《呂帝文集》

The Collected Works of Emperor Lü is a crucial Daoist text compiling various writings by Lü Dongbin (one of the Eight Immortals of Daoism, revered as "Ancestor Lü") and his disciples. This collection encompasses diverse literary forms including prefaces, biographies, treatises, precepts, and moral exhortations, covering topics such as Daoist cultivation, ethical teachings, and disciplinary guidelines.

The work begins with a detailed table of contents, primarily organized into several categories: First are prefaces to multiple classics, such as the Preface to the Great Cavern Jade Scripture and Preface to the Direct Commentary on the Jade Emperor's Essential Conduct Scripture. Next are autobiographical accounts of Ancestor Lü's spiritual journey, like Record of Attaining the Dao at Zhongnan and Personal Account at Jiangzhou Pavilion. There are also doctrinal expositions on Daoist philosophy, such as Discourse on Entering the Dao and Treatise on the Harmony of the Three. Additionally, the collection contains numerous admonitory essays for worldly guidance, including various "precept texts" (against greed, killing, etc.) and "exhortation texts" (on filial piety, trustworthiness, etc.).

Particularly noteworthy are several articles on Neidan (internal alchemy) practice, such as Rhapsody on Internal Alchemy and Personal Preface to the Golden Elixir's Internal Refinement, which reflect the essential cultivation methods of the Lü lineage. The collection also includes literary works like Record of Visiting Immortal Songzi describing transcendent journeys and Rhapsody on the Grand Assembly of Immortals depicting celestial splendor.

The concluding section clarifies the text's core message: writings serve as vessels for the great Dao (the Way), while human principles emulate celestial patterns. Just as the movements of sun, moon, and stars manifest heavenly order, these writings resemble celestial patterns illuminating the path for sentient beings. The entire collection embodies Ancestor Lü's approach of "propagating the Dao through literature," transforming profound Daoist philosophy into accessible moral guidance for the world.

The Collected Works of Emperor Lü stands as one of the most significant canonical texts in Daoism, documenting the words and deeds of Lü Dongbin (one of the Eight Immortals, revered as Patriarch Lü) as he wandered through the Three Realms to deliver sentient beings. These precious teachings, scattered far and wide, are difficult to compile in their entirety, so people have gathered them based on what they have seen and heard. Just as we comprehend the vastness of heaven and earth by observing how they nurture all things, or grasp the eternal nature of the sun and moon through their universal radiance, this collection uses words to illuminate the Great Dao (Dao), guiding readers from the shallow to the profound in understanding celestial truths.

Liu Shouyuan (a disciple dedicated to propagating Daoist teachings) humbly states in the preface that this work shines as brightly as the supreme Daoist scriptures, the Three Caverns of Perfection (Sanqing). Patriarch Lü descended into the world by celestial mandate during the late Eastern Han dynasty, maintaining the demeanor of a recluse even as he traveled extensively. Later, he assisted the host of immortals and perfected beings in the celestial court to instruct humanity, mastering the arcane methods of the Great Emperor of the Purple Tenuity (one of Daoism’s highest deities). Blending the essences of Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism, his core teachings focus on universal salvation and transcending calamities.

With boundless compassion, Patriarch Lü repeatedly obeyed the Jade Emperor’s (the supreme deity in Daoism) decrees to save sentient beings—a grand vow that knows no end. Manifesting in countless forms, he expounded the Dharma throughout the cosmos, appearing simultaneously at hundreds of altars in the human realm through feiluan (a Daoist method of spirit writing). Whether atop lofty mountains, by lakeshores, or in bustling cities, his miraculous transformations were unfathomable. His compassionate aid to the world was like the sun and moon shining impartially, bestowing grace upon all living beings, earning him universal reverence in later ages.

The collection contains both teachings on everyday ethics and profound metaphysical principles. People of high, medium, or low spiritual capacity can all receive deliverance, provided they sincerely seek the Dao (Dao). These writings are not meant to showcase literary elegance but to guide beings toward enlightenment. Just as the sun and moon shine naturally, Patriarch Lü’s teachings spread effortlessly, making this work nearly a household name.

