through the alternating rhythms of yin and yang: six yang phases and six yin phases cycling continuously, completing their missions before withdrawing—this represents dynamic balance. When reaching the peak of the Kun hexagram (when yin energy is strongest), though yin appears dominant, yang energy secretly begins germinating. Isn't this precisely the Dao's reverse movement?

While the Dao's essence embraces all things, its function manifests through apparent softness. The Yin Fu Jing states that the Dao of heaven and earth operates gradually—seasons don't change abruptly, and when all vegetation withers, pine and cypress remain evergreen. Doesn't this demonstrate the Dao's gentle functioning? "The named is the mother of all things" shows phenomena emerge from "being," while "the nameless is the origin of heaven and earth" reveals "being" springs from "non-being." The transformation from non-being to being values reverse movement; the process of generation from being values gentle non-contention.

Neidan (internal alchemy) practitioners understand that ordinary people follow the forward path, while immortality requires reverse cultivation. During the hai to zi hours (9 PM to 1 AM), they circulate the "river chariot" (a Neidan term for qi circulation), guiding the metal qi from kidney water to flow inversely with the wood liquid from the heart until reaching the heavenly valley point at the crown. There, qi unites with shen (spirit) before descending to the yellow court (dantian). This "union of qian and kun" (yin-yang fusion) deposits a spark of true yang in the dantian—precisely manifesting the Dao's movement.

Practitioners must restrain forceful tendencies and maintain soft receptivity: eyes turned inward, ears listening to silence, breath regulated, tongue touching the palate. Like the Buddha's instruction to observe the nose-tip's whiteness—initially perceiving breath as smoke, gradually transforming breath into white light, until all respiration becomes illumination—such is the wondrous function of the gentle Dao.

"Being" allows observation of phenomena's boundaries; "non-being" enables comprehension of the origin's profundity. True Dao-realized individuals understand that clinging to either "being" or "non-being" is partial—truth emerges from their dialectical relationship. This principle of mutual generation between being and non-being can only be grasped without doubt by those of superior spiritual capacity.

This chapter discusses three types of attitudes people hold toward the Dao. The highest caliber individuals (superior practitioners), upon hearing the great truth of the Dao, immediately practice it with urgency—like an armless man attempting to throw punches. Those of middling capacity (average practitioners) listen with partial belief and doubt, resembling a mute person trying to describe a dream—wavering between action and hesitation. The lowest caliber individuals (inferior practitioners) actually laugh when they hear it—yet ordinary people use the Dao daily without realizing it. If such people didn’t mock it, this would ironically indicate it wasn’t the true Dao.

The ancients concluded: The truly illuminated great Dao appears dim (because its original form remains concealed); advancing in cultivation seems like retreating (because one must continually relinquish attachments); the smoothest path appears rugged (as it makes no deliberate distinctions between high and low). The noblest De (Virtue) resembles a valley—hollow and receptive (capable of embracing all things); the purest whiteness seems stained (without striving to stand out); vast Virtue always seems insufficient (though the noble person’s Virtue runs deep, it appears simple). Establishing Virtue should be done as if in secret (nurturing it constantly without display); unadorned integrity seems changeable (free from rigid views). The greatest square has no corners (the divine mystery has no fixed form); the most precious vessel takes the longest to complete (the Dao existed before all things yet manifests only afterward). The loudest sound cannot be heard (it emerges only at the proper moment); the greatest form has no shape (indescribable by names or appearances). The Dao remains eternally hidden and nameless, yet it alone excels at nourishing all things and bringing them to fulfillment (it generates and transforms all without being transformed by them, skillfully concealing its function).

Master Fugui (possibly a commentator) adds: The Supreme Venerable (referring to Laozi) primarily speaks of the Dao from the perspective of heavenly principles, yet this chapter’s mention of "diligent practice" addresses human cultivation. The alternation of Yin and Yang is the Dao; comprehending the principles of innate nature (Xing) and life force (Ming) constitutes attainment of the Dao. Here, "hearing the Dao" does not mean listening with ears but awakening through the heart-mind. Those of superior spiritual capacity, upon hearing the great Dao, fear no hardship in practice. Patriarch Bai (likely referring to Bai Yuchan) uses the metaphor of "an armless man attempting to throw punches," perhaps concerned that some may understand the method but lack the necessary resources. Those of middling capacity remain half-convinced and doubtful, while inferior practitioners, upon hearing the teachings of dual cultivation of nature and life (Xing-Ming Shuangxiu), cling instead to heterodox practices like barren seated meditation—even mocking those who truly understand how to "steal" heaven and earth’s creative transformations and grasp the mysterious pivotal points.

This passage from The Wings of the Precious Chapters on the Dao and De expounds on the mysterious nature of the Great Dao and the varying levels of cultivation among practitioners. The true Dao often appears contrary to superficial appearances—just as radiant light seems dim (the bright Dao appears obscure), progress resembles retreat (advancing in the Dao seems like stepping back), and a smooth path looks rugged (the even Dao appears uneven). The highest Virtue (De) is as open as an empty valley (superior Virtue resembles a hollow), the purest character willingly mingles with dust (the spotless white seems sullied), and the most expansive Virtue always seems incomplete (abundant Virtue appears insufficient).

The true Great Dao has no sharp corners (the great square lacks edges), the most precious vessel takes time to perfect (the great vessel is late in completion), the grandest sound is nearly inaudible (the great sound is faint), and the greatest form is formless (the great image has no shape). The Dao remains hidden and nameless (the Dao is concealed and nameless), like a tree returning to its unadorned simplicity (returning to its original simplicity). Those who embody the Dao, having surplus, aid others in their lack (having abundance, they relieve others' scarcity). Such giving resembles a loan (lending), enabling recipients to achieve their aims (and accomplish). The Dao silently nourishes all things without leaving traces (lending to all things without their awareness)—this is the most perfect act of giving (skillful in lending and accomplishing).

The Tang Dynasty scholar Lu Xisheng explained: Superior practitioners (superior scholars) penetrate appearances to grasp essence—upon hearing the Dao, they devoutly practice it. Middling practitioners (middling scholars) waver between belief and doubt. Inferior practitioners (inferior scholars), seeing only surface phenomena, laugh when they hear of the Dao. The true Dao is inherently profound and unfathomable (subtle, mysterious, and penetrating). If it were not mocked by the shallow, it would hardly deserve to be called the Great Dao. Those who embody the Dao: their brilliance shines like sun and moon yet does not dazzle (the bright Dao appears obscure), they emulate heaven and earth without rigid formality (the even Dao appears uneven), they follow the cyclical rhythms of the seasons to return to the source (advancing in the Dao seems like stepping back), humble as lowlands yet insurmountable (superior Virtue resembles a hollow), blending with the world yet remaining unstained (the spotless white seems sullied), nurturing all things without claiming merit (abundant Virtue appears insufficient).

The Wings to the Precious Chapters of the Supreme Dao's Virtue elucidates the operational principles of the Dao (the Way) and its wisdom for navigating life:

Though the Dao accomplishes all things, it never flaunts its achievements. This method of establishing De (Virtue/Power) is as if done in secret. Restoring one's original nature to govern emotions appears simple yet contains profound transformation. Inwardly square yet outwardly round, it resembles the most perfect square that paradoxically shows no edges. The truly great vessel (an exceptional person) is like a potter shaping the world—not pursuing immediate gains, often achieving fulfillment later.

The Great Dao stirs all beings through wordless teaching, relying not on trivial instructions. Thus, the loudest sound becomes inaudible. Acting through Wuwei (non-action), its workings remain invisible—hence the greatest form appears formless. Hidden within all things without revealing name or appearance, the Dao skillfully nurtures yet seeks no reward. Therefore, all creatures benefit unknowingly. Herein lies the profound paradox of the Dao's realm: the superior person hears and diligently practices, the average person doubts intermittently, while the inferior laughs in disbelief.

The text then explains the cosmogonic process of "Dao generating the One": from formless Dao emerges the primordial Qi (vital energy), which divides into Yin-Yang energies. Their interaction produces the Three Powers (heaven, earth, and humanity), subsequently generating all things. All creatures carry Yin on their backs and embrace Yang in their fronts, achieving harmony through their fusion.

What worldly people detest—terms like "orphaned," "widowed," or "unworthy"—rulers adopt as self-designations. For things may gain through diminishment and lose through augmentation (as humility brings blessings while pride invites loss). The sage's teaching urges self-restraint and humble virtue, advocating self-reflection when encountering misdeeds. The tyrannical never meet good ends—this truth I establish as fundamental instruction.

Master Fugui concludes: This exposition moves from celestial principles to human norms. The Dao is Wuji (the Limitless), its formless generation of Qi constitutes Taiji (Supreme Ultimate), and the Yin-Yang duality gives birth to the Three Powers. All living beings have static Yin along their backs while active Yang manifests through frontal senses. Even plants grow with shaded backs facing Yin and sunward fronts embracing Yang.

This passage expounds the Daoist core principle that "the soft and weak overcome the hard and strong." The Yin and Yang energies flow and intermingle within all things, creating a state of harmony (chong qi yi wei he). The concept of "One" embodies both loftiness and humility—supreme in its uniqueness yet humble like rulers who refer to themselves with self-deprecating terms such as "solitary," "desolate," or "unworthy." By using these humble appellations, kings and lords remind themselves to remain grounded despite their high positions; through self-diminishment, they paradoxically attain true benefit.

While conventional wisdom teaches transforming weakness into strength and softness into hardness, Daoism advocates the opposite—retracting one's sharp edges. Those who rely on brute force may appear to gain advantage, but they often meet untimely ends, suffering greater losses in the long run. This is not mere moralizing but fundamental truth. What others regard as teaching, I hold as an essential principle—the "unworthy" person serves as the wise one's mirror.

The softest thing in the world (referring to the Dao) can penetrate the hardest substances (concrete existence), emerging from emptiness to enter even the most seamless spaces. Herein lies the benefit of wuwei (non-action): wordless teaching (like heaven's silent nurturing of all things) and the advantages of non-interference (cultivating the body nourishes shen and qi; governing a state benefits the people—all achieved through clarity and naturalness). Few in the world attain this realm.

Li Yuansu explains that while the previous chapter discussed ultimate humility, this chapter continues with the principle of supreme softness overcoming hardness. By continuously reducing desires, one ultimately reaches wuwei; though using no words, one gains trust—truly rare are the benefits of non-action. Here, "galloping" (chicheng) signifies mastery. Su Dongpo adds: when hardness confronts hardness, either breaks or shatters; when softness meets hardness, neither suffers harm. Using "being" to enter "being" creates conflict, while using "non-being" to enter "being" encounters no resistance—just as water permeates metal and stone. The sage, precisely through wuwei, masters multitudes of the strong and moves effortlessly through all existence. Yan Junping concludes: deliberate action invites failure.

This passage from the "Precious Chapters of the Supreme Dao's Virtue" elucidates the profound principle of Wuwei (non-action) in Daoism.

When we act through "you" (deliberate effort), we often meet with failure; yet through "wu" (natural non-action), the Dao accomplishes all things between heaven and earth. Consider sound: ordinary sounds cannot carry beyond a hundred miles, yet the soundless sound of the great Dao resonates throughout the cosmos. Language has inherent limitations, while the Dao's "wordless teaching" harmonizes Yin-Yang and resonates with heaven and earth. The heavens and earth never act deliberately, yet the four seasons follow their natural course—this is the clearest demonstration of this truth.

Master Fugui further explains: Approaching the realm of "being" through "being" creates conflict and separation, but entering the realm of "being" through "non-being" allows complete penetration. Because the essence of "wu" is emptiness, those who understand the marvelous function of emptiness comprehend the benefits of Wuwei.

The text then compares fame and life: Which is more precious—reputation or one's vital essence? Which is more important—the body or material possessions? Gaining fame and wealth at the cost of losing one's true nature—is this truly gain or loss? Excessive pursuit inevitably depletes one's Shen (spirit), while over-accumulation ultimately brings loss. Those who know contentment avoid disgrace; those who understand moderation achieve longevity.

Master Lü Jifu adds: Martyrs sacrifice their lives for reputation, unaware that life is more precious than fame. Misers harm their bodies for wealth, ignorant that the body surpasses material goods in importance. All people claim to cherish life, yet devote greater energy to chasing fame and fortune. They hoard treasures in life fearing robbery, and bury valuables in death dreading theft. Those who consider fame and gain as honors inevitably feel disgraced by their loss. Only through contentment and preserving one's authentic nature can one transcend the bondage of reputation and wealth to attain true peace.

(Note: "Wuwei" here refers to the attitude of following nature's course without forced striving; both Fuguzi and Lü Jifu were noted Daoist commentators.)

This passage expounds the Daoist wisdom on human conduct. Its core teaching reveals that the most profound states often appear incomplete yet their efficacy remains inexhaustible.

That which is truly perfect seems defective ("Great perfection appears defective"), yet its function never declines; that which is most full appears empty ("Great fullness seems hollow"), yet its utility is boundless. The straightest appears bent ("Great straightness seems crooked"), the most skillful appears clumsy ("Great skill seems awkward"), and the most eloquent seems inarticulate ("Great eloquence seems stammering").

Restlessness overcomes cold ("Restlessness conquers cold"), while stillness overcomes heat ("Stillness conquers heat"). Maintaining a mind of clarity and stillness (Qingjing) through Wuwei (non-action) constitutes the proper way to govern the world.

The commentator Fugui Zi explains that this chapter reveals how neither heaven nor earth possesses flawless perfection, nor do sages possess omnipotence. Minor worldly achievements are easily attained yet equally prone to decline, while the Dao of Heaven always reduces excess to supplement deficiency—this is the principle behind "Great perfection appears defective." By preserving some unspent vitality to return to natural creation (referring to cosmic operation), the generative power of creation becomes increasingly inexhaustible with use.

Minor fullness easily overflows and exhausts itself, while the Dao of Heaven dislikes fullness and favors humility. Maintaining moderate regulation to assist the Great Void (referring to the cosmic origin) ensures the opening and closing transformations of the universe become increasingly boundless with use.

As for qualities like uprightness, skill, and eloquence that people value: minor uprightness refuses to bend and thus breaks easily; true skill lies not in superficial technique but in apparent clumsiness; true eloquence lies not in verbal dexterity but in knowing when to remain silent.

Restlessness generates fiery Qi—when desires become excessive, this fiery Qi grows strong enough to conquer cold. Stillness generates watery Qi—when reason prevails, this descending watery Qi can restrain heat. The noble person, rather than letting agitation nourish desires, should maintain a stable and tranquil mind-state.

The passage concludes by noting that when the human mind achieves a state of pure stillness free from distractions, it merges completely with the natural order of heaven and earth ("All under heaven returns to it").

This scripture expounds the wisdom of clarity, stillness, and wuwei (non-action). The sage maintains inner purity—appearing incomplete (ruo que) yet profoundly receptive (ruo chong), a state that never exhausts itself. Ordinary people constantly pursue perfection, yet all perfection inevitably declines; they chase fullness, yet fullness ultimately wanes. The sage abides in great achievement without clinging to perfection, seeks great abundance while embracing emptiness, appearing fragmented externally while their inner De (Virtue) remains overflowing.

Maintaining humility, emptiness, and frugality of mind paradoxically leads to lasting abundance. By yielding to the transformations of things and following natural patterns without rigid adherence to singular methods, one embodies the "great straightness" (supreme alignment) that appears circuitous. Uncontrived craftsmanship that follows innate nature achieves the "great skill" (supreme artistry). Refraining from idle discourse about non-Dao matters, even relinquishing the impulse to debate, manifests the "great debate" (supreme discernment). When the heart-mind is clear, the state becomes tranquil; ultimate clarity brings penetrating awareness, perceiving all directions without obstruction. Individual purity inspires collective purity, ultimately clarifying heaven and earth—hence "clarity and stillness rectify the world."

The subsequent "When the world follows Dao" chapter further illustrates: When the world aligns with the Great Dao, warhorses return to plow fields (que zou ma yi fen); when it deviates, even broodmares give birth on battlefields (rong ma sheng yu jiao). The gravest offense is indulging desires, the greatest calamity is insatiability, the deepest fault is unbridled greed. Those who know contentment remain perpetually abundant. Li Yuansu explains: The previous chapter shows how clarity and stillness rectify the world, naturally ending wars and restoring agriculture. True abundance lies in inner peace—cessation of craving prevents misfortune.

(Note: "Ruo que ruo chong" derives from the Daodejing's "Great fullness seems empty"; "que zou ma yi fen" metaphorizes peacetime repurposing of warhorses; "rong ma sheng yu jiao" symbolizes perpetual warfare.)

This scripture expounds the paramount importance of clarity and non-action (Wuwei). When rulers fail to follow the Dao (the cosmic natural order), their inner peace becomes disrupted; this lack of inner stillness leads to chaos in the world; and worldly chaos inevitably necessitates military force to restore order. Thus, the classic states: "Warhorses appear in the wilderness"—all sins, calamities, and faults ultimately stem from greed.