This passage describes Zhuge Liang (courtesy name Kongming, Chancellor of Shu Han during the Three Kingdoms period) composing a preface for the fifth volume of the Collected Works of Emperor Lü (Lü Dongbin). The general meaning conveys that genuine Daoist practitioners with profound cultivation will intuitively grasp the essence of these writings, experiencing a spiritual resonance with the author across the pages. Zhuge Liang recounts how during his attendance at the Sacred Truth Dharma Assembly, the ritual platform suddenly radiated brilliant light as the Daoist cultivators present were engaged in revising the complete works of Lü Dongbin, prompting him to write this preface for the fifth volume.

The term "Dajue Fatan" (Great Awakening Dharma Platform) refers to the sacred space where important Daoist rituals are conducted, while "Cizun" (Compassionate Lord) is an honorific title for Lü Dongbin, who is venerated as the "Compassionate Savior Imperial Lord" (Ciyou Dijun). This account creates a connection between Zhuge Liang and Lü Dongbin—one of the Eight Immortals—exemplifying the Daoist tradition of incorporating historical figures into its pantheon of perfected beings. It should be noted that historically, Zhuge Liang and Lü Dongbin lived in different eras (separated by approximately 600 years). Such trans-temporal associations represent a common narrative device in Daoist hagiographical literature.

The Collected Works of Emperor Lü is an important Daoist scripture authored by the Pure Yang Patriarch Lü (Lü Dongbin, one of the Eight Immortals), who is revered as the Sovereign of Fuyou. This preface primarily elucidates the relationship between the Dao and scriptures.

The true essence of the Dao cannot be fully expressed in words, yet it cannot remain forever concealed. Since the Dao cannot remain hidden indefinitely, nor is it easily transmitted through speech alone, this is precisely why scriptures exist. Some meanings in the scriptures are apparent on the surface of the text and can be understood gradually, while others lie hidden in profound mystery, requiring one to see beyond the surface. Those who truly comprehend can grasp the core of the scripture and align with the Dao—at this point, even the words and talismans (fulu) within the text can be set aside, just as one forgets the fishing net after catching the fish. However, few attain this state, which is why, since ancient times, those who achieve success in cultivation have relied on interpreting scriptures as their entry point.

Scriptures are like bridges across a river, helping practitioners reach the other shore—their transformative power is beyond words. As for their miraculous effects, such as dispelling calamities or prolonging life, these stem from the numinous power inherent in the scriptures, a divine wonder that surpasses ordinary imagination.

The Great Cavern Jade Scripture (Dadong Yujing) was originally transmitted by the Primordial Heavenly King to Yu the Great to quell floods, later passed down through Mount Tiantai and Mount Qiqu. All who devoutly practiced it attained auspicious results. This summer, severe flooding struck the southern regions. Since Patriarch Lü once governed waterways, he hopes people will sincerely resonate with Heaven and harmonize with nature. Now, disciples like Juezi have vowed to reprint this scripture to prevent disasters before they arise.

The scripture’s efficacy in dispelling floods has already been attested in the preface by the Emperor of Culture (Wenchang Dijun), so further elaboration is unnecessary. The purpose of this reprint is to help readers grasp its profound mysteries. The scripture’s great meaning lies in enabling humans to unite with Heaven, ultimately achieving the state of "Heaven and humanity as one." Practitioners must recognize the innate nature within themselves and return to their original state of natural harmony—only then can they both comprehend the transcendent Dao and fully manifest their inherent celestial nature.

The preface to The Jade Emperor’s Essential Scripture, with Direct Explanations states: Scriptures are vessels that carry the great Dao—only through them can the Dao be revealed. Commentaries are the means to clarify scriptures—only through them can the scriptures be understood. The great Dao indeed requires...

This scripture passage primarily discusses the importance of annotating classical texts and the necessity of gradual progression in spiritual practice. The scriptures serve as guiding beacons, yet to truly comprehend their profound meanings, one must rely on annotations for clarification. As exemplified in the Jade Emperor's Scripture of Original Conduct, the teachings encompass principles of human alignment with heaven and the realization of both self and all things—truths of profound significance. Without annotations, later generations would struggle to grasp these genuine insights, unable to embark on the path to sagehood.

Spiritual cultivation is akin to a long journey or ascending heights: one must begin from what is near and low. Daoist practice emphasizes step-by-step progression, avoiding the pitfall of aiming too high while neglecting the basics. The scriptures contain both readily accessible passages and abstruse mysteries. For instance, using the Jade Emperor in heaven as a metaphor for the sovereign within the human heart—when the mind attains mastery, it becomes the "imperial throne," and when the body obeys its command, it manifests as the "assembled perfected ones" (Zhenren)—these are profound teachings. In contrast, descriptions of celestial venerables transmitting doctrines or beings attaining the Dao through practice are relatively straightforward.

The role of annotations is to elucidate those comprehensible sections, allowing readers to first grasp the foundations. As for the profound truths, they require readers to contemplate quietly and gradually delve deeper. Empty talk of mysteries without substance only breeds weariness—this is not the original intent of annotating scriptures.

The latter section, Preface to the Thousand Perfected Thunder Repentance for Dispelling Calamities by the Supreme Compassionate One, states: Though heaven does not speak, it reveals itself through actions and manifestations; though sages provide verbal teachings, they transmit them through scriptures. Few are those who can perceive wordless truths through manifestations, yet those who can sense verbal teachings through scriptures may still be encountered. Thus, the three teachings—Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism—were established to guide the lost people of the world. Regrettably, as worldly customs decline, people find it increasingly difficult to comprehend these principles.

The Collected Works of Emperor Lü presents two main themes: the first critiques the misguided pursuit of fame and status, while the second emphasizes the paramount importance of filial piety.

The first section observes how people today treat the chase for rank and wealth as a shortcut, breeding all manner of vices. The immortal scriptures and Buddhist sutras—meant to enlighten the mind—have instead become fuel for greed and delusion, further clouding human understanding. The Most High Lord Lao (Taishang Laojun), moved by pity for mortal folly, bestowed these precious texts. First, they convey the teachings of the Exalted Sages of the Void (Xuhuang Gaosheng), clarifying the origins of Daoist tradition. Next, they speak of the Divine Realities (Zhishen Shenzhen) that govern the world, revealing the vast power of Daoist practice. Finally, they address karmic retribution in the underworld, demonstrating the immense merit of the Dao. All this is meant to show people the path of repentance—how could the transformative effect of turning toward goodness be insignificant?

The latter section, Preface to the Filial Piety Scripture of Emperor Wenchang, stresses that filial piety is an immutable principle of heaven, binding upon rulers and commoners alike. Yet scholars in this decadent age often neglect this fundamental truth. Some achieve fame and success but leave regrets in family relations. Remember: if worldly achievements remain unfulfilled, one may blame circumstance, but to violate human ethics is like a tree without roots—how can its branches flourish? By the time we reach adulthood, our parents’ vitality has already waned. Even if we hasten to fulfill our filial duties, we may fear time will outrun us—how can we bear to idle away the hours and face the remorse of "wanting to care when parents are no longer here"? Reflecting on this brings unstoppable tears.

The text makes a pointed observation: Practicing filial piety is easy in wealth and honor, but hard in poverty and lowliness; simple when parents are healthy, yet demanding when they fall ill; straightforward in meeting material needs, but challenging in fulfilling their unspoken wishes. The affluent may display filial devotion with lavish gifts, but a humble bowl of bean stew or gourd of water from the poor carries truer sentiment. Parents in good health enjoy cheerful company, yet when bedridden, they need devoted care. While most can provide for physical needs, to discern parents’ silent hopes and help achieve what lies beyond their strength requires heartfelt empathy—a resonance of true affection.

This passage contains prefaces to two Daoist scriptures, primarily discussing the importance of filial piety and the origins of their compilation.

The first section addresses filial devotion: Our physical form comes from our parents, and our spiritual essence is inherited from them. Preserving both body and mind constitutes the highest form of filial piety. In daily conduct, one must constantly remember: even the smallest act that might bring shame to parents should be avoided, while deeds that honor them must be pursued no matter how difficult. Only those who fulfill these principles can be called truly filial. Such individuals become pillars of the state in public life and exemplars in their communities. The Emperor of Culture (Lord Zitong), guided by heavenly principles and human sentiment, compiled this scripture by drawing from historical and contemporary examples, making it complementary to the circulating Classic of Filial Piety. Dong Ziliang of Yunnan once wrote a commentary, while official Cui Jie published it during his leisure hours, hoping all people would practice filial devotion.