Those who understand contentment are forever abundant—this is the essence of self-cultivation. When the mind is clear and tranquil, desires naturally cease; when desires cease, thoughts become settled. This is the principle behind "returning warhorses to plow the fields." Conversely, when the mind lacks clarity and desires remain unchecked, thoughts become like runaway horses, resulting in the scenario of "warhorses appearing in the wilderness."

Master Fugui explains: When the world follows the Dao, emotions return to their original nature, our thought-horses no longer gallop wildly, and spiritual awareness naturally manifests—this is "returning warhorses to plow the fields." When the world lacks the Dao, innate nature is driven by passions, thought-horses run rampant, and the heart-field becomes barren, leading to the vision of "warhorses in the wilderness." All this occurs because the inner self lacks purity, greed proliferates, and illusions are mistaken for reality, becoming the root of sin.

One desire begets countless others, and insatiability is the greatest calamity. When greed persists, anxiety arises from unfulfilled desires, and even after obtaining them, fear of loss lingers—exhausting the heart-mind like warhorses galloping wildly across the plains, leaving fertile fields overgrown with thorns. All this stems from failing to understand contentment. If one waits for complete fulfillment before being content, that moment will never arrive. Thus, those who find joy in contentment embody what Shao Yong expressed in his poetry: "To possess a sound body is heaven's blessing—why fret over external fame and fortune?"

Those who truly grasp this principle safeguard the Three Treasures of their being (Jing, Qi, Shen—the essential energies in Daoist physiology), preventing their depletion. Thus, even a simple life brings fulfillment. The enlightened prioritize inner cultivation over external pursuits, which leads naturally to the teaching that "one need not leave the door to know all under heaven."

Chapter 47, "The Mirror of Distant Vision," states: Without stepping outside (through dedicated practice), one comprehends worldly affairs (wisdom penetrating all things); without gazing through windows (transcending bodily senses), one understands heavenly principles (surpassing form and cunning). The farther one travels (with scattered thoughts), the less one truly knows (as spirit disperses). Thus, the sage knows without journeying (mind like a clear mirror), perceives without seeing (wisdom like a sharp sword), and accomplishes without striving.

Li Yuansu explains that "knowing all under heaven without leaving the door" refers to the enlightened prioritizing inner cultivation over external knowledge—a continuation of the previous chapter's teachings.

This passage elucidates a crucial insight in Daoist cultivation: inner realization holds greater significance than external exploration. By understanding one's inner self without obsessing over external phenomena, one attains true omniscience; conversely, focusing solely on superficial appearances while neglecting intrinsic nature leads to shallow, fragmented knowledge.

Master Fugui (likely a Daoist practitioner) remarks: The sage's De (Virtue) is complete, and their wisdom penetrates the principles connecting heaven and humanity. Though countless individuals exist in the world, human nature shares the same essence. By truly knowing one's own inherent nature, one simultaneously understands all human nature—why must one venture abroad to comprehend the world? Genuine knowledge isn't superficial observation, but the realization that "all people are my siblings, and all things share my substance." The Dao of heaven manifests simply as the patterns of Yin-Yang's ascent and descent, the sun and moon's revolutions. Sages discern behavioral principles by observing these celestial rhythms, needing no window-gazing for enlightenment—for cosmic laws are imprinted in human nature. Heaven's destiny is humanity's destiny; heaven and humankind are fundamentally united.

If physical travel were necessary to understand the world, how far could legs possibly carry one? Such knowledge would inevitably remain limited. If window-gazing were required to comprehend heaven's Dao, how much could eyes truly perceive? Such vision would inherently stay narrow. Thus, the farther one journeys outwardly, the less one ultimately knows. Therefore, sages know without traveling (as a single grain of rice contains the entire cosmos), understand without seeing (like sensing hidden dragons in deep pools or distant thunder while sitting in stillness), and accomplish without striving (effortlessly reaching supreme awakening). The Doctrine of the Mean describes this state: "Though unmoving, it manifests; though inactive, it transforms; through Wuwei (non-action), all is accomplished."

Chapter 48 ("On Forgetting Knowledge") further clarifies: In scholarly pursuit, one daily accumulates knowledge (as climbing a hundred-foot pole demands continual ascent), but in cultivating the Dao, one daily discards attachments (emptying all fixations). Through relentless reduction (stripping away external layers to reveal essential nature), one ultimately attains Wuwei (a mind empty yet luminous). This very non-action enables omnipotence (all things spontaneously flourish—nothing remains unattainable at this stage). Hence, governing the world requires maintaining a no-mind state (unfettered by external objects). The moment deliberate action arises (distracted by phenomena), one becomes unworthy to govern (as if treating the world like discarded sandals—forced action ultimately reveals its limits).

Ancient cultivators sought the state of "Oneness," where learning itself was cultivation. Yet modern practitioners have diverged into two paths: one pursues broad knowledge and intellectual growth—this is called "daily accumulation through study," a process of continuous refinement. The other discards cleverness and reduces desires—this is termed "daily diminishment through the Dao," a return to serene practice.

Not only must excessive desires be diminished, but even seemingly precious knowledge and wisdom, like fragments of gold and jade, should not be clung to by the cultivator's mind. One must continually reduce until reaching the state of "Wuwei" (non-action). Upon attaining Wuwei, there is nothing left to diminish. This state of "doing nothing yet leaving nothing undone" signifies the mind's union with the Dao, and the Dao's union with emptiness—where all things return to the void.

To whom, then, do all things under heaven belong? They belong to emptiness. And to whom does emptiness belong? It belongs to the state of "no-affairs" (a realm free from attachment). The sage's mind holds no attachments, forgetting both the metaphysical Dao and concrete objects, placing the entire world within his vast, empty realm. Here, the world does not seem large, nor does his own mind seem small. The slightest lingering thought, even as tiny as a speck of dust, obstructs the ability to contain heaven and earth within the space of a single thought.

Li Xizhai explains: Study aims to acquire knowledge, hence called "accumulation"; cultivation seeks to eliminate delusions, hence called "diminishment." Without exhausting knowledge, delusions cannot be fully removed—thus "daily accumulation" serves precisely to achieve "daily diminishment." By continuously diminishing delusions until they vanish completely, one attains Wuwei. At this stage, all conditioned phenomena are encompassed within non-action, beyond discussion of increase or decrease. In the ultimate state of Wuwei, even possessing the world feels like nothing has occurred. If one seeks attainment through attachment, not even a single thing can be gained—let alone the entire world.

The previous chapter discussed "gaining the world through no-affairs," so this chapter follows by addressing how "the sage has no constant mind"—emphasizing adaptability without violating the natural essence of all things.

Chapter 49 describes the sage's virtue: The sage holds no fixed opinions (only by not making the self the center can one perceive the true mind) and takes the people's hearts as his own (for human nature is fundamentally interconnected, capable of spontaneous resonance). To the kind, I respond with kindness (affirming their virtue); to the unkind, I also respond with kindness (guiding them back to virtue)—this is true De (Virtue/Power) in harmony with the Dao. To the trustworthy, I respond with trust (understanding all spirits are ultimately One Spirit, all Qi is One Qi); to the untrustworthy, I likewise respond with trust.

This passage discusses the relationship between sages and common people. The sage's mind resembles still water reflecting a mirror—utterly calm and clear, free from preconceptions, maintaining a natural attitude toward all things. In ancient times, those who were virtuous and non-virtuous, trustworthy and untrustworthy, could coexist peacefully. But in later ages, people became overly preoccupied with distinguishing good from evil, which ironically made the non-virtuous even less virtuous and the untrustworthy even less trustworthy.

The sage's method of governing the world lies in grasping the root of virtue and vice without obsessing over distinctions, thus transforming the non-virtuous toward virtue. They hold to the essence of trustworthiness without forcing outward displays, thereby leading the untrustworthy to become trustworthy. Sages always maintain a reverent and cautious attitude, guiding all hearts back to simplicity and naturalness.

Though common people may have diverse thoughts, sages regard them all as innocent children, embracing everyone with an inclusive mind. Much like the Buddhist teaching "I do not despise you—all can attain Buddhahood," the sage does not deliberately exhibit virtue or trustworthiness but naturally embodies this state.

Regrettably, later generations treated the people with deceit and hypocrisy, making it nearly impossible to restore the world's hearts to their original purity. Li Zhuowu commented: "Whether people are virtuous or not, the sage treats them with virtue; whether they are trustworthy or not, the sage trusts them. The sage does not intentionally display virtue and trustworthiness—it is simply their natural way."

This passage elucidates the fundamental principles by which sages govern the world. The sage does not cling to personal opinions but aligns with the will of the people. For true goodness does not reside in individual virtue, but in shared virtue that unites all hearts; genuine sincerity is not personal conviction, but the resonance that connects all minds.

People have harbored selfish desires for too long, yet the sage can unite all hearts as one. When common folk judge right and wrong through their limited perspectives, they inevitably clash in disagreement. Observing this, the sage neither rejoices nor grows angry, but treats all with the impartial gentleness shown to an infant. Thus others shed their arrogance while the sage remains free from irritation—all opposition naturally dissolves, and the world finds peace. Holding no fixed ideas, the sage completely merges with the people's will. This embodies the supreme art of governance—the state of Wuwei (non-action) is thereby achieved.

Freedom from rigid views allows flexible response to change; treating all with childlike purity transcends life and death. Now consider the truth of existence: life follows natural cycles like the moon's waxing and waning. From its first sliver on the third day to fullness on the fifteenth—this is the process of birth; from waning on the sixteenth to complete darkness on the twenty-eighth—this is the process of death. Human life mirrors this pattern: three-tenths growth, three-tenths decline, and three-tenths precarious transition. Why? Because like the moon, humans are manifestations of the primordial Qi (vital energy) of heaven and earth.

Those truly versed in nurturing life maintain serene, uncluttered minds. Such persons walk unharmed by wild beasts and enter battlefields without armor. Rhinos find no place to gore them, tigers no opening for their claws, weapons cannot injure them. Why? Because they transcend concepts of life and death—the very notion of "death" doesn't exist in their awareness. Birth and death are merely transformations of Qi's condensation and dispersal; without attachment to life, what meaning has death? The body was never truly ours—what can death take from us? Abiding in this realization, one attains liberation beyond the cycles of existence.

In this chapter, Master Fugui (a Daoist practitioner) primarily discusses the Dao of life and death and the key to nurturing life. Ordinary people passively undergo the process of birth and death, completely governed by natural laws, unable to autonomously control the cycle of life and death. The Supreme Venerable Sovereign (Taishang Laojun), taking pity on sentient beings adrift in this cycle, thus points out the method to transcend life and death.

Su Zhe (Su Ziyou) once used numbers as an analogy: among ten people, three types each account for three-tenths—this illustrates that the Dao of samsara (the cycle of birth and death) occupies nine-tenths, while the true state of transcending life and death constitutes only one-tenth. The Supreme Venerable Sovereign speaks only of those nine-tenths of natural law; the remaining one-tenth must be realized by practitioners themselves. This "one-tenth" is the state of "having no place of death" mentioned at the end of the scripture—attaining this state leads to longevity.

Observing phenomena in the world reveals that soft and weak things often possess greater vitality. If one can control anger (the descent of fire-element energy) and restrain desires (the ascent of water-element energy), achieving a balance between water and fire (the state of the "Ji Ji" hexagram), they will obtain vitality. The number of water is six, and the number of fire is seven; their sum is thirteen, so groups with vitality account for three-tenths. Conversely, rigid and strong things tend to decline—anger ignites the heart-fire, while indulgence depletes the kidney-water (the state of the "Wei Ji" hexagram). Such cases also account for three-tenths.

There is another type of person who values life but does not understand the true essence of nurturing it: like a leopard that cultivates its inner refinement but neglects external dangers, or those who focus only on outward appearances while internal ailments plague them. Excessive Yang energy scorches the kidney-water, while excessive Yin energy extinguishes the heart-fire. This imbalance of Yin-Yang also aligns with the numbers of water and fire (six plus seven), so "premature decline caused by human actions" similarly accounts for three-tenths.

Why is it said that "human actions cause death"? Over-nurturing life can paradoxically harm it, just as excessive indulgence leads to harm. A person's greatest misfortune lies in attachment to the physical body—rhinoceroses and tigers can injure it, swords and blades can destroy it. Those truly adept at nurturing life must attain the state of "no-body" (transcending attachment to the physical form) and further reach the state of "forgetting things." In this way, the horns of a rhinoceros and the claws of a tiger find no place to strike, and swords and blades cannot inflict harm. The fundamental reason is that the practitioner has already transcended the confines of death.

This passage elucidates the principle of the cycle of life and death: death is parasitic within life, just as life dwells within death. Having already comprehended the truth of "non-life" (a state transcending life and death), how could one possibly fall into the predicament of death?

The interpretation of "ten and three" has long been disputed, with only the explanation using the numerical symbolism of water and fire (a Neidan [internal alchemy] term denoting the harmonization of Yin and Yang) being correct. Patriarch Bai Yuchan (the renowned Southern Song dynasty Daoist) in his commentary explained it through the waxing and waning of the moon—this represents orthodox alchemical theory, incomprehensible to those who haven't attained the Dao. Without guidance from celestial immortals or participation in the Dragon-Sand Assembly (a legendary Daoist gathering of immortals), how could destined individuals be fortunate enough to receive such profound explanations?

Allow me to elaborate Patriarch Bai's insight: the moon's waxing in the first half of the lunar cycle is called "emerging life," while its waning in the latter half is termed "entering death." The Book of Documents records "the beginning of brightness" referring to the new moon's first appearance on the third day, and "the beginning of the lunar魄" indicating the full moon on the fifteenth. "Beginning" here signifies commencement. From the third to the fifteenth day spans exactly thirteen days, hence "the process of growth takes thirteen days." From the sixteenth day, Yin Qi begins emerging as the lunar魄 starts waning; by the twenty-third, Yin Qi strengthens further with continued waning; until the twenty-eighth when Yin Qi peaks and the lunar魄 completely vanishes—these thirteen days constitute "the process of death takes thirteen days."

All this describes lunar phases, which are later metaphorically applied to alchemical practitioners. The Danjing (alchemical classics) record: before the full moon, Qi and blood are abundant with complete medicinal potency; after the waning begins, Qi and blood decline with diminished potency. Using the moon's life-death principle to verify human Qi-blood fluctuations shows perfect correspondence with lunar phases. Thus the Daode Jing states "human life moving toward death also follows thirteen."

When the Supreme Venerable Lord speaks of "nine retained with one," this "one" represents the nascent Yang Qi—precisely the elixir. To find this "one" within oneself, one must seek within the body's "square-inch land" (the Dantian [energy center]). Adding a Yang line beneath the Kun hexagram (pure Yin) transforms it into Zhen (third day); adding another Yang line beneath Zhen creates Dui (eighth day); adding a final Yang line to Dui completes Qian (fifteenth day)—this is "advancing Yang fire" (a Neidan term for strengthening Yang Qi). Removing one Yang line from Qian forms Xun (eighteenth); removing another yields Gen (twenty-third); removing the last returns to Kun (twenty-eighth)—this is "retreating Yin talisman" (a Neidan term for reducing Yin Qi). Herein lies the profound application of Yin-Yang progression-regression and fire-phasing within the human body. The moon grows by receiving the sun's Yang Qi, yet natural growth alone proves insufficient. Those truly versed in nurturing life can move unseen through water without drowning, walk fearlessly among wild beasts on land, and even penetrate metal and stone unimpeded.

This scripture elucidates the core principle of Daoist cultivation—the dual cultivation of nature and life (xingming shuangxiu). Practitioners achieve a state where form and spirit dissolve, and the distinction between self and objects vanishes through inner contemplation of their essential nature. Ordinary people rely on breath (qi) for survival—when breath is exhausted, death follows. But those who attain the Dao live through their fundamental nature, which resides in the void without origin or destination, thus transcending life and death. Daoists call this state "neither born nor dying," while Buddhists term it "neither arising nor ceasing."

In cultivation practice, practitioners regard the dantian (the lower abdominal energy center) as the sun and the primordial nature (original essence) in the heart as the moon. The golden elixir (jindan, the fruit of practice) emerges through the harmonious interaction of these solar and lunar forces (yin-yang balance). On the third lunar day, the first yang qi appears; by the eighth day, the second yang manifests; when the moon becomes full on the fifteenth day, the three yang energies reach completion, and practitioners experience their physical body becoming like empty space. During the waning moon phase, they undergo the process where three yin energies return to life's origin, ultimately realizing the unity of nature and life.

The scripture emphasizes the principle behind refining the "golden liquid returned elixir" (jinye huandan, the supreme achievement of cultivation): Gold (representing indestructible nature) merges with the sun (yang energy), while the moon's (yin) essence actually originates from gold. Through the tempering of fire (primordial qi), the golden nature can be forged into an imperishable treasure. This method enables practitioners to transcend the cycle of birth and death.