The second section is the preface to the Scripture of the Mysterious Emperor in Seven Sections: The Celestial Worthy of Primordial Beginning (Yuanshi Tianzun), moved by human suffering, permitted us humble cultivators to compile this scripture for universal salvation. Though insignificant, we were granted divine grace to reveal the true principles of Daoist practice. This scripture acts like sweet dew and dharma rain, nourishing all living beings and rescuing those drowning in the sea of suffering. The compilers confess their limited cultivation and inadequate merit, yet vow to widely deliver sentient beings. After petitioning the celestial court, they first manifested divine signs in Jinling to expound an eight-section scripture, then received permission to compile this treasure-text for relieving calamities.

The mentioned "dragon-sand manifestation" alludes to the Daoist legend of Perfected Lord Xu Xun's enlightenment and divine manifestations at Longsha Isle in Jiangxi, here symbolizing celestial revelations. Both scriptures emphasize the salvific purpose of aiding the world, embodying the Daoist cultivation principle that "the immortal path values life and delivers beings without measure."

This scripture conveys two core teachings:

The first part reveals Patriarch Lü's (Lü Dongbin) earnest efforts to guide people toward virtue in the Ezhou region. He observes how contemporary beings wallow in ignorance and sensual attachments. Some perform superficial good deeds while harboring malice; others show kindness to animals yet neglect filial duties to parents; still others feign generosity while committing misdeeds in secret. Such actions violate celestial and earthly laws, disregarding karmic consequences, resulting in recurring calamities—floods, droughts, locust plagues, warfare, and epidemics. Therefore, Patriarch Lü petitioned the celestial court to disseminate scriptures like the Seven Grades of Spiritual Chapters (Qipin Lingzhang), elucidating the principles of karmic retribution. He particularly emphasized chanting the Buddha's name as means to dispel misfortunes and prolong life. His hope was for these teachings to spread widely, ensuring the eternal merit of Lord Wenchang (Zitong) in propagating celestial wisdom.

The second part presents Patriarch Sa's (Sa Shoujian) preface to the Scripture for Relieving Suffering (Jiuku Jing), using metaphors to illustrate cultivation's arduous path. Life is likened to traversing wilderness—with no retreat possible, while ahead looms an impenetrable bronze wall. To the left gapes a bottomless abyss, to the right sheer cliffs—symbolizing how losing one's innate nature leads to existential dead-ends. It notes that overcoming "desire-obstacles" proves easier than transcending "wisdom-obstacles," as many mistake illusions for reality, like confusing deadwood and cold ashes for vibrant life. True cultivation requires returning to original mind, dispelling doubts to reach the state of "no-intention no-emotion"—free not only from attachments but even from the thought of non-attachment. The text concludes by warning against clinging to any attained state, even advanced ones, as true awakening transcends all fixation.

(Note: "Lü Di" refers to Lü Dongbin and "Sa Zu" to Sa Shoujian, both major Daoist immortals; "Seven Grades of Spiritual Chapters" is a Daoist scripture; "Zitong" is Lord Wenchang; "desire-obstacles" and "wisdom-obstacles" are Buddhist terms denoting two types of cultivation barriers—sensual craving and deluded cognition)

This passage explores the cognitive states and attitudes in Daoist cultivation. Practitioners must first understand that the true Dao (the Way) is neither a tangible entity visible to the naked eye nor an illusory mirage. The realized state of cultivation transcends the duality of form (materiality) and emptiness (void), the apparent and the subtle. Truth is sought through questioning doubt rather than blind belief. One must observe the arising and dissipation of thoughts, and only through prolonged practice can the original source of these thoughts be perceived.

The text critiques two extremes: the first is those who aim too high, chasing seemingly lofty yet unattainable states; the second is those who belittle incremental progress, like dismissing a small piece of fine jade while coveting a luminous pearl that lights up an entire carriage. Those who truly comprehend the Dao often surpass ordinary understanding, while the ignorant remain unable to grasp it.

In the latter part, the author speaks from the perspective of a Confucian scholar. He identifies himself as originally a Confucian who only in his later years came to understand the greater Dao (the Way). Yet he emphasizes that the true foundation of cultivation lies in practicing fundamental human virtues—filial piety, fraternal duty, loyalty, and trust. The profound study of Daoist cultivation aligns with Confucian classics like the Hetu (River Chart) and Luoshu (Luo Writing). Scholars must accumulate long-term practice to reach a state of an untroubled conscience, where the spirit (Shen) is at peace and misfortunes dissipate.

The author particularly notes that cultivation does not require retreating to remote mountains—one can still practice within secular life. The sages appear and withdraw from the world at times to guide those lost in delusion. However, one should not casually discuss abstruse principles with ordinary people. Finally, the author expresses his frustration at being unable to articulate these insights in a suitable manner.