Finally, it clarifies that the Dao is the root of all creation, De (virtue/power) nourishes the innate nature of all things, and physical forms are manifestations of the Dao. Spirit (shen, conscious awareness) arises from the Dao; nature (xing, primordial essence) is nurtured by De; and the heart (postnatal consciousness) gives form to all phenomena. These constitute the three essential elements of Daoist cultivation.

All things are generated from the Qi (vital energy) of the Dao (the cosmic origin). Our existence is shaped by natural tendencies. Yin and Yang complement each other, the four seasons cycle endlessly—thus all phenomena follow the laws of the Dao, valuing De (Virtue/Power) as most precious. The Dao's noble status isn't conferred by any external authority, but arises from its intrinsic nature.

The Dao generates all things (completing our divine nature), De nourishes them (fulfilling our essential nature), enabling growth and proliferation (perfecting our heart-mind), regulating maturation (achieving self-completion), and providing protective shelter (material wholeness). By comprehending this great principle, one attains mastery whether in governing a state or cultivating the self.

The Dao gives birth to all yet claims no possession (free from scheming), acts without taking credit (free from attachment), guides without domination (free from ego)—this constitutes the most profound De (union with the Dao).

Master Fugui explains: The Dao is the foundation of heaven and earth; without it nothing could be generated. Through its formless, mysterious state, the Dao creates all things—this is the Primordial Ancestral Qi (the most primordial energy). Yet without De's nourishment, nothing could develop. The Great Harmony Qi (harmonizing energy) nurtures creation like a mother giving birth to the cosmos. In heaven, things manifest as atmospheric phenomena; on earth, they take physical form, growing and maturing naturally—all through the Dao's spontaneous functioning.

The Dao's nobility derives not from status or titles, but from its essential nature. Unlike kings and lords who receive their dignity from the Mandate of Heaven, or ministers whose rank comes from imperial appointment—all subject to revocation—the Dao contains De, but De cannot contain the Dao. When the Dao bestows essence it's called "generation"; when storing vital mechanisms, "nourishment"; when forming bodies, "growth"; when cultivating capacities, "development"; when evaluating achievements, "judgment"; when assessing functions, "testing"; when harmonizing all things, "cultivation"; when protecting from harm, "sheltering."

Master Li Xizhai adds: Without the Dao, nothing could come into being; without De, nothing could be sustained. From physical form to full maturation, all rely on the Dao and De as their root. Though the Dao's nobility and De's preciousness reach ultimate heights, they eternally maintain the state of Wuwei (non-action).

This passage discusses the natural essence of the Dao (the Way) and its cultivation methods. The core idea is that true nobility doesn't lie in deliberate self-display—the Dao nurtures all things yet never claims merit. The Dao's generation and nourishment of all beings occurs spontaneously, without seeking reward, embodying the profoundest "Mysterious De (Virtue/Power)."

Regarding the chapter "All Things Have Their Beginning," it points out that all phenomena originate from the Dao (the "One"), which generates the two Qi (vital energy) of Yin-Yang ("Two"), subsequently transforming into myriad things ("Three"). Cultivation requires grasping this fundamental principle, just as recognizing all phenomena still requires returning to the source. Specific practice involves: closing sensory gates ("blocking the openings" refers to not listening to external sounds; "shutting the doors" means not viewing external objects) to maintain inner purity, thereby achieving governance through Wuwei (non-action). Conversely, indulging sensory gates ("opening the openings") and becoming addicted to desires ("pursuing affairs") will permanently sever one's foundation in Dao cultivation.

Key cultivation points include: perceiving subtle omens is called "clarity," while maintaining pliability constitutes true strength. After using wisdom's light to observe all phenomena, one must still return to the original radiance of the heart-mind. Only thus can calamities be avoided to attain "inheriting the constant"—the state of unity with the eternal Dao.

Additional explanation: The initial character "mother" refers to the source of heaven, earth and all things, though here it emphasizes personal cultivation. In the pre-cosmic state of "Wuji" (Non-Ultimate), neither humans nor heaven-earth existed. Later, "Wuji generates Taiji (Supreme Ultimate)," which is the "Great Beginning"—the manifestation of the Dao. This primordial True One Qi (the most original energy) is what humans receive in the womb, being born with this innate primordial Qi.

This passage explains the Daoist cultivation process involving the transformation between innate Qi (the primordial life energy one is born with) and acquired Qi (energy developed after birth).

At birth, humans possess innate Qi, which accumulates at a rate of one liang (Chinese ounce) per year. By age fifteen, this totals sixteen liang, forming a body of pure Yang (represented by the Qian hexagram symbolizing perfection). However, after sixteen, this pure Yang state breaks down, transforming into the Li hexagram (symbolizing Yang deficiency). Practitioners must then cultivate the method of "extracting Kan to replenish Li" (using kidney Water to nourish heart Fire) to regain the primordial True One Qi, known in Daoist terminology as "true lead."

The essence of cultivation lies in merging innate Qi with acquired Qi (called "true mercury"). The specific method involves first using "hare marrow" (Yin energy) to temper "crow essence" (Yang energy). After their union, one must maintain this balanced state persistently. This requires gathering the medicinal essence at the Kun position (quiescent state) and circulating the fire at the Qian position (active state). Prolonged practice leads to forming the internal elixir (Neidan), enabling the Daoist energy to endure even after physical dissolution.

The Great Lord Lao (Taishang Laojun), concerned that people might misunderstand cultivation methods, further clarified the practical steps: one must "block the openings and close the gates" — maintaining inner stillness (with Shen residing in the heart) while controlling the senses (tongue silent, eyes unseeing, ears unhearing, nose unsmelling). These four characters embody the fundamental cultivation principle. If one allows the senses to wander outward amid daily busyness, even those with Daoist attainment cannot avoid physical and mental suffering.

True enlightenment (understanding heavenly Dao) comes from perceiving the subtle principles of Yin-Yang transformation. Practitioners should embody external softness and internal strength ("guarding softness is called strength"), using solar light (Yang energy) and lunar essence (Yin energy) for alchemical refinement. They must gather medicinal essence according to lunar phases and regulate the fire in accordance with solar cycles. Upon achieving the elixir, one becomes attuned with heaven, earth, sun, and moon, returning to original purity. Those who cling to singular Yin or Yang cultivation methods ultimately fail, unable to adapt to constant changes.

If one indulges bodily desires recklessly, calamities will surely follow—how can this be called cultivation? True Dao practitioners align their practice with the rhythms of Yin-Yang. This is no extraordinary feat, but simply "following the constant" (袭常)—embodying the Dao in daily life. By doing so, one achieves enduring vision without peril, far beyond merely avoiding physical harm.

The Cantong Qi (a foundational Daoist scripture) reveals that the body's upper and lower orifices (senses and excretory organs) are interconnected. Closing the upper orifices preserves the state of "having" (you), while sealing the lower ones attains the realm of "non-having" (wu). This shows restraining desires is more crucial than controlling senses.

A crucial insight: even a fleeting moment of clarity (介然有知) must be steered toward the Great Dao. The gravest danger lies in self-indulgence (惟施是畏). The Dao's path is broad and level (甚夷), yet people crave shortcuts (好径). Consider rulers who adorn palaces (朝甚除) while fields lie barren (田甚芜), whose granaries stand empty (仓甚虚) yet wear embroidered robes (服文采), who flaunt sharp swords (带利剑), glut on delicacies (厌饮食), and hoard wealth (财货有余)—such conduct is robbery masquerading as nobility (盗夸), wholly contrary to the Dao!

The commentator Fugui Zi explains: The Most High Lord Lao (太上老君) originally taught supreme De (上德), where sages act through non-action (无为). But as true adepts are rare, he had to address lesser De (下德), where practitioners maintain deliberate awareness (有知) and effort (有为). The phrase "fleeting clarity" describes those rare luminous moments when practicing the Dao—moments endangered by indulgence. Once dissipated, this precious state is lost. True cultivators discern the Dao's traces in twilight stillness and seek vital essence (Jing) in profound darkness—how could they not guard against indulgence? To transcend worldly temptations and remain unmoved by beauty—who but an authentic adept would claim this? The Great Dao is supremely simple, yet people persistently stray toward byways.

Those who seek quick results and rush to attain the Great Dao (the Way) will never obtain the true path. Just as a field harvested too early (chaochu) becomes barren, the field of the heart becomes choked with weeds; when the granary is emptied prematurely (chaoxu), inner cultivation remains unfulfilled. Some wear ornate Daoist robes (huoxuanyi) and carry demon-subduing swords while hoarding useless treasures and delicacies—such ostentatious displays are like thieves flaunting their loot, inviting calamity instead. As the Qiao Yao Ge wisely states: "If one is stingy with wealth and covets treasures, not even a thousand immortals will descend." Is this the behavior of a true Dao seeker?

Master Su Zhe (Ziyou) once said: Those who truly embody the Dao (the Way) do not force knowledge or action, but follow natural spontaneity (ziran). If one stubbornly clings to personal views (jieran youzhi) and forcibly practices cultivation, it is like artificially constructing a tower—contrary to the natural Dao. The Great Dao is inherently smooth and easy, yet worldly people consider it distant and prefer shortcuts. Those who abandon their innate nature for deliberate artifice are merely chasing quick gains. The worldly are shrewd and calculating, while Dao cultivators appear simple and unrefined; ordinary people nitpick and judge, but the enlightened are generous and inclusive. Why then would one embellish appearances, forsake the root for the branch, and invite disaster through empty displays?

The previous chapter’s mention of "jieran youzhi" refers to unwavering devotion to the Dao-mind, hence the subsequent discussion on the principle of "firm establishment without uprooting."

Chapter 54 speaks of the method of cultivation through contemplation: What is truly rooted in the Dao (the Way) remains unshaken (like deep tree roots), and what is genuinely upheld is never lost (like firmly held fruit). Such a Dao lineage endures through generations (because it abides with the Dao). Cultivating the self (refining the heart) with the Dao yields pure Virtue (De); governing the family (nurturing nature) with the Dao brings abundance; transforming the community (refining the spirit, shen) with the Dao ensures lasting grace; ruling a nation (embodying the Dao) with the Dao brings prosperity; and universalizing the Dao (realizing emptiness, kong) across the world achieves boundless merit. Therefore, one must observe body and mind with the original heart (for impure thoughts tarnish Virtue) and contemplate family harmony with innate nature (for discord at home mars the perfection of Virtue).

Observing a village (the divinity within divinity—if even one person remains unenlightened, virtue cannot flourish); observing a nation (the Dao within the Dao—if even one person fails to turn toward goodness, virtue cannot abound); observing the entire world (the emptiness within emptiness—if even one petty person exists, virtue cannot spread universally). How do I comprehend the principles governing the world? Precisely through this method of observation.

Master Fugui (a Daoist practitioner) says: All concrete, form-bound things can be uprooted from the place where they are established. But those who cultivate the Dao are different—they do not rely on external traces to establish their foundation. Instead, they take the inner spirit (Shen) as their root. This is called "skillfully establishing what cannot be uprooted." Similarly, form-bound things can break free from where they are grasped, but Dao cultivators do not depend on human effort to hold on. Instead, they accord with the heavenly Dao. This is called "skillfully embracing what cannot slip away."

Those who have attained the Dao, while living in the world, can already ensure that all things are unharmed and the five grains flourish. How much more so when the Dao's Qi (vital energy) is passed down through generations—could the offerings of descendants possibly be interrupted? True "skillful establishment" is not an empty act of building, nor is "skillful embracing" a hollow grasp. This requires self-cultivation: refining Jing (essence) into Qi, refining Qi into Shen (spirit), refining Shen to return to emptiness, and refining emptiness to merge with the Dao. Only when the mind no longer clings to the concept of "mind" does De (virtue) become truly pure. In heaven and earth, only this true nature never decays—who could uproot or shake it off? This is what is called a "Zhenren" (perfected person).

When one's own being attains this true nature, everything else follows in authenticity. Families and villages, according to the depth of cultivation, will inevitably see virtue grow. Nations and the world, according to the breadth of cultivation, will inevitably see virtue flourish and spread. Therefore, observing oneself through oneself means not only that the Zhenren has virtue to cultivate, but that all bodies can be cultivated. Just as observing the family through the family allows everyone to perfect their family; observing the village through the village allows everyone to perfect their village; observing the nation through the nation allows everyone to perfect their nation; and observing the world through the world allows everyone to perfect the world. How do I know that the world and the nation, the nation and the village, the village and the family, the family and the self are without distinction? Precisely because human bodies are the same, and the essence of virtue is identical—the only fear is not understanding cultivation.

If people could all cultivate virtue like the Zhenren to refine themselves, even illusory bodies could become true bodies—why then distinguish between village and world? The reason I understand this principle is precisely because of my own true nature.

Heshang Gong (a Han Dynasty Daoist scholar) says: Cultivating the Dao within the family results in paternal kindness, filial devotion, fraternal respect, and harmony.

This passage discusses how cultivating virtue (De) can lead to harmonious family and state governance. It begins by illustrating virtuous conduct at different levels: brothers showing fraternal love and spouses living in harmony will bless their descendants; in communities, respecting elders, caring for the young, and educating the ignorant define virtuous leadership; at the state level, enlightened rulers and loyal ministers naturally foster benevolence and flourishing culture—this constitutes abundant virtue.

The highest attainment is governing the world without words yet transforming the people, achieving great order without deliberate instruction, where subordinates respond to superiors as swiftly as shadows following forms or echoes answering sounds. Yet all virtue cultivation must begin with refining one's heart-mind and self-cultivation. When the heart is upright, the body becomes disciplined; when the body is disciplined, the family harmonizes; when families harmonize, the state becomes well-governed; when states are well-governed, peace prevails under heaven.

The text then employs the metaphor of "embracing thick virtue": those profoundly virtuous resemble innocent infants (chizi)—venomous insects won't sting them, fierce beasts won't pounce, nor birds of prey strike. Though tender-limbed, they grasp firmly; though unaware of sexual union, they exhibit natural vitality—this stems from supremely abundant essence (Jing) and vital energy (Qi). Their all-day crying never hoarsens the voice, demonstrating perfect harmony (Heqi). Understanding harmony is called "the Constant" (eternal Dao); comprehending this constancy constitutes true clarity. Excessive pursuit of longevity invites calamity, while forcing Qi through cunning constitutes arrogance. When things reach their zenith, they decline—this violates the Dao, and Dao-violation leads to premature demise.

Concluding, the previous chapter's "cultivating it in oneself makes virtue genuine" finds its purest embodiment in the infant state. Here, the infant's natural innocence and harmony metaphorically represent the primordial purity Dao practitioners should maintain.

This passage describes how those of profound virtue (De) are as pure and natural as newborn infants. An infant exists in a state of primal chaos, free from discriminating thoughts—and those who attain the Dao simply preserve this childlike heart-mind. Infants know nothing of clinging to life or fearing death; thus venomous insects do not sting them (because infants don’t know such creatures can harm), fierce beasts do not attack them (because infants don’t recognize danger), and birds of prey do not seize them (because infants feel no fear). Though their bones are soft, their grip is firm (a natural instinct); though unaware of sexual matters, they may spontaneously become aroused (a sign of abundant vital essence, Jing); and though crying all day, their voices never grow hoarse (a manifestation of harmonious primordial Qi, Yuanqi).

Harmony is the universal Dao of heaven and earth, the unchanging principle. Infants preserve their innate purity through harmony, while ordinary people chase after profit. Thus, one must take harmony as the fundamental law, comprehend this eternal truth, and abide by it—this is the realm of those with profound virtue.

Shen Jiaomen explains: An infant’s genitals belong to Yin, while the throat is the organ of sound. Crying all day without growing hoarse is due to inner peace and unimpaired Qi. Harmony means not allowing external things to harm what is within. Heaven and earth endow humans with balanced Qi (Zhonghe Zhi Qi), and preserving this harmony is the natural state of life. When the five relationships (ruler-subject, parent-child, husband-wife, elder-younger siblings, and friends) are harmonious, virtue flourishes; when a nation is harmonious, its teachings spread widely and its destiny endures; when an army is harmonious, it achieves victory. The significance of harmony is immense! Understanding the Dao of harmony naturally leads to perfect virtue.

Auspicious and ominous signs are predetermined at birth, and forcibly altering them only invites disaster. Zhuangzi teaches that one should follow nature rather than artificially augment it. Though the mind may harbor distinctions of right and wrong, Qi itself knows no division. If one acts impulsively and then forcibly restrains oneself, this is the gravest form of coercion. Those who rely on coercion belong to the category of death; only by embracing emptiness, stillness, and abiding in the Dao can one endure, with the body remaining free from decay. Forced rigidity is mere attachment to externals—when things reach their extreme, they decline, which contradicts the Dao. What contradicts the Dao perishes swiftly.

Only those of profound virtue can preserve their vital essence (Jing) and unite with the heavenly Dao—this is the true path of longevity and enduring vision. The deeply virtuous understand the value of silence; they comprehend the great Dao and forget words. Thus, the next passage will discuss "the wise do not speak" (as in Chapter 56, "Mysterious Virtue").

The truly wise do not indulge in empty talk (Xuan De: profound Virtue), while those fond of preaching often lack genuine wisdom (mere platitudes cannot transcend the cycle of life and death). Cultivation requires closing the sensory gates (shutting one's eyes to observe inner nature), gathering the spirit (turning inward to contemplate the original mind), blunting sharp edges (dissolving ego-attachment), and resolving disturbances (penetrating the illusory nature of phenomena to reach non-contention).

One must merge with the radiance of Dao (stillness of thought) and become one with the dust of all things (seeing through empty illusions to achieve the state where self and objects are forgotten) - this is the realm of "Mysterious Unity" (where sages and ordinary beings are fundamentally equal, both manifestations of the profound Dao). Thus, practitioners must transcend distinctions between intimacy and estrangement (like Shakyamuni forgetting emotional discriminations during meditation), benefit and harm (as Fuxi became one with the Yi Jing's wisdom), noble and base (understanding that Dao is the essence of mind, unattached to existence or non-existence). This is the most precious state in the world (only by relinquishing all attachments can one realize the eternal Dao).

Fugui Zi further explains: The Great Dao is inherently undivided, originally making no distinction between "knowing and not knowing," nor involving "speaking and not speaking." Only due to varying depths of comprehension do differences in expression arise. To perceive Dao's profundity, one must abandon desires (yet complete desirelessness also hinders observing Dao's marvels) - this mystery transcends words. Those who truly understand Dao's wonder necessarily remain silent, while grasping its pivotal points (crucial cultivation junctures) requires heart-to-heart transmission; those who divulge it lightly will never attain true transmission.

Though the Great Dao cannot be spoken, it can be practiced. Therefore, sages possess their own methods for realizing Dao: rather than exhausting principles through excessive speech, better to maintain the Middle Way (this is the deeper meaning of "blocking the openings"); rather than being deluded by external sights and sounds, better to withdraw the senses for inward contemplation (this is the true essence of "closing the gates"). Cultivation requires concealing sharpness ("blunting edges" harmonizes firmness and yielding), not clinging to obstacles ("resolving entanglements" melts them like ice); dissolving self-image ("harmonizing radiance" resembles plain exteriors concealing precious jade), and eliminating self-other distinctions ("becoming one with the dust" means flowing with the world without debating ox or horse). All these realms depend on silent practice, not empty discourse.

When cultivation reaches the highest realm, its principles are profoundly subtle, its mysteries exquisitely refined. This is where Virtue (De) completely merges with the Dao—what we call "Mysterious Unity" (the supreme state of oneness with the Dao). Those who attain this realm can no longer distinguish whether the body is the Dao or the Dao is the body—one may say the body is the Dao, or the Dao is the body.

This state transcends worldly distinctions: neither deliberately drawing near nor keeping distance; neither actively pursuing gain nor avoiding loss; unmoved by honor or disgrace; neither chasing nobility nor shunning humility—utterly unaffected by worldly fluctuations of fortune.

For estrangement arises from forced closeness—if one does not force intimacy, how could estrangement emerge? Harm stems from the pursuit of profit—if one does not chase gain, how could harm occur? Humility lies hidden in the obsession with nobility—if one does not seek status, how could humility ensue? Thus, true value lies in maintaining equanimity, seeing closeness and distance, benefit and harm, nobility and humility as one, achieving a state of pristine natural simplicity. If practitioners of the Dao cannot transcend these dualistic oppositions, attaining the Dao becomes nearly impossible.

Those who truly understand the Dao do not indulge in empty talk—only thus can they grasp the true path. Hence, the following discusses governing the state with orthodox principles.

Chapter 57 of the "Pure Transformation" section states: Govern the state with orthodox methods (focusing the spirit without bias), employ stratagems in warfare (with clear-minded adaptability), and rule the world through non-action (Wuwei) (by perceiving inherent nature). How do I know this should be so? Precisely because I understand this principle.

The more taboos exist in the world (as people's Qi is altered by environment), the poorer the populace becomes (original hearts are easily lost, constrained by rules that worsen the situation); the more sharp tools people possess (minds preoccupied with ostentation), the greater the state's chaos (with obscured nature, more laws breed more turmoil); the more clever techniques people master (nature quiet while desires run wild), the more bizarre things flourish (exhausted spirits led astray by trivial skills); the harsher the laws (using cunning against cunning), the more thieves multiply (all manner of delusions grow rampant).

Therefore, the sage says: I govern through non-action (Wuwei), and the people naturally transform (this is the spontaneous influence of divine clarity, needing no schemes); I cherish stillness, and the people naturally correct themselves (this is the natural rectification of inherent nature); I avoid troubling the people, and they naturally prosper (spiritually content, not coveting wealth); I remain desireless, and the people naturally return to simplicity (like grass bending to the wind—as above, so below).

Fuguizi (a Daoist thinker) said: The constant principle of the Great Dao (Dao) manifests as orthodox governance, while its adaptive response to change manifests as strategic flexibility. The true essence of the Dao lies in non-action (Wuwei) and effortless being.

When governing a state with orthodox principles, one establishes its enduring foundation. When employing extraordinary strategies in military affairs, one responds to changing circumstances. The world is a sacred vessel that cannot be forcibly controlled—those who truly attain it often appear to do nothing. Those who strive deliberately will fail to obtain it. Only by comprehending the Dao, maintaining serene joy, and following nature without forced seeking will the world naturally submit. In ancient times, people lived freely without feeling the presence of imperial power, unconstrained by prohibitions. But later generations constantly violate taboos, spending all their time avoiding prohibitions without energy left for proper living—thus growing increasingly impoverished.

The ancients possessed tools ten or a hundred times more efficient yet seldom used them. They needed no carriages nor displayed weapons, yet society remained pure and simple. Later generations created tally seals to establish trust, only to have them forged; manufactured weapons to prevent violence, only to see them used for rebellion. The more sharp instruments people possess, the more chaotic the state becomes. Li Xizhai (another Daoist practitioner) commented: When rulers flaunt clever techniques, the people compete to imitate them. When cunning methods prevail, how can bizarre crafts and excessive ingenuity not proliferate? When governing with harsh laws, people exploit loopholes for personal gain. With mutual deception between rulers and subjects, how can bandits not multiply?

The sages (those who have attained the Dao) demonstrate to the world the states of non-action, tranquility, effortlessness, and desirelessness. The people naturally respond accordingly. Thus it is said that Virtue (De) is like the wind, and the people like grass—the grass bending before the wind is nature's way. The essence of the Great Dao is non-action, serenity, effortlessness, and desirelessness—where is there any distinction between orthodox and extraordinary? Only when practitioners cannot fully reach the highest Virtue must they emphasize certain aspects: governing the body as one would a state, and cherishing vital essence (Jing) and energy (Qi) as one would the people. By treasuring my spirit (Shen) and preventing its dissipation, I practice "governing the state with orthodox principles." Odd numbers represent yang (in Daoism, odd numbers are yang), so my yang spirit must overcome all yin pathogens within—not allowing the Three Corpses (three malevolent spirits believed to reside in the body) or Six Thieves (desires arising from the six senses) to dominate. This is "employing the military with extraordinary strategies."

Vast as the world is, what compares to the immensity of emptiness? Only through maintaining an effortless state can one attain emptiness, and only emptiness can contain the world. The sage's mind, free from attachments, can hold the entire world in the palm of their hand. How do I know this is so? Because such is the nature of the Dao—a single millet grain can contain the entire cosmos. What people fear most is death and destruction, yet the more they fear and avoid it, the more likely they are to encounter it.

This passage primarily discusses how rulers can guide people toward natural goodness through governing by non-action (Wuwei). The text points out that excessive reliance on manipulative tactics (sharp tools), crafty techniques, and harsh laws ultimately harms human nature, leading to mental restlessness and inflated desires. Just as felling trees with tools damages the trees, such artificial interventions disrupt humanity's innate purity.

The true sage's approach to governance is this: Through non-action, people become naturally cultivated (refining essence into Qi); through maintaining stillness, they become naturally upright (refining Qi into Shen); through avoiding forced actions, they become naturally fulfilled (refining Shen into emptiness); through eliminating selfish desires, they return to primal simplicity (refining emptiness to unite with the Dao). Here, "fulfillment" doesn't mean material abundance but a mental void capable of embracing all things; "simplicity" refers to the unadorned, innate state of original authenticity. Like quicksilver flowing naturally to fill every space, human Jing-Qi-Shen circulates spontaneously.

The passage then contrasts two governance styles: When policies are relaxed and natural (unobtrusive), people remain honest and generous (genuine); when policies are harsh and scrutinizing (hyper-vigilant), people become resentful and cunning (deficient). Fortune and misfortune are interdependent, with no absolute standards. Ordinary people often lose their original nature, while sages achieve being:

• Square-edged yet never cutting (principled without being injurious)
• Pure yet never sharp (incorruptible without being severe)
• Straightforward yet never unrestrained (upright without being reckless)

— always maintaining the Middle Way.

The Precious Chapters on the Dao and Virtue scripture primarily expounds principles for governing a nation and cultivating one's character.

Regarding statecraft: When rulers adopt tolerant and inclusive policies ("appearing dull in governance"), what seems like foolishness actually conceals great wisdom, and the people become simple and virtuous ("the people grow wholesome"). Conversely, with harsh governance ("scrutinizing policies") that nitpicks every detail, the people become destitute ("the people grow deficient"). Misfortune and blessing transform into each other—what initially appears as calamity may ultimately bring good fortune, while apparent blessings may conceal hidden disasters.

Regarding self-cultivation: The sage maintains integrity without causing harm ("square yet not cutting"), remains incorruptible without being harsh ("sharp yet not piercing"), stays straightforward without becoming unrestrained ("straight yet not reckless"), and possesses inner radiance without ostentation ("bright yet not dazzling"). These all represent cultivation methods that grasp the fundamental principles and follow nature's course.

Chapter 59 "Governing People and Serving Heaven" points out: In governing the populace and cultivating oneself, the most essential principle is "frugality" (conservation). This frugality encompasses moderating sensory indulgence, restraining excessive thoughts, and maintaining simplicity in action. To practice such frugality is to follow the Dao early. Following the Dao early means accumulating De (Virtue) continuously; with profound Virtue, one becomes invincible. Governing a nation this way ensures enduring stability—this is the principle of establishing deep roots for lasting vision and longevity.

Annotations:

• "Frugality": Refers to conservation and restraint, not merely material thrift but more importantly spiritual temperance and inner cultivation
• "Appearing dull in governance": Indicates lenient and inclusive ruling methods
• "The people grow wholesome": Describes the state of simple, virtuous populace
• "Master Fugui": A commentator cited in the scripture

This scripture expounds the core principles of Daoist cultivation, focusing on the concepts of "early preparation" (zaofu) and "frugality" (se).

"Early preparation" refers to comprehending the profound truths of the Dao (wonderfully grasping opportunities beforehand), akin to making advance preparations. Achieving this means continuously accumulating De (Virtue/Power). Persistent accumulation of De enables one to overcome all obstacles (nothing remains unconquered) — where "conquer" signifies both restraining human desires to pursue heavenly principles and attaining the state of self-discipline and ritual restoration. Upon reaching this state, one experiences the boundless nature of the Dao (none can know its limits).

When the practitioner unites with the Dao (nature merging with the Way), it's as if possessing one's own kingdom (having a country). Here, the "mother of the country" refers to humanity's innate primordial Shen (spirit). Guarding this foundation leads to longevity (spirit abiding with the Dao). This is what's called "deep roots and firm foundation" — even if heaven and earth perish, one's true nature won't vanish; even if the void dissipates, the spirit won't be extinguished.

Master Fugui further explains: Human intelligence and wisdom originate from heavenly endowment (heavenly nature), while sensory perceptions and thoughts belong to acquired human effort (human artifice). The key to cultivation lies in "frugality" — meaning measured restraint. This involves listening less with ears, seeing less with eyes, tasting less with mouth, smelling less with nose, and thinking less with mind. Such restraint isn't complete abstinence but judicious use.

The "early" in "early preparation" doesn't refer to time but to returning to the original state. Through "frugal" cultivation, one can revert to the fundamental origin, maintaining tranquil thoughts and preserving innate De from depletion (thus Virtue remains undiminished). If one waits until De is damaged before remediation, it merely becomes damage control.

The deeper the accumulation of De, the more concentrated the Shen becomes (spirit increasingly coalesces). When the mind is filled with pure heavenly principles, human desires naturally dissolve (desires spontaneously transform). Upon reaching this state, the entire person becomes indistinct from the Taiji (Supreme Ultimate). Here, the "country" metaphorically represents the human body, and "having a country" means truly mastering one's physical form. The "ancestral Qi" (primordial vital energy) is the foundation of the human body (mother), and obtaining it enables prolonged existence.

The scripture concludes by noting: The upper Dantian (muddy pellet palace) in the human body houses the Shen, while the lower Dantian (water essence palace) stores Jing. Just as deep roots stabilize trees, humans must preserve essence and Qi to establish firm foundations.

This scripture expounds profound principles for self-cultivation and state governance, conveying that governing a nation follows the same essential principles as regulating one's body and mind—both require holding fast to the fundamental root.

The term "deep roots and firm foundation" first refers to how human essence does not lie in acquired Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy), but in the primordial Yuanjing (original essence). The Yellow Court Palace in the middle Dantian (energy center) serves as the reservoir of Qi, much like how a sturdy calyx ensures a flower's flourishing. True stability doesn't come from acquired breath but relies on primordial Yuanqi (source energy)—the very foundation of longevity. "Firm foundation" denotes a tree's taproot, suggesting that only when one's Shen (spirit) becomes whole can one attain the mystical state of unity with the Dao. Cultivating emptiness and merging with the Dao represents the supreme practice, what Buddhism calls the "ultimate vehicle."

Master Li Qing'an (a Daoist patriarch) further explains the shared principles between statecraft and self-cultivation: In governing human affairs and serving heavenly law, the essential principle is "frugality." For the state, this means lightening punishments and reducing taxes; for individuals, it entails speaking sparingly and moderating food intake; for the mind, it requires diminishing distractions and sensory indulgence. Only thus can one preserve the original heart and nurture innate nature in accordance with the Dao.

Chapter 60 ("Governing a Great State") employs the metaphor of cooking small fish to illustrate governance and self-cultivation: Ruling a large kingdom resembles simmering tiny fish (which shouldn't be stirred frequently), and regulating one's mind follows the same simplicity. Governing the world through the Dao (which resides within our bodies through maintaining purity and Wuwei [non-action]) renders even ghosts and spirits powerless. This doesn't mean supernatural beings lose their power, but that practitioners who attain "complete awakening beyond illusions" (seeing through delusions to perceive truth) become impervious to demonic disturbances. When sages and common people mutually refrain from harming each other and interact through De (virtue), all ultimately return to the great Dao.

Commentator Fugui Zi elaborates: The so-called "governing a great state" actually refers to regulating oneself. All humans possess innate nature and vital spirit—the primary task is preserving one's original nature and returning to one's true face, avoiding artificial interference that damages heavenly endowment. The "cooking small fish" metaphor warns against reckless actions that might injure fundamental vitality. Governing through the Dao means ensuring no one harms life, violates innate nature, or disrupts Yin-Yang harmony. Thus, the sage's luminous De (virtue) can move ghosts and spirits, achieving unity of heart with heaven and earth.

This scripture uses the relationship between great nations and small states as a metaphor for Daoist cultivation, with "humility and stillness" as its essential practice.

Those who cultivate the Dao employ the Great Way without self-assertion, thereby revealing its divine marvels. On the path of cultivation, for every step of progress in the Dao, obstacles (mózhàng) will manifest tenfold. When practitioners dissolve all illusory perceptions, their original truth will fully emerge—at which point even yin-phase obstacles transform into yang-phase divine radiance. It's not that demonic entities lack power, but that true deities do no harm—what we call ghosts and spirits are ultimately projections of our own mind. When delusive thoughts fade and right mindfulness shines forth, sages transcend the world of form to enter the formless realm, achieving the state where neither self nor others suffer harm.

When both form and spirit (shen) reach the mysterious state, virtue (de) naturally becomes complete. At this stage, the sage's virtue resonates with heaven, earth, and spiritual beings. This fusion of virtue manifests in the ability to remain humbly receptive—just as a great nation willingly positions itself downstream (symbolizing how cultivators should embrace all things through the Great Dao). All beings under heaven return to it naturally (like streams flowing to the sea), mirroring how the feminine often overcomes the masculine through stillness (illustrating stillness overcoming movement). If a great nation treats smaller states with humility (avoiding dominance), it wins their allegiance; if small states serve the great with deference (aligning with heavenly principle), they gain acceptance. Whether active or passive humility, the essence remains identical.