This scripture primarily consists of two parts: the first half is Lü Dongbin's (one of the Eight Immortals in Daoism) personal account, while the second half expounds on the origin and function of the Dao (the Way).

Lü Dongbin recounts how he was fortunate to receive authentic teachings from a true official. After straightening his attire and paying reverent respects, he began reading the classics and couldn't help but marvel at how they perfectly aligned with his aspirations. He reflects that although people study the words of Confucius and Mencius, they often fail to practice them, stopping at superficial understanding. When seeing temple statues, they kneel and pray—such behavior may stem from either ignorance or sincere devotion. But conversely, if one truly implements the sages' teachings in practice, that embodies the true meaning of the Dao. Lüzu (Lü Dongbin) cultivated benevolent virtue (De), so his writings became as precious as gold and jade, capable of stirring people's hearts. Just as the Book of Changes (Yijing) states that observing celestial phenomena reveals the patterns of change, this constitutes wordless teaching.

The latter portion explains the essence of the Dao: In its primordial chaos state, the Great Dao has no form or name; when manifested, it takes shape and sound. Before heaven and earth separated, the Dao already existed. The radiance of sun and moon, the transformations of wind and thunder, and the generation of all things all depend on the Dao. After the division of heaven and earth, the two polarities of yin-yang, the four phenomena, the eight trigrams (Bagua), and the nine celestial palaces all represent manifestations of the Dao. Sages attain sagehood through the Dao, worthy men become virtuous through the Dao, divine generals achieve divinity through the Dao, and celestial immortals attain immortality through the Dao. Conversely, those who turn from the Dao become fools, and evil qi that opposes the Dao transforms into ghosts. Purity and turbidity can transform into each other—whether to cultivate goodness or commit evil lies entirely within one's own choice. The author laments how ordinary people fail to follow the natural Great Dao, and thus, embodying the compassionate heart of the Most High Lord Lao (the supreme Daoist deity), he seeks to awaken the world like shaking golden bells and wooden clappers, revealing these profound and mysterious principles.

The text mentions several specialized terms: "Jade Bureau" refers to Lü Dongbin's honorific title "Perfected Jade Bureau"; "Zhu-Si" symbolizes Confucius' teaching grounds; "the Old Man on the Bridge" denotes Huang Shigong who transmitted military strategies to Zhang Liang; and "Nine Sovereigns" refers to the Nine Star Lords of the Northern Dipper. These specialized terms all preserve distinctive Daoist characteristics.

This scripture contains two main sections:

The first part discusses the correspondence between the human body and celestial phenomena. It states that the human heart and facial orifices correspond to the Big Dipper (Beidou), emphasizing that cultivation requires internal-external resonance. The Celestial Worthy of Primordial Beginning (Yuanshi Tianzun, the supreme deity in Daoism), out of compassion for all beings, transmits the Daoist methods; while Ancestor Lü (Fuyou Dijun), moved by concern for departed souls, explains profound principles. Ordinary people who maintain inner purity and resonate with the Big Dipper's energy can achieve unity with the Great Dao.

The second section serves as the preface to the "Compassionate Ferry to the Limitless Treasure Repentance" (Cihang Wuji Baochan). In ancient times, there were only scriptures (Jing) without repentance texts (Chan), the most renowned being the "Scripture of Dao and De" (Daode Jing). As later generations lost their ancient virtue, scriptures alone became insufficient for moral instruction, giving rise to repentance texts to supplement them. Originally meant for confessing transgressions, many now misuse repentance rituals to seek blessings and profit, deviating from their true purpose. Authentic Daoist practice requires the heart's alignment with the Dao - mere recitation without understanding the true meaning can actually harm the proper path. Nowadays, some charlatans fabricate heresies to mislead people, committing sins under the guise of repentance and destroying scriptures while claiming to supplement them. The author composed this preface at the request of Immortal Maiden Ziyang (Ziyang Xianzi), concerned that people might misunderstand the true meaning of repentance rituals.

The text mentions "Southern Palace" (Nangong), representing the fire palace symbolizing tempering in cultivation; while "Northern Palace" refers to the water palace symbolizing nurturing practices. The "Seven Primordial Stars" (Qiyuan Zhixing) denote the Big Dipper, which Daoism considers corresponding to the human body. "Immortal Maiden Ziyang" refers to the renowned Song dynasty Daoist Zhang Boduan, also known as Perfected Ziyang (Ziyang Zhenren).