What great nations seek is simply to nurture all beings (as the original spirit governs all transformations), while small states seek only to return and serve the Dao (as the true heart aligns with the Dao's source). When each finds its proper place (with heart-mind and Dao-nature settled appropriately), it reveals how those in higher positions should practice greater humility (symbolizing the need to eliminate distractions and maintain humility in cultivation).

The commentator Fugui Zi notes that this chapter entirely uses worldly dynamics to illustrate Daoist principles. The soft overcoming the hard, stillness overcoming agitation—these follow nature's patterns and express the Great Dao. Like water's perfected nature that always flows downward without contention yet never ceases its course, when great nations position themselves downstream without abandoning the minute, free from any sense of superiority, all under heaven naturally gather to them. The feminine consistently overcomes the masculine through stillness and receptivity, embodying the principle that "stillness masters agitation." When great nations remain humble, small states return to them; when small states practice humility, great nations embrace them—this is the proper realm for Dao cultivators.

This scripture primarily discusses the relationship between great and small states, as well as the attitude of humility that practitioners of the Dao should cultivate.

Though a great state possesses power, it should maintain modesty and restraint. Like the presiding state in ancient alliance ceremonies that held the ox ear (symbolizing leadership in oaths), though occupying an honorable position, it should treat smaller states with inclusiveness. Smaller states serve greater ones through tributes and similar means to avoid invasion. Both parties benefit—the great state gains prestige while the small state receives protection. But should the great state lose its virtue (De), smaller states will turn elsewhere, leading to isolation and betrayal. Thus, a truly wise great state must demonstrate humility.

The same principle applies to Dao cultivation: the more humble and yielding one becomes, the higher one's moral attainment. Like water flowing downward, the more one lowers oneself, the more one's virtue manifests. This humility is not weakness but insurmountable wisdom.

The text then discusses the importance of the Dao: it is the most profound essence of all things (just as the heart is the source of creation). For virtuous people, the Dao is their most precious treasure; for the non-virtuous, it remains their refuge. Kind words can move hearts, and noble conduct can influence others. Even those lacking virtue are not abandoned by the Dao—it helps them return to goodness.

The establishment of the Son of Heaven (symbolizing the original mind) and the Three Dukes (symbolizing essence [Jing], vital energy [Qi], and spirit [Shen]) reflects hierarchy, yet worldly people prize jade discs and teams of horses. None of these compare to the value of tranquil cultivation of the Dao. The ancients valued the Dao precisely because it enables people to return to their original nature and dissolve karmic burdens—thus the Dao is the most precious treasure under heaven.

Su Zhe (Su Ziyou) adds in his commentary: What all things outwardly display are merely appearances; the true Dao lies hidden within, like the innermost chamber of an object.

This passage speaks of the universality and importance of the Dao. The Dao exists within all things, yet ordinary people cannot perceive it—only the wise can comprehend and embody it. Thus, the Dao is said to be "the treasure of the virtuous." Though foolish people may not fully understand the Dao, without it they could not live in peace; therefore, the Dao also serves as the refuge of the less virtuous.

The Dao is inherently close to humanity; it is people who distance themselves from it. Those who can spread its teachings through noble words can influence the world, while those who revere and practice it can transcend ordinary life. Even if someone commits wrongdoing in the morning, hearing the Great Dao in the evening can inspire repentance, dispel evil thoughts, and restore their original nature. At that point, what fault remains to criticize? How could they be abandoned?

The establishment of the Son of Heaven (the emperor) and the Three Dukes (the highest ministers—Grand Marshal, Minister of Education, and Minister of Works) was originally meant to guide the people through the Dao. Rather than offering precious jade disks or fine chariots, presenting the Great Dao is of far greater worth. The Dao is already within our hearts—it is only that people do not seek it. With sincere effort, it can surely be attained. The Dao itself has neither merit nor fault; the problem lies in people’s lack of understanding. Once the Dao is realized, no sin can defile one’s true nature.

Master Fugui (Return-to-Innocence) remarks: The Dao gives birth to all things, and through all things, the Dao is revealed. To discard all things and speak emptily of the Dao only makes it seem more mysterious. Such profound and subtle principles—how can those who have not truly attained the Dao fathom their depths? The virtuous study to comprehend the Dao, which is none other than the principles of nature (Xing) and life (Ming). They treasure the Dao and cherish it deeply, thus ultimately embodying it. The less virtuous, though surrounded by the Dao, either destroy their innate treasure of true nature or treat the treasure of life carelessly. How can such people not guard the Dao to prevent themselves from being lost?

Those who do not understand the Dao simply lack noble words and reverent practice to guide them. A single virtuous saying can teach and inspire willing obedience; a single noble action can serve as a model and earn respect. How much more so the Great Dao, which everyone may cultivate—how could we forsake someone merely because they are temporarily unvirtuous?

Therefore, those who seek immortality should aspire to become Celestial Immortals (Tianxian), and refining the Golden Elixir (Jindan, Neidan practice) is the most direct path. One must seek out enlightened teachers far and wide. If a true Dao-attained master is encountered, they should be revered like the Son of Heaven, entrusted to preside over the alchemical work, with complete adherence to their guidance. The ancients said that true immortals are easy to meet, but good cultivation companions are hard to find. One must also widely befriend fellow practitioners, selecting three with deep roots and superior aptitude as partners—just as the Three Dukes assist the emperor. Their role is to harmonize Yin and Yang, draw close to the people, and broadly disseminate teachings. In cultivation, they must also aid in regulating the cauldron (a metaphor for the body), balancing Yin and Yang, and collectively supporting the one presiding over the alchemical work.

This scripture passage teaches that spiritual cultivators should pursue inner spiritual realms rather than external wealth and glory.

The text employs ancient aristocratic rituals—presenting "arch-jade" (a large jade disc held with both hands) and "a team of four horses" (a chariot drawn by four steeds)—to illustrate how these worldly treasures pale in comparison to the profound value of realizing the Dao (the Way). The Dao is the innate nature everyone possesses, attainable through sincere pursuit. The so-called "transgressions" refer to the afflictions of being bound by the transformations of Yin-Yang, which can be transcended through attaining the Dao.

The passage then explains cultivation methods: act with Wuwei (non-action, not forcing outcomes), engage with the world through "non-interference" (avoiding unnecessary complications), and savor the "flavorless" (the realm of natural simplicity). Handle affairs by starting with what is simple; accomplish great deeds by accumulating small steps. The sages achieve greatness precisely because they do not deliberately pursue it. Rash promises are often hard to fulfill, and oversimplifying matters leads to greater difficulties—thus, the sages always approach everything with caution.

Li Xizhai adds: Practicing Wuwei prevents exhaustion; practicing "non-interference" spares others from disturbance; savoring the "flavorless" liberates one from material desires. These teachings guide people to transcend worldly attachments through inner cultivation.

Ordinary people often distinguish between big and small, much and little based on material forms. But sages (those who have attained the Dao) transcend physical forms and substances, thus viewing all things as equal without distinction. If even size and quantity can be regarded as equivalent, how much more so the worldly calculations of gratitude and resentment, reward and retribution?

When I speak of "giving," it arises purely from natural De (Virtue). Why would I dwell on whether others resent me or expect any repayment? Having eliminated the discriminating mind that separates gratitude from resentment and reward, and having seen through the differences between big and small, much and little, how could one possibly force things when handling worldly affairs? Approach matters from their simplest aspects; great accomplishments must begin with the subtle. Starting from what's easy makes difficult tasks simple; beginning with the minute renders grand undertakings small. Therefore, sages never deliberately pursue "greatness," yet great achievements naturally return to them precisely because they harbor no attachments.

Because sages hold no preconceived expectations toward things, they don't behave like ordinary people who boast promises before acting or treat problems lightly before they arise. Easy promises inevitably lead to broken trust; treating matters as too simple eventually brings numerous difficulties. Sages always approach impending matters as if facing challenges—not because they genuinely perceive difficulty, but because they refrain from imposing their will upon things, thus appearing cautious. It is precisely this prudent attitude that ultimately leaves them with no truly insurmountable obstacles.

Master Fugui (likely a Daoist practitioner) said: All things have actions, affairs, and flavors, but the root governing these "manifestations" is actually "non-being." Only sages grasp the profound mystery of the Dao, using "non-being" to contain "being"—appearing to practice Wuwei (non-action) yet never disturbing their original mind, seeming to have no affairs yet never harming their innate nature, tasting flavorlessness yet never startling their Shen (spirit). They can equalize big and small, unify much and little, blend retribution and grace into equality, valuing both the difficulties within ease and the crucial points within subtlety. They understand that the world's hard tasks must begin with the easy, and great undertakings must accumulate from details.

The cosmos contains four greats: the Dao is great, heaven is great, earth is great, and the king is also great. Yet sages never presume their own greatness—what could be greater than heaven and earth? Only emptiness. The sage's mind reaches ultimate emptiness, thus capable of containing heaven and earth within this void, thereby achieving true greatness. Those who make promises lightly will inevitably struggle to keep them—how much more so when pursuing something as significant as the Dao? The various heterodox methods like massage, breathing exercises, visualization, and breath retention may seem easy to encounter but difficult to master. Therefore, when sages cultivate the Golden Elixir (Neidan terminology referring to the supreme state of refining Jing, Qi, and Shen), they must comprehend the transformations of Yin-Yang and deeply understand the mysteries of creation. Only then can they guide the two energies of Yin and Yang to converge along the inner pathways (Dantian), gather the three natures of Jing, Qi, and Shen in the energy center, harmonize the Qi of the Five Phases, and unify the powers of the Four Symbols.

This passage discusses the wisdom of "starting from subtle beginnings" in Daoist cultivation. Originally, Lord Donghua (an epithet for the Daoist immortal Dongwang Gong) practiced alone for many years without achieving results, until he met the Golden Mother of the West (Xi Wangmu), who bestowed upon him a single spiritual elixir, enabling his immediate ascension. This illustrates that while cultivation may seem arduous, genuine transmission can make attainment surprisingly effortless.

A stable state is easy to maintain; affairs are easily planned before signs manifest; fragile things break easily, and subtle things disperse readily. The same principle applies to Daoist practice: one must prevent problems before they arise (prevention before occurrence) and address chaos before it forms. Just as a massive tree embracing-width grows from a tender sprout (guarding against the insignificant), a nine-tiered tower is built basket by basket of earth (progressing from subtle to manifest), and a thousand-mile journey begins with a single step (distance originating from proximity).

Forceful action leads to failure (the value lies in self-governance), and excessive grasping results in loss. Therefore, the sage harmonizes with nature (uniting with the Dao) and thus does not fail; they release fixed attachments (merging with spirit in emptiness) and thus do not lose. Ordinary people often fail when nearing success (without careful beginnings, how can there be proper endings?). If one maintains the same caution as at the beginning (keeping the initial mind unobscured), nothing will be ruined.

The sage’s pursuits differ from ordinary people: they desire "non-desire" (desiring what others do not desire) and do not value rare treasures (the Dao holds no mystery). They study "non-study" (learning what others do not learn), gaining insight from others’ mistakes (where others err, the sage returns). They merely assist all things in their natural development (moving with the times) and dare not interfere recklessly (those who understand the law proceed with caution). The essence of cultivation lies in preserving the original mind, following natural principles, accumulating gradually from subtle beginnings, neither forcing nor clinging.

Fu Guizi (Daoist philosopher) states: Ordinary people chase after external things, only perceiving what has already occurred without foreseeing what is to come. Only genuine Dao cultivators can rectify their minds when inner stillness first emerges and restrain emotions before desires sprout—this makes mastery and planning far easier. Restraining desires when they're still faint, cleansing worldly defilements the moment they appear—this makes dissolution and dissipation more attainable.

The crux of Dao cultivation lies in: making preparations before signs manifest, addressing issues while they remain subtle. Consider how a tree thick enough to embrace grows from a tender sprout—the Dao's transformations likewise begin in minutiae. A nine-tiered tower rises basket by basket of earth—the Dao's loftiness stems from ceaseless accumulation. A thousand-mile journey starts beneath one's feet—the Dao's profundity originates in humble daily practice. All this demonstrates that great accomplishments demand reverence for subtle beginnings.

Now observe the importance of careful completion: The Dao admits no artificial contrivance—the slightest interference brings failure. The Dao rejects rigid frameworks—the smallest fixation causes loss. Only sages (those who embody the Dao) follow nature without coercion, thus never failing. Those skilled at building achievements never abandon them midway; those adept at preservation never lightly discard. Ordinary efforts inevitably involve forced action, and forced action invites success or failure. Were we to conclude affairs with the same care as initiating them, the distinction between success and failure would vanish—only constancy would remain.

Heaven's Dao endures through constancy; sages are ceaseless through constancy. Persistent Dao cultivation attains the state where "I am the Dao, the Dao is me; mind is Dao, Dao is mind"—existing as one with heaven and earth, how could failure occur? Thus sages do not lack pursuits—they simply pursue what most neglect. What people disregard, sages treasure. Consider rare jewels—sages covet them not. Nor are sages without learning—they simply study what others shun. What people overlook, sages restore. Conventional scholarship? Sages bypass it.

This "restoration" refers to returning to ritual's original intent—a reversion to normalcy. By returning to fundamental authenticity, faults naturally dissolve. Dao cultivation assists all things in their spontaneous unfolding without presumptuous action, hoping all may emulate sages—pursuing what most neglect, studying what others shun—until ultimately attaining Wuwei (non-action).

Li Xizhai adds: Just as an embraceable tree grows from a sprout, a nine-tiered tower rises from piled earth, and a thousand-mile journey begins with a single step—so too must the state of Wuwei (non-action) accumulate through incremental cultivation.

This passage expounds on the governing principle of "Wuwei (non-action)" and the profound realm of "mysterious De (Virtue/Power)."

Laozi suggests that ancient masters skilled in practicing the Dao (善为道者) did not use cleverness to educate the people (明民), but instead allowed them to remain in a state of simple naturalness (愚之). The difficulty in governing people arises precisely from their excessive cleverness (智多). Thus, governing through cleverness brings calamity to the state (贼), while governing without it brings blessing (福).

Understanding the distinction between these two approaches to governance means grasping an essential principle (楷式). Those who can embody this principle attain the realm of "mysterious De." This De is profound and transcendent, running counter to worldly values (与物反), yet ultimately leads to the greatest harmony (大顺).

Liu Zhongping explains: Governing without cleverness aligns with the Dao of Heaven (开天), while governing with cleverness stems from human artifice (开人). Human artifice leads to excessive scrutiny (太察), resulting in a loss of the people's natural simplicity; aligning with Heaven's Dao, however, allows for Wuwei (non-action), leading naturally to clear and stable governance. Therefore, governing through cleverness harms the state, while governing without it is the true path.

The passage emphasizes that governance should emulate nature—rulers should maintain an attitude of Wuwei and non-attachment, avoiding deliberate action and forceful control to prevent failure and loss. By being cautious from beginning to end and remaining consistent in this approach, great achievements can be realized.

This scripture expounds the shared principles between governing a state and cultivating the self. Its central thesis states that excessive reliance on cleverness brings calamity, while preserving simplicity yields true blessings.

The text observes that governing through cunning is like boring holes into primordial chaos (referring to the original natural state), thereby destroying its inherent authenticity—this becomes the nation's misfortune. Governing without artifice resembles returning to simplicity after refinement, preserving the essence of primordial Qi (vital energy), which constitutes the nation's true fortune. These contrasting scenarios demonstrate that while understanding this principle isn't difficult, actualizing it proves challenging. Those who comprehend this fundamental law of "governing without cleverness" attain the realm of "profound De (Virtue)"—the very source of heaven, earth, and all things.

The author employs bodily metaphors: the state as the body, the ruler as the heart. When eyes indulge in colors and ears drown in sounds, the essential Qi (Jing and Qi) scatters beyond recovery. This disorder stems not from the people's ignorance, but paradoxically from their excessive cleverness. Like the Zhuangzi's parable of Hundun (Chaos) dying when seven orifices were carved, overusing intellect destroys natural authenticity.

All things revere cleverness, yet conforming to this trend contradicts the great Dao. The true Dao appears dull-witted—opposing worldly wisdom yet harmonizing with the Way. Skilled cultivators humble themselves, ultimately achieving complete fusion with the Dao called "great accord"—moving through fire unharmed, passing through metal and stone unimpeded.

The passage concludes with river imagery: The reason rivers and seas reign over all streams is their mastery of staying low (symbolizing the cultivator's empty humility). Similarly, sages guiding the people must speak humbly; leading them requires placing personal gain last. This wisdom of "dwelling below" perfectly embodies the Dao's principles.