Since receiving the direct transmission of the Golden Elixir (Jindan) orthodox lineage from my revered master Emperor Zhengyang (the divine title of Daoist immortal Zhongli Quan), I have transcended the mundane world, realized the true Dao, and attained my place among the celestial ranks. For centuries, I have remained true to my original vow, constantly mindful of delivering sentient beings—pulling those drowning in the sea of ignorance and suffering from the abyss. Wherever I go, I establish altars to expound the Dao, guiding the lost toward the right path.

Above, I wield the Five Thunder Edicts (Wulei faling, an important Daoist ritual method), harmonizing the order of Yin and Yang. Below, I relieve the suffering of beings in the three wretched paths—hell, hungry ghosts, and beasts—helping them dispel delusions and return to the true way. With a purified heart, one can perceive even the finest details from ten thousand miles away; through silent meditation on profound mysteries, even the darkest corners can be illuminated. Without rectifying the mind and cultivating the self, it is impossible to comprehend the Dao. Without nurturing one's innate nature, the highest truth will forever remain elusive.

Today, seeing how deeply burdened people are by karmic obstacles and how difficult it is for the Dao to transform them, I can only offer my own experience as guidance. I pray that all beings may relinquish worldly attachments and assist in propagating the great Dao. To deliver others from calamity, one must first resolve to do so. Thus, I have specially illustrated the Chart of Longevity (Changsheng tuxiang), serving both as a celestial ladder for humanity and ensuring that these secret cultivation methods are passed down through generations, so that people may forever receive the compassionate salvation of the Dao. Together, we may then ascend to the immortal ranks, embodying heaven's virtue of nurturing life, spreading the wondrous teachings of the Dao, and opening the gate of creation for all things. May all disciples grasp the true meaning of the Dao-heart, perfect the wondrous methods, and ensure the lineage endures for posterity, manifesting in countless forms to deliver sentient beings. This is the origin of the preface to The Collection at the Gourd's Head (Hutou ji).

As for why Zhiyuan sought poetic verses from me—it was not for their elegance or refinement. Having long dwelled in the dust of the mundane world, surrounded by worldly clamor, he could scarcely believe that celestial phoenixes (immortal writings) could exist among mortals, effortlessly weaving brocades of wisdom in laughter and conversation, with each word a rare pearl. Yet Zhiyuan's aspirations reached beyond this—the Dao of Heaven holds mysteries beyond comprehension, and human affairs contain principles beyond full grasp. To explore their depths, one need not transcend sound and form. The howling wind and rumbling thunder, the drifting clouds and falling rain, the surging rivers and undulating lakes, human joy and sorrow—all these are manifestations of sound and form in nature. Observe them with a mind clear as empty space, let the celestial music resonate in your ears, grasp their divine essence, and your heart will expand; express their meaning, and your spirit will rejoice. Great poetry is the wondrous transformation within the realm of sound and form. Yet though people dwell within this realm, they often fail to perceive the great Dao within it.

This passage consists of two main sections: the first is a dialogue between Lü Dongbin (Emperor Lü) and his disciple Zhiyuan, while the latter part serves as the preface to Internal Refinement of the Golden Elixir.

The opening section describes how ordinary people remain attached to ornate rhetoric and worldly pleasures, much like those who cannot transcend mundane existence. However, Daoist practitioners (mountain recluses) rise above such secular enjoyments—responding to the Dao (the Way) spontaneously amid sensory experiences, composing sublime writings without forced deliberation. Lü Dongbin explains that his repeated guidance for Zhiyuan stems from compassion, hoping these genuine Daoist principles will endure so literati too may appreciate the "delights of mist and clouds" (referring to the joy of Daoist cultivation). Yet ordinary minds may struggle to comprehend such realms—some might envy Zhiyuan's refinement while others mock his perceived eccentricity.

The preface to Internal Refinement of the Golden Elixir recounts how since primordial chaos first parted, the Celestial Emperor has widely disseminated Daoist methods to deliver sentient beings. Master Chongyang (Wang Chongyang) established the Quanzhen (Complete Perfection) tradition on Zhongnan Mountain, with Shangyangzi inheriting this lineage. Now