Though ostensibly discussing statecraft, the text's essence lies in self-cultivation. Through methods like "plugging sensory openings and closing desire's gates," practitioners return to primordial simplicity. This philosophy manifests core Daoist tenets: "governing through Wuwei (non-action)" and "rejecting sagely wisdom and abandoning cunning."

This passage elucidates the wisdom of Daoist self-cultivation and worldly conduct. To guide people in accordance with the Dao (the Way), one must place oneself behind the masses. Though sages occupy exalted positions, the people feel no oppression; though they lead, none feel harmed. Precisely because sages do not contend with others, no one in the world can contend with them.

For those cultivating health and longevity, nourishing Qi (vital energy) is paramount. The middle Dantian (energy center located between chest and abdomen) serves as the "sea of Qi." Ancient adepts taught: those seeking immortality must practice sustained visualization. Prolonged visualization of the upper Dantian (between eyebrows) preserves the Shen (spirit), visualization of the middle Dantian replenishes true Qi, while focusing on the lower Dantian (lower abdomen) prevents physical decay. Shen corresponds to fire, true Qi to water. Another teaching states: when concentrated spirit enters the Qi cavity (Dantian), and Qi returns to its oceanic source, limitless longevity is attained.

In the human body, the sea of Qi becomes the converging point for all orifices, just as rivers flow to oceans precisely because they occupy low ground - embodying the principle that "supreme goodness resembles water." True masters remain humble and restrained, valuing modesty as nobility, prioritizing yielding over advancement, returning to authenticity through self-restraint. Though occupying high positions, people feel no burden; though leading, none are obstructed - thus the world naturally turns to them. Like rivers inevitably flowing to seas, waters surge forward without competitive intent, appearing neither hurried nor rushed. The sage's contention-free mind renders him unconquerable.

Ancestor Lü (Lü Dongbin) commented: oceans become kings of rivers precisely by excelling at lowliness. Those qualified to rule rivers can rule the world - the key lies in understanding humility. Those possessing profound De (Virtue/Power) treat inferiors with modesty. Zhuangzi considered this approach the way of "mysterious sages and uncrowned kings." Emperor Shun's "profound virtue became renowned" while still a commoner, proving Xuande (mysterious virtue) constitutes the sage's method of abiding below. Maintaining this humble mindset while positioned above others represents true modesty. Though sages govern all under heaven from elevated stations, they call themselves "lonely, bereft and unworthy," willingly bearing their nations' humiliations and calamities - using language that expresses genuine humility.

This passage expounds the Daoist wisdom of "non-contention" (bu zheng). Laozi teaches that truly wise individuals do not aggressively seek precedence, but instead remain humble like water that naturally flows downward. When one speaks with humility (yan xia zhi) and positions themselves behind others (shen hou zhi), they paradoxically gain genuine support from the people. Such leaders never feel oppressive (bu zhong) when in high positions, nor do they cause harm (bu hai) when taking the lead. Precisely because they exert no pressure or injury, all under heaven willingly support them without resentment.

Laozi presents the "Three Treasures" for cultivation: first is compassion (like an infant's pure tenderness), second is frugality (reducing selfish desires), and third is "daring not to be first" (maintaining humble retreat). Only with compassionate hearts can one manifest true courage (qi li da), only through frugality can one achieve expansive capacity (qi liang shen), and only by willingly standing behind others can one become a leader of the multitude (cheng qi zhang). Those who abandon compassion for brute force, discard frugality for indulgence, and insist on scrambling ahead are courting disaster.

The text particularly emphasizes compassion's power: battles fought with compassion prevail (through inner stability), defenses built with compassion become impregnable (by awaiting proper timing). This is what heaven naturally seeks to preserve—it protects through compassion (tian jiang jiu zhi, yi ci wei zhi). The core teaching reveals this paradox: by contending with none, none under heaven can contend with you. This seemingly yielding approach to life contains the greatest strength.

This scripture is a precious record where the Supreme Lao Jun (the highest deity in Daoism) personally expounds the true meaning of Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue). The commentator Fugui Zi reflects that although separated by millennia, reading these words feels like witnessing the Supreme Lao Jun delivering teachings in person within the sacred halls.

The text reveals: Though heaven and earth are vast and people speak of the Dao's boundlessness, the true Dao is actually simple and unadorned. The Dao's nobility lies in its capacity to embrace all things without display. The Supreme Lao Jun particularly emphasizes that Dao cultivators must uphold the "Three Treasures": First is "compassion" (ci) - to embody heaven and earth's nurturing kindness toward all beings, preserving life with the caution of walking on thin ice. Second is "frugality" (jian) - to emulate heaven and earth's contracting rhythm, cherishing one's Shen (spirit) like holding a full cup of water. Third is "daring not be first in the world" - learning from heaven and earth's humble virtue, always maintaining a yielding heart.

True compassion means restraining selfish desires rather than submitting to them - desirelessness brings strength. True frugality means eliminating falsehoods rather than withholding sincerity - freedom from illusion brings expansiveness. True humility means not contending for superiority, but courageously shouldering the responsibilities of righteousness. If people abandon compassion while speaking of courage, discard frugality while seeking abundance, and neglect humility while competing to be first, they will only hasten their downfall.

With compassion as one's strategy in battle, victory is assured - for only by conquering selfish desires can one perceive the Dao. With compassion as one's defense, stability is guaranteed - for only by harming none can both sides be preserved. Cultivating the great Dao appears easy yet proves difficult, requiring both personal effort and heavenly grace. Without accumulating virtuous deeds and hidden merit, one becomes vulnerable to demonic obstructions. Dong Sijing adds that this passage uses military metaphors to illustrate Dao cultivation, with compassion being the key. Others observe that from a health preservation perspective, these principles equally apply to self-cultivation practices.

This passage elucidates the Daoist wisdom of "the virtue (De) of non-contention," using military metaphors to illustrate principles for navigating life.

A truly cultivated scholar (shi) does not resort to force lightly, but maintains a mindset of compassion and tranquility. Those skilled in warfare are never blinded by anger, preserving instead magnanimity and composure. Those capable of defeating enemies often achieve victory not through direct confrontation but through stability and humble yielding. Those adept at employing others always maintain a modest and unassuming attitude, for only thus can they truly harness others' talents.

Su Ziyou explains that scholars should regard military force as a last resort—frequent recourse to violence only invites calamity. The sage engages in battle only when absolutely necessary, for if one kills out of anger, Heaven will inevitably bring misfortune. Precisely by not contending with others, one surpasses those who are quarrelsome by nature.

Shi Deqing points out that the core of this chapter lies in the phrase "those skilled in employing others maintain humility," using military analogies to demonstrate the highest state of compassionate non-contention. Fu Guizi further clarifies that true warriors are not entirely devoid of martial prowess, anger, or contention, but understand that "willpower surpasses weaponry." They comprehend the wisdom of "engaging only when compelled, acting only when necessary," and master the strategy of "giving first when seeking to receive."

The passage ultimately emphasizes that whether in military strategy, state governance, or spiritual cultivation, the key lies in maintaining humility. Just as the "Tai Hexagram" in the Book of Changes (Yijing) shows the Qian (Heaven) trigram above and Kun (Earth) below—signifying that only when those in superior positions remain humble and those below stay grounded can harmony be achieved. Practitioners of the Dao must likewise discern primary from secondary matters, recognize circumstances clearly, and preserve a humble heart-mind.

This scripture expounds the Daoist wisdom of "the virtue (De) of non-contention" in worldly affairs. Using metaphors from celestial movements and military strategy, it illustrates the sage's principles for governing the world.

The text first employs the hexagrams from the Classic of Changes (Yijing) for explanation: When the Qian (Heaven) hexagram is above and Kun (Earth) below, it forms the Pi (Stagnation) hexagram, symbolizing the cessation of growth. Conversely, when Kun is above and Qian below, it creates the Tai (Peace) hexagram, representing harmonious interaction between heaven and earth. This mirrors how sages, though occupying high positions, maintain humble hearts—when the people remain unaware of their rulers' presence, natural peace prevails.

The discourse then borrows from military philosophy: Skilled commanders often say "dare not take the offensive but prefer defense, dare not advance an inch but prefer retreating a foot." This embodies the wisdom of wuwei (non-action)—appearing to deploy troops while actually refraining from deliberate action; seeming ready to roll up sleeves yet making no real move; appearing armed against enemies while maintaining humility. The greatest calamity lies in underestimating opponents, for such arrogance leads to losing the fundamental treasure that is the Dao.

The conclusion states: When armies confront each other, the side embracing compassion ultimately prevails. This "compassion" refers precisely to the "virtue of non-contention" discussed in the previous chapter. Like the ancient sages whose virtue harmonized with the Dao of Heaven, thereby becoming worthy of bearing the title of "Heaven"—this represents the most sublime statecraft from antiquity.

Annotations:

1. Qian and Kun: The two fundamental hexagrams in the Yijing, representing Heaven/Yang and Earth/Yin respectively

2. Pi and Tai: Two hexagram names symbolizing obstruction and prosperity

3. "Pushing the hub": An ancient ritual gesture of humility, originally meaning to turn a chariot wheel

4. "Remaining without rivals": Maintaining a state of non-contention

5. "Manifestation of Mysterious Function": An alternative title for Chapter 69 of the Daode Jing

This scripture employs military metaphors to elucidate the path of cultivation. The essential meaning is this: When facing an enemy, one should remain unattached as if no enemy exists; even when wielding weapons, it should resemble taking no action. The key lies in harboring no intention to kill, for only then can one preserve the fundamental. If one underestimates the adversary or delights in battle, allowing the mind to contend with external phenomena, even victory yields no true gain. When two armies clash, those who hold compassion in their hearts often prevail first, for Heaven protects such benevolent individuals with its mercy.

For cultivators, spiritual practice resembles military strategy: The cauldron furnace (referring to the internal space where energy circulates during cultivation) stands at the forefront, while the opponent (representing distracting thoughts to be subdued) appears dominant and floating, with the practitioner remaining receptive and grounded. One must seize the crucial moments of cultivation like Yu the Great treasured every instant, for within these fine intervals lie the celestial fire-times (the precise timing and intensity of energy circulation) transmitted by immortal masters. Conducting the inner fire (guiding vital energy during practice) mirrors military command—appearing active yet fundamentally embodying wuwei (non-action).

The greatest calamity lies in underestimating the adversary (referring to overlooking obstacles in cultivation), which leads to losing the precious Dao-mind. The scripture emphasizes maintaining a compassionate heart, for benevolence naturally renders one invincible. Just as Wood (representing kindness) overcomes Metal (symbolizing rigidity) among the Five Phases, those who nurture compassion ultimately prevail.

The subsequent "Chapter on Knowing Difficulty" points out that the Dao is actually easy to comprehend and practice, yet people struggle to truly know and follow it. This is because the Dao's foundation lies in wuwei (acting through non-action) and "no-thought" (a mind purified of distractions). Sadly, most fail to grasp this truth—hence those who truly understand me (the Dao) are rare, and it is precisely this rarity that makes them precious.

This passage explores the relationship between the Dao and the "self," as well as how to comprehend the true essence of the Great Dao through simple and practical methods.

It first points out that true sages understand the "self" is not a fixed entity, nor can the Dao be simply defined. Though inwardly they hold precious moral cultivation (怀玉, "embracing jade"), outwardly they appear ordinary and unadorned (被褐, "clad in coarse cloth"), even seeming somewhat dull-witted. The Great Dao is inherently level and easy to traverse, yet people always prefer shortcuts. In truth, the principles spoken by Laozi (the Supreme Venerable Sovereign) are all about the ordinary truths of life's essence—both easy to understand and to practice.

Though the entire Daode Jing sometimes speaks directly, sometimes through metaphors, sometimes explicitly and sometimes obscurely, it ultimately points to the same truth. The scripture emphasizes that "words have their ancestor" (言有宗) and "affairs have their lord" (事有君)—these eight characters already encapsulate the entire essence of Golden Elixir (Jindan) cultivation. Practitioners should begin with what is simple to understand and easy to practice, finding the core principles within.

The Dao is in fact our original nature; to know the Dao is to know oneself. Sadly, few in the world truly understand the Dao, which is why the sages' teachings appear so precious. Sages look no different from ordinary people (和光同尘, "harmonizing the light and blending with the dust"), yet inwardly they hold the "Three Treasures" (慈, compassion; 俭, frugality; 不敢为天下先, not daring to be first in the world). If one has only plain appearance without inner cultivation, it's like boiling water in an empty pot—utterly meaningless.

The final section discusses true wisdom: the highest knowledge is knowing what one does not know; to regard not knowing as knowing is a flaw. Sages are free from this flaw because they constantly maintain a state of no-thought and non-attachment. Truly wise people remain vigilant against the limitations brought by "knowing," for only then can they avoid erroneous understanding.

The Precious Wings of the Supreme Dao and Virtue Scripture (Taishang Daode Baozhang Yi) expounds on the wisdom of cognition and Daoist cultivation.

A practitioner of the Dao should maintain an attitude of "knowing as if not knowing." Recognizing the limitations of one's own understanding is itself a form of enlightenment, preventing the affliction of delusional knowledge. The sages (those who have attained the Dao) remain unbound by cognition precisely because they understand that excessive attachment to knowledge is the root of the problem.

Ordinary people often impose their own views upon emptiness and conjure illusions in the midst of tranquility—like rubbing their eyes and seeing phantom images, or mistaking their own shadows. Over time, they mistake false perceptions for reality. Only by recognizing that such delusional knowledge is itself a sickness can one cure the attachment to cognition.

The text then discusses the passage "when the people no longer fear authority" (min bu wei wei), meaning that when even basic reverence is lost, greater calamities will follow. Practitioners should maintain an open and expansive mind (wu xia qi suo ju—"do not constrict your dwelling") and not reject the innate state of life (wu yan qi suo sheng—"do not despise your livelihood"). The sage possesses self-knowledge without self-display (zi zhi bu zi jian) and self-love without self-aggrandizement (zi ai bu zi gui).

Fugui Zi (likely a commentator) adds that there are many ways to harm life, and indulging in desires inevitably leads to ruin. What people should truly fear are the temptations of daily life—fame, profit, and desires. If even these minor threats are not feared, greater dangers like death will soon arrive. Ordinary people consider grand mansions their homes, yet fail to realize that a hundred years pass in the blink of an eye.

This scripture emphasizes maintaining a centered and balanced state of mind in cultivation—neither excessively pursuing knowledge nor indulging in desires, but finding harmony in self-awareness and self-respect.

The length of life is not the determining factor. How can one know that while maintaining a state of serene Wuwei (non-action), though the body exists in a finite world, the mind can embrace the entire void—how could it then be confined by narrow dwellings? How can one know that through humility and yielding without contention, ordinary life may perish easily, yet the creative power of life never vanishes—why then would one despise life itself? When I do not reject life, the longer I live, the more I master the principles of preserving it; when life does not reject me, its enduring existence allows the continuous application of methods to prolong it. Thus, the sage understands the need to restrain brilliance, avoiding outward displays of pride; they cherish inner virtues like precious jade, without greedily clinging to life to elevate themselves. Within, they possess true self-awareness and self-love, yet outwardly show no traces of self-righteousness. They discard what should be discarded and retain what should be retained.

When people no longer revere the majesty of the Dao of Heaven, then acts of reckless bravery leading to destruction will arise (being "courageous" in daring to act recklessly invites ruin—this refers to resolutely severing delusional thoughts, as domineering behavior belongs to the category of actions leading to death; whereas being "courageous" in restraint and yielding allows survival—this refers to steadfastly holding to the path of gentleness and purity, as humility and harmony belong to the category of actions that preserve life). These two modes of behavior (both severing and preserving) may bring benefit or harm (the Dao is like a sharp sword—misuse can wound oneself). What does Heaven despise (what is truly precious is non-deliberate action)? Who can comprehend its subtleties (the essence of the Dao is formless emptiness—true understanding prevents reckless action)? Thus, even sages find it difficult to grasp (the principles are easy to know but hard to practice; the mind is easy to awaken but hard to penetrate fully).

The movement of the Dao of Heaven (which is actually a reflection of our original mind): it does not contend yet always prevails (governing through Wuwei, contending with nothing, yet nothing can overcome it); it does not speak yet responds appropriately (without thought or desire, the loudest sounds become sparse, yet it naturally resonates); it does not summon yet things return of their own accord (free from attachment, stillness naturally connects); calm and composed yet its plans are thorough (transcending the concept of "nothingness," following nature's course with boundless capability). The Dao of Heaven is like a vast, boundless net (all things are within it)—seemingly sparse, yet nothing escapes (the eternal Dao exists in all things, appearing loose yet inescapable).

Commentary by Shen Jiaomen (a Ming Dynasty Daoist): To act upon seeing righteousness is called courage; to conquer oneself is called strength. The "courage" of those who attain the Dao manifests as courage in compassion and courage in benevolence. If one knows only brute courage and contention, they deviate from compassion and benevolence—once the mind of slaughter is aroused, how can life be preserved?

When the body achieves "the courage to refrain from forcefulness," it attains compassionate benevolence—how could this not preserve life? This is the eternal principle. Yet worldly affairs sometimes see survival through forcefulness and demise through yielding, leaving people perplexed and claiming the Dao of Heaven lacks discernment. The reasons people lose Heaven's favor, or why Heaven despises certain individuals, even sages struggle to explain—not because the principle is obscure, but because it is difficult to articulate for every person.

Liezi (a Daoist master) once said that those who cater to Heaven's will while calculating gains and losses are already courting disaster, illustrating how the Dao of Heaven truly defies prediction. But is the Dao of Heaven truly unknowable? It does not contend for momentary advantages yet prevails through enduring principles; it does not preach incessantly yet responds to all things like an echo; it requires no prayers or pleas yet arrives naturally. Though the Dao appears simple and unhurried, its profound workings far surpass human comprehension. Human laws, no matter how meticulous, still allow escape from punishment, yet the vast, seemingly loose net of Heaven—could it possibly let slip even a boat-swallowing fish? Ultimately, its justice manifests unmistakably, with blessings and misfortunes meted out without error. How, then, can the Dao of Heaven be called unknowable?

Fuguizi (possibly a commentator) notes that this chapter discusses the foundational practices the Supreme Venerable Sovereign (Taishang Laojun) teaches for cultivating the Dao. Beginners must grasp the principle that "protecting life requires killing life"—here, "killing" refers to eradicating delusional thoughts. After achieving progress in practice, one must focus on refining Qi (vital energy) to a state of pliancy, becoming pure like an infant, and devote effort to "knowing the masculine but guarding the feminine." The saying "when the earthly soul (Po) perishes, the heavenly soul (Hun) flourishes" explains why "the courage to refrain from forcefulness brings life"—this "life" refers to the vitality of the spirit (Shen). These two states represent strength through forcefulness and strength through gentleness. If mastered flawlessly, one encounters no obstacles; if fixated on appearances, harm is inevitable. Though the Dao of Heaven blesses the virtuous and abhors arrogance, who can fully comprehend what Heaven despises? Success in Daoist practice cannot be forced—only through the steady accumulation of virtue (De) can one progress.

For ordinary people, the greatest challenge is decisive action in the moment, while for sages, the difficulty lies not in courage but in making "the courage to refrain from forcefulness" a guiding principle. Understanding the principle is easy; practicing it is hard. Beginning virtuous deeds is easy; persisting to the end is hard—how much more so for ordinary people? To comprehend the human Dao, one must first recognize the Dao of Heaven—prevailing without contention is not victory through human effort but through alignment with Heaven's will. Emulating this principle allows harmony with natural Qi (vital energy). Perfect responsiveness without words, spontaneous resonance without summons—this is the profound mystery of the Dao of Heaven.

This scripture passage primarily discusses the spiritual attainments of Daoist practitioners and their perspective on life and death. When cultivation reaches the supreme state, one no longer needs deliberate verbal responses but manifests the Dao's principles through spontaneous action. Thoughts transform naturally, appearing without summoning—this is the state of profound stillness that nevertheless resonates with all things.

The truly realized person possesses a mind vast as the void, capable of embracing all existence. Though the creative transformations of heaven and earth are immense, they only encompass physical forms, whereas the sage's formless mind transcends cosmic boundaries. Though the workings of yin-yang are profoundly mysterious, they govern only tangible qi (vital energy), while the sage's qi-free state remains unconstrained. Those who attain this realm move with perfect freedom, ascending to celestial courts to pay homage to the Jade Emperor—this constitutes genuine accomplishment.

Regarding mortality, the text observes that ordinary people don't truly fear death because they're ensnared in desires and delusions. Attempting to frighten them with death yields limited results. What truly governs life and death is one's original mind, which can sever all delusional thoughts. Trying to control others' mortality is like cutting wood for a master carpenter—you'll likely wound yourself.

Zhang Lei (a Song Dynasty scholar) adds in his commentary that human deaths typically result from illness, accidents, or punishment, yet people don't genuinely dread them. Using death to intimidate the populace proves futile—if mortality truly held deterrent power, executing criminals should prevent crimes, yet reality proves otherwise. This demonstrates death's inability to inspire authentic fear.

The passage emphasizes that Daoist practitioners should transcend concepts of life and death to achieve unity with the Dao, rather than clinging to external coercion for behavioral control. True transformation springs from inner awakening, not external compulsion.

Shen Jiaomen said: All things are created by Heaven (the natural order) and their demise is likewise determined by Heaven. Only Heaven holds the authority over life and death—human beings, like all living creatures, have no right to take another's life. If someone presumes to kill, they are usurping Heaven's prerogative of life and death. This is like a clumsy apprentice forcibly taking the master carpenter's axe to carve wood—rarely does he avoid injuring his own hand. How could such recklessness not endanger his very life?

Fu Guizi elaborates further: In this world between Heaven and Earth, physical death is common, but the loss of one's true mind is far more perilous. People either bring misfortune upon themselves by violating moral principles or invite disaster by defying natural laws. Yet those who truly comprehend life and death do not fear dying. Cultivators of the Dao must first refine themselves, much like forging a sword. When one achieves the "mind-sword" (an awakened consciousness), it can sever delusions from ten thousand miles away as swiftly as lightning. If people truly feared death, I could dispel all heterodox teachings with this invisible sword of wisdom. But what's truly difficult to eradicate are the delusions within human hearts—this can only be judged by each person's own "Sovereign of Heaven" (the original mind). Through self-cultivation that eliminates false thoughts, one attains the state of "the mundane mind dying while the true spirit lives" (when ordinary thoughts cease, the authentic nature emerges). This inner transformation cannot be accomplished by others—forced intervention is like wielding an axe for the carpenter: not only ineffective, but likely to cause self-harm.

Xue Hui cites Emperor Hongwu's preface to the Daode Jing: After ascending the throne, Zhu Yuanzhang struggled with statecraft until one day he read the line "When people do not fear death, how can you threaten them with death?" and suddenly understood. In those early years of his reign, harsh punishments had created a cycle where "ten executed in the morning only brought a hundred new offenders by evening." Abandoning extreme penalties for corvée labor, within a year his own mind felt lighter. He then realized the Daode Jing was not merely a manual for spiritual cultivation, but a treasure for governing nations and nurturing the people.

The commentary concludes: When people cease fearing death, it often stems from desperate poverty—hence Chapter 75, "On Ravaging Greed," will address livelihood issues. The phrase "the people's hunger" metaphorically represents spiritual starvation: just as rapacious rulers cause famine through excessive taxation, the endless desires in human hearts become the root of our estrangement from true nature.

This scripture explores the relationship between governance and the essence of life, with its core teaching being that excessive intervention disrupts natural harmony.

When rulers ("those above") act excessively, the people ("those below") become difficult to govern. Just as a mind constantly agitated by desires cannot comprehend the Dao, people's disregard for death stems from their excessive pursuit of pleasure ("thickening their means of living"). Like an insatiable appetite, this pursuit drives them to ignore danger. Truly wise individuals ("Sages") don't deliberately seek longevity. By maintaining detachment toward life itself, they come closer to the Dao than those obsessed with preserving life.

Li Xizhai's commentary observes: rulers who demand too much impoverish their people, while excessive decrees create social unrest. If I indulge myself without regard for others' survival, others will naturally devalue life. Sages approach life with natural acceptance, never extending their own lives at the expense of others' survival.

Fu Guizi further explains: awakened people maintain mental clarity ("emptying their minds") while living substantial lives ("filling their bellies"). But in reality, oppressive taxation leaves people hungry—creating "full minds" (filled with resentment) and "empty bellies" (physically starved). The enlightened have pliable wills ("weakening their ambitions") yet strong physiques ("strengthening their bones"), whereas contemporary rulers force compliance, making people outwardly submissive ("strong-willed") yet internally weak ("weak-boned"). In an ideal society, people live securely without harm, but current indulgence in pleasures devalues life—prioritizing the physical over one's true nature.

Excessive life-nourishing methods ironically harm vitality. Those truly skilled in nurturing life first eliminate the "Three Corpses" (Daoist term for three malevolent spirits within the body) and "Six Thieves" (sensory desires of eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and mind), abandoning worldly pleasures. This state of natural longevity achieved through non-striving far surpasses deliberate longevity pursuits.

The root causes of unruly people and life's devaluation lie in rulers disrupting heaven-earth harmony while the masses fill with violent qi. Human life should remain pliant like water (maintaining harmony even when freezing into ice), becoming rigid only in death (like ice melting into water as harmony dissipates). The growth and decline of all living things follow this principle of softness overcoming hardness.

This passage uses natural phenomena as metaphors for Daoist cultivation principles. In life, the body remains soft (like water naturally flowing to the sea, sustained by harmonious Qi within), but becomes dry and rigid after death (like the moon forever bound to the heavens, though its harmonious Qi has dissipated). Thus, those who are excessively strong often meet their end (death is actually the beginning of rebirth, while rigid aggression harms vitality), whereas gentle and yielding individuals flourish (life contains seeds of death, and softness is the foundation of nurturing life).

Using warfare as analogy: an overly aggressive army rarely prevails (when thoughts deviate from the Dao, danger increases; reliance on brute force leads to failure); trees growing too tall face the axe (a distracted mind becomes increasingly disordered, just as rigid trees snap easily). Powerful things usually occupy lower positions (what causes delusions and deviation from one's true nature? This is the root of downfall), while gentle things rise to higher positions (this is the foundation for entering the Dao, symbolizing an ascending momentum).

Su Zhe (Su Ziyou) explains: When the body is filled with harmonious Qi, it avoids rigidity; maintaining this Taiji harmony prevents one from being burdened by forceful actions. An army victorious through righteousness isn't truly aggressive—unrighteous aggression inevitably fails quickly. Trees reaching arm-span width get felled—this is nature's law. The subtle occupies the heights, the coarse settles below; the subtle must remain yielding, the coarse inevitably becomes strong.

Master Fugui further elaborates: This chapter illustrates how the Great Dao generates "being" from "non-being," accumulating softness to ultimately achieve strength. Softness represents all things' initial state, strength their final state—both ultimately returning to nothingness. The text uses tangible life-death cycles to metaphorize the formless Dao. Cultivators must first understand these principles of existence, yielding/strong, and positional dynamics before recognizing softness as the gateway to the Dao. Through prolonged practice, one transforms all rigid heaviness into luminous lightness, transcending form to enter formlessness—attaining cloud-riding immortality.

Yan Junping adds: Heaven-Earth's operation follows the principle that small cannot bear large, nor light sustain heavy. Thus the aggressive cannot rule, nor towering trees occupy high positions. "Gong" means "to support"—as Xunzi said: forced support breaks; aggressive armies ultimately fall, often defeated by weaker forces; overgrown trees snap, suppressed by their grove. This interpretation best aligns with the scripture's intent.

Softness embodies humility—the Way of Heaven reveres humility, hence the subsequent discussion of "Heaven's Dao."

This passage uses the metaphor of adjusting a bowstring to explain the difference between the Dao of Heaven (cosmic operation) and human ways. The Dao of Heaven is like tuning a bow—lowering what is too high (reducing excessive thoughts), raising what is too low (lifting the spirit), reducing what is excessive (curbing overindesire), and supplementing what is lacking (cultivating harmonious Qi). This achieves natural harmony through balance.

Yet human behavior often does the opposite: taking from the insufficient to give to the surplus (clinging to desires while forgetting one’s true nature, harming others to benefit oneself). Only those who comprehend the Dao can use their surplus to nourish the world (the key lies in self-forgetfulness). Thus, the sage (one who has attained the Dao) acts without claiming merit, achieves without pride, and does not even deliberately display virtue (letting go of even the thought of "not displaying virtue").

Shen Jiaomen further explains: A bowmaker adjusts the bow’s balance precisely by "lowering the high and raising the low." The Dao of Heaven values equilibrium, reducing excess and supplementing deficiency. But human ways exploit the poor to enrich the wealthy, scraping every last bit when taking and squandering recklessly when spending—completely contrary to the Dao of Heaven. Only those who have realized the Dao can emulate it, using their surplus to aid the deficient.

Fu Guizi adds: The Dao of Heaven operates on different timescales (years, months, days). Practitioners must first understand the Dao of Heaven (by observing natural rhythms like the moon’s waxing and waning) before grasping the rise and fall of Yin-Yang Qi within the body. He expresses gratitude for encountering a true master’s guidance, allowing him to comprehend the profound meaning behind Laozi’s teaching that "the Dao of Heaven is like drawing a bow"—this metaphor reveals the essential practice of achieving balance through adjustment.

Here we explore the distinction between heavenly Dao and human ways, using the metaphor of drawing a bow. The earthly bow is understood by trimming excess to compensate deficiency—a principle easily grasped. The celestial bow (referring to lunar phases) operates similarly: When the new moon first appears in the Geng-You position (west) on the third day, its crescent resembles a newly drawn bow; by the eighth day in Ding-Wei position (southwest), the waxing half-moon signals growing Yang energy; at full moon on the fifteenth day in Jia-Mao position (east), it mirrors a fully drawn bow. After reaching fullness, waning begins—on the eighteenth day in Xin-Xu position (northwest), one Yang line diminishes; by the twenty-third in Bing-Wu position (south), more recedes; until the twenty-eighth in Yi-Chen position (southeast), only faint Yang remains like the Kun hexagram (pure Yin), the bow now slackened.

Practitioners must emulate this celestial rhythm through monthly "advancing Yang fire and retreating Yin talisman" (Neidan terminology denoting the regulation of Yin-Yang energies within the body), cycling like the moon's waxing and waning—this embodies the principle of "dual cultivation of nature and life" (Xingming shuangxiu, the simultaneous refinement of spiritual nature and vital force). Yet ordinary people act contrarily: While the human body should replenish deficient Yang and reduce excessive Yin, worldly indulgence instead depletes primordial Yang and fosters Yin growth.

Only Dao-realized sages truly mirror heavenly Dao: They begin with deliberate cultivation yet claim no merit upon achievement. As Li Xizhai observed: The Dao takes from surplus to supplement deficiency, whereas human ways take from deficiency to feed surplus. Solely the sage employs their abundant De (virtue/power) to compensate others' lack—benefiting all beings without boasting, covering the world with merit yet claiming none, spreading blessings widely while concealing their wisdom. This humble, yielding virtue resembles water's nature (Daoism venerates water's De), hence the subsequent discourse on water's attributes.

Nothing in the world is softer than water (like the pure heart-mind of a newborn), yet nothing surpasses its power in overcoming the hard (just as those who transcend life and death remain unshaken by external forces). Water's nature is irreplaceable (when desires and delusions dissolve, nothing can compare). Thus the soft conquers the rigid (a steadfast heart-mind naturally disperses distractions—those who bend will ultimately prevail), and the weak overcomes the strong (a mind practicing Wuwei reveals the Dao—softness erodes hardness). Though all under heaven know this principle (this cosmic truth exists within everyone), few put it into practice (most obscure their original nature). Therefore the sages say (having realized this truth): "Those who endure a nation's humiliation (hiding their intentions like oceans receiving rivers) become its true rulers; those who bear a kingdom's misfortunes (withdrawing their spiritual radiance, dwelling where others shun) become sovereigns of all under heaven." These truths sound paradoxical (their value shines brightest in worldly suffering—seeming contrary yet aligned with the Dao).

Heshang Gong (Han dynasty Daoist scholar) explains: Water becomes round in round vessels, square in square ones; still when blocked, flowing when channeled. Yet in its greatness it drowns mountains, turning peaks into marshes and valleys into hills; in subtlety it polishes iron and carves jade—all through water's power. Nothing surpasses water for overcoming hardness—this undeniable truth shows weakness conquering strength (as water extinguishes fire), and softness defeating rigidity (as teeth fall before tongues). All know the soft endures while the rigid breaks, yet few practice it, ashamed of humility but craving dominance. Like rivers merging into seas, rulers enduring disgrace preserve their states; sovereigns assuming blame for their people's suffering become true monarchs. These correct principles seem paradoxical because they align with the Dao yet contradict worldly ways—people view disgrace as shame and bearing calamity as misfortune.

Fuguizi (Daoist practitioner) adds: Supreme goodness resembles water—the foundation among the Five Phases. Water sinks metal, floats wood, conquers fire, and dissolves earth, manifesting heaven-and-earth's aqueous nature. Indeed, nothing surpasses water for overcoming hardness. In the human body, the kidneys correspond to water—when kidney-water (Jing-essence) flourishes, the five viscera harmonize (Daoist cultivation regards kidney-water as life's source, nourishing the entire being).

This scripture primarily discusses how practitioners should value the preservation of kidney water (referring to the body's innate Jing-essence) and the principles of resolving resentment while cultivating one's nature.

When kidney water becomes deficient, heart fire will flare excessively, subsequently damaging lung metal (according to the Five Phases mutual conquest theory). This sequential conquest ultimately leads to death. Therefore, genuine practitioners regard kidney water as more precious than gold, circulating it ceaselessly day and night like the River Chariot (a Neidan term referring to the circulation of genuine Qi). The text employs alchemical metaphors: when the furnace fire burns too fiercely, the Yellow River water (representing kidney water) reverses its flow upward. When water ascends, fire naturally descends—this illustrates the principle of the soft overcoming the hard.

Before attaining the Dao, sages could endure humiliation and bear heavy burdens, like uncut jade concealed within stone, or true gold that fears no fire. After achieving the Dao, in minor manifestations they maintain their original true nature (called "sovereign of the altar"), while in major manifestations they can transform into countless Yang-spirit incarnations (called "king under heaven"). What ordinary people detest as filth and misfortune, those who possess the Dao can accept with equanimity.

Regarding resentment resolution: even when major grievances are resolved, lingering resentment often remains. Sages uphold the correct path ("holding the left tally" signifies maintaining justice) without harshly blaming others. Those with De-virtue respond heart-to-heart and unite with the Dao through the Dao; those without De-virtue remain attached to calculations and disputes. The heavenly Dao shows no partiality, yet consistently favors the virtuous.

The text concludes by noting that certain great resentments—such as those against rulers or parents—should never be reconciled. Forced reconciliation may dissolve the resentment but leaves lingering negativity within. It's better to reflect inward, forget grievances, and unite with the Dao. This constitutes true goodness.

The phrase "holding the left tally" serves as a metaphor for how sincere virtue naturally inspires trust. The sage who has attained the Dao is like one holding the creditor's half of a contract who never demands repayment. While I may forget favors I've done for others, I must never forget kindness received. Though sincere virtue may not always elicit immediate response, maintaining this genuineness while fulfilling one's proper role is only possible for those of true De (Virtue/Power). Without such virtue, one becomes like a tax collector ("Si Che" refers to Zhou dynasty tax reforms), obsessively calculating credits and debts, losing the generous spirit of the Dao.

Understand that Heaven's way treats all things equally, yet always favors the virtuous. The truly virtuous are precisely those who hold the left tally without making demands. As Wu Youqing explained: Holding the left tally without demanding repayment demonstrates non-discriminatory treatment of all things. Ancient contracts were inscribed on wooden tablets split down the middle - each party kept half as proof. The left tally (zuoqi) was kept by the creditor, the right tally (youqi) given to the debtor. Wang Yuanze's research notes the Records of the Grand Historian mentions "conducting affairs with the right tally," while the Book of Rites describes presenting land deeds with the right tally, confirming the left tally represents the receiving party.

Those of true De are like holders of the left tally - they never demand, but when others come with their right tallies seeking help, they give unconditionally, without judging whether the petitioner is good or bad. Those who deliberately mediate major grievances, though well-intentioned, still operate with discriminatory mindsets, unlike the non-discriminatory approach of the Dao. Like holding the left tally without making claims, they observe events unfolding and follow nature's course. The virtuous never calculate gains and losses, while the virtue-less constantly scheme. "Che" means comprehensive calculation - when the Zhou dynasty reformed taxation, replacing the "Zhu system" with the "Che system," it stemmed from concerns about unequal harvests among eight private fields, leading to collective farming and equal distribution.

Those holding the left tally allow others to take freely, unconcerned with calculation - this is called possessing De. Those implementing the Che system worry about unequal distribution, constantly scheming - this is called lacking De. Well-meaning mediators resemble Che system administrators, always fearing the disadvantaged might suffer loss - though benevolent, they still maintain discriminatory mindsets.

The essence of "holding the left tally" lies in transforming people through Daoist principles, creating natural harmony without contention. This leads to discussing the principle of "small states with sparse populations," emphasizing the importance of knowing contentment without greed.

This scripture employs the imagery of "a small state with few people" to metaphorically describe the realm of cultivation. The practitioner's inner world resembles a small nation (representing one's spiritual domain), which possesses various sensory faculties (symbolized by "utensils and tools"), yet refrains from misusing them ("not employing them"), thereby maintaining inner peace. It teaches one to value the essence of life ("cherishing death") and avoid being easily swayed by external temptations ("not venturing far").

The text depicts the attained state of cultivation: though one may possess means of transportation ("boats and chariots"), the mind has transcended temporal and spatial constraints ("neither coming nor going"), rendering them unnecessary; though one may have defensive capabilities ("armor and weapons"), the heart remains pure and free from contention ("the six senses purified"), making their use obsolete. People return to the simplest state ("using knotted cords"), which is the origin of the Dao ("the source of the Way").

The practitioner experiences: plain food as delicious ("the richness of flavor"), simple clothing as comfortable ("the shelter of the Dao"), humble dwellings as secure ("the peace of dwelling in the Dao"), and ordinary life as joyful ("the harmony of delighting in the Dao"). With neighboring states (other practitioners), there is mutual understanding ("heart illuminating heart"), and one remains undisturbed by external phenomena ("no-mind toward objects"). One perceives the true nature of body and mind ("seeing the five aggregates as empty"), undisturbed by external influences ("external realms do not enter") and not grasping inwardly ("internal realms do not emerge"). Abiding in the Dao throughout life ("lifelong in the Dao"), one reaches the state where self and objects are both forgotten ("forgetting each other").

Master Fu Gui further explains: the head symbolizes the vast, boundless cosmos ("the great round and the large state"), while the heart represents the small state with few people ("the individual spirit"). Within the human body, only the Shen (consciousness) and Qi (energy) are truly essential; other senses and limbs can be temporarily set aside. When the inner True Ruler (original spirit) abides in purity, it effortlessly governs the entire body, with Jing (essence) and Qi not dissipating and the senses not stirring recklessly. In this state, though the physical body is confined to tangible vehicles ("the corporeal form"), the spirit can traverse thousands of miles in an instant; though physical weapons are unused, a single thought can subdue inner demons. The practitioner dwells in the realm of neither birth nor extinction ("the land of no-birth"), appearing to come and go yet not truly doing so, appearing to conquer demons yet having no demons to conquer—this is the supreme state of mind cultivation.

This passage describes an ideal state of returning to pristine simplicity. Those who attain the highest level of cultivation possess hearts like the innocent people of ancient Getian and Wuhuai eras, reverting to the primordial state of knotting ropes to keep records. They eat naturally sweet food without seasoning, wear supremely beautiful garments without dyeing, and dwell in seemingly empty yet perfectly secure towers, harmoniously coexisting with heaven, earth and nature while enjoying the purest joy.

Master Xuantong (likely the author's self-reference) further explains: Such individuals share spiritual communion with all realms in the six directions without deliberate interaction; hearing commonplace sounds like cockcrow or dog bark, their ears remain naturally unperturbed. This is because genuine cultivators (zhenjun) have achieved "emptiness of the five skandhas" (void of all sensory perceptions) and "purity of the six roots" (cleansed faculties of sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch and thought), their bodies still as withered trees, their minds quiescent as dead ashes. Even approaching life's end, their mysterious true nature and wuwei (non-action) realization already transcend worldly vanity—what need remains for forced interaction? Authentic Dao-realized beings (zhenren) dwell in perfect silence, having reached the ultimate state.

The latter section emphasizes that truly credible words often lack ornamentation (just as good medicine tastes bitter), while flowery rhetoric frequently proves untrustworthy. The virtuous contend not (being free from discrimination), whereas clever debaters lack goodness. True wisdom seeks not breadth (recognizing the fundamental unity of all things), yet those pursuing erudition miss genuine knowledge. Sages accumulate nothing (neither increasing nor decreasing)—the more they assist others, the richer they become (their resources inexhaustible); the more they give, the more they possess (saving sentient beings without end). The Dao of heaven nourishes all beings without harm, while the sage's way acts without contention (as one person's goodness benefits myriad people, emulating heaven's benevolence and frugality).

Sweet words are like sweet wine—pleasant to drink but quickly exhausted. Thus truthful speech often sounds harsh, while pleasing words often lack sincerity.

The truly virtuous person emphasizes practical action over empty talk, preserving their simple and genuine nature. Just as a mountain containing jade will be hollowed out, and water holding pearls will be stirred muddy. Glib speech easily invites calamity—hence the truly virtuous do not argue, while those who love to argue lack true virtue.

One who comprehends the Dao (the Way) understands fundamental principles; grasping the essential truth makes broad learning unnecessary. Though the widely learned may understand many things, they often become confused. Thus, true knowledge does not seek breadth, and those who pursue breadth may lack true understanding.

Sages accumulate De (Virtue/Power) rather than wealth. Virtue can enlighten the ignorant, while wealth can relieve the impoverished. Zhuangzi said: "The Dao of Heaven operates without accumulation, thus it gives birth to all things; the Dao of emperors operates without accumulation, thus the world submits." Sages propagate virtue to teach others, like a mirror reflecting objects without tiring; they distribute surplus to aid the poor, like a well that never runs dry when drawn upon. Therefore, sages do not hoard—the more they help others, the richer they become; the more they give, the more abundant they grow.

The fundamental virtue of Heaven and Earth is nurturing life—thus they benefit without harming. The sage's foundation for protecting the world is benevolence—thus they act without contention. Master Fugui (note: possibly a Daoist practitioner) comments: "This chapter concludes by paralleling the Dao of Heaven with the Dao of sages, clearly showing that Laozi (the Supreme Venerable Sovereign) identifies with the Dao of Heaven. Are not the five thousand words of the Daode Jing beautiful? Free from argument? Free from excessive breadth? Not for others? Not giving to others? Yet people must distinguish between harsh truths and pleasant falsehoods; discern between holding to the Middle Way and clever rhetoric; recognize whether one focuses on fundamentals or scatters attention widely."

Ordinary people cling to their strengths as personal possessions, while sages make the great Dao public property. This Dao is inherent in all—sages merely point the way, never dividing their own possessions to give others. Thus "the more they help others, the richer they become"—the Dao is originally complete; sages simply help others realize their potential, suffering no loss themselves. Herein also lies the profound meaning of Heaven's ceaseless operation. Though Heaven's nurturing of all things may sometimes appear...

Laozi states in the Daode Jing: "To act without harming the inherent vitality of all things—this is called benefiting without causing harm." The way of sages never strays from three treasures: compassion, frugality, and refusing to presume precedence over all under heaven. Just as one knows strength yet abides in softness, understands brightness yet dwells content in obscurity, and declines the role of host to remain a guest—these are truths that can be trusted.

True beauty requires no adornment, true wisdom no contention, true breadth no display. The Great Dao never accumulates for itself. Throughout the five thousand characters of the Daode Jing, it constantly considers and gives to others. Yet has the Great Dao of Lord Lao (the supreme Daoist deity) ever diminished by this? To this day, it stands as lofty as heaven itself, bestowing blessings upon the people without causing harm.

Transcending all ages, the Great Dao serves as the progenitor of Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism, the teacher of emperors throughout history—who dares contend with its supremacy? If practitioners can grasp even a fraction of its truth, the highest among them may become sages, immortals, or buddhas, while those of lesser attainment can still transcend worldly dust. How much more so for those who devote themselves wholeheartedly to cultivation, sparing neither wealth nor hardship in pursuit of the Dao? In time, they will surely meet enlightened beings at the Dragon-Flower Assembly (an important Daoist ritual gathering), sharing the elixir and achieving ascension—fulfilling the ultimate accomplishment of the noble person. This is what aspiring practitioners should hold in their hearts at all times.

Master Li Qing'an (a Yuan dynasty Daoist adept) explains: True words lack ornamentation—faithful counsel jars the ear. Fine words lack credibility—clever speech masks intention. The Daoist practitioner, free from attachment to distinctions, does not contend, while skilled debaters provoke disputes and thus lack true goodness. The genuinely wise conceal their radiance and do not display; the broadly learned who flaunt their brilliance reveal their shallowness. Sages diminish themselves to nurture all things yet claim no lordship—thus "they do not accumulate." By preserving the formless Dao-body, they achieve permanence; by guarding the shapeless essence, they preserve their innate nature. Look for it—it cannot be seen; listen for it—it cannot be heard; use it—it cannot be exhausted. Thus it is said: "The more one gives to others, the more one possesses; the more one shares with others, the more one gains." Heaven and earth's greatest virtue lies in giving life to all things—thus "benefiting without causing harm." The sage's adherence to fundamental benevolence is called true humanity—thus "acting without contending."

This final chapter encapsulates the profound meaning of the preceding eighty chapters. As the scripture states: "The Dao that can be spoken is not the eternal Dao; the name that can be named is not the eternal name." The teaching beyond words, the benefit of wuwei (non-action) governance, the naturalness of speaking little—these may seem bland and flavorless, yet the path forward sometimes resembles retreat.

The true path of radiance appears dim and obscure; the most expansive virtue (De) seems incomplete; the purest white looks as if stained. The great Dao (the Way) is silent and formless, elusive and ungraspable. The loudest sound cannot be heard; the most precious vessel is the last to take form; truth often seems spoken in reverse.

These words may sound unpleasant to the ear, yet they contain profound and trustworthy wisdom. Thus, truthful speech is often unadorned. Things that can be spoken of, named, seen, or heard are like overfilled vessels that spill, over-sharpened blades that break, or halls piled with treasures that invite calamity. Forced pursuit of goodness loses naturalness; obsession with beauty forfeits authenticity. Though music and delicacies delight the senses, indulgence in them obscures one's true nature.

The great Dao appears clumsy and dull, like unhewn wood, willingly abiding in lowly places, seemingly muddled and unclear. It does not exalt the worthy nor crave rare treasures. Solemn as a guest, it moves with caution; simple as raw timber, it remains unadorned; empty as a valley, it embraces vastness; turbid as murky water, it contains all. Knowing radiance, it dwells in darkness; understanding glory, it rests in humility. It does not flaunt itself, claim righteousness, grow arrogant, or boast of merit.

In contrast, those who chase the extraordinary, covet wealth, exalt themselves, cling to opinions, flaunt talent, or contend aggressively indulge desires without reverence for heaven and earth, ignorant of life and death, insatiable in greed. Though they appear brilliantly clever and discerning, these are all marks of unskillfulness.

Those who have attained the Dao know the world without stepping outdoors, comprehend celestial patterns without peering through windows. They block sensory desires, shut the gates of temptation, sheathe their sharpness, untangle disputes, harmonize brilliance, and blend with the dust. Without words, they inspire trust; without display, they manifest virtue (De); through non-action (Wuwei), they accomplish great deeds. This is the principle that "the wise are not erudite"—true wisdom lies not in broad knowledge.

Those who deem themselves omniscient are in truth most ignorant. They excessively interfere with external things, disturb nature, abandon frugality, and chase empty fame. The true sage acts without claiming credit, nurtures all things without dominating, and retires when the work is done. Transcending attachment to sagely wisdom and humaneness, they discard cunning and profit, lessen selfish desires, and preserve innate purity. They continuously reduce until reaching non-action (Wuwei); eliminating extremes, extravagance, and excess; arriving at a state of no-knowledge, no-affairs, no-desires.

The great Dao bends yet remains whole; yields yet extends; in low places, it naturally fills; through decay, it renews. All things return to it; all people are transformed by it; heaven and earth unite through it. Vast in giving yet never exhausted, used without depletion. This is the celestial law: "The more one gives, the more one possesses."

This passage expounds the core Daoist principle of "supreme impartiality without selfishness." The greatest detriment to Heaven and Earth's operation is partiality—only through Virtue (De) can one receive assistance. The true Dao (the Way) needs no words to resonate with all things, requiring no summons to naturally manifest. It restrains the arrogant while elevating the humble, reducing excess to supplement deficiency. Like Heaven's canopy and Earth's support, it embraces all living beings—such is the Dao that truly benefits without harm.

The sage's way of being in the world lies in maintaining softness and embracing simplicity, acting with humility while concealing brilliance to blend with the mundane. Always placing oneself last and others first, one becomes aligned with the Great Dao, matched with Virtue, and united with Heaven and Earth. Though square-cornered, one does not injure; though straightforward, one is not overbearing; though radiant, one does not dazzle. Without harsh demands on others, one excels in giving and helping others achieve. Treating the good with goodness, one also treats the unkind with kindness.

Like the small state with few people who know contentment, returning people to their simple nature, making them forget distinctions until old age and death without comparison or contention—this is the true meaning of "non-contention." These two characters, "non-contention," may be considered the essence of the entire scripture. If truly believed and practiced, making "non-contention" one's daily cultivation, one will naturally attain the state of primordial unity over time, fully comprehending the eternal, unchanging Great Dao. Then one returns to the mysterious original substance before Heaven and Earth separated, attaining enlightened mind and realized nature.

Finally, a Zen pointer reveals: Ah, take down the flagpole of fame and profit chasing before your gate! (Meaning: relinquish the mind that contends for reputation and gain.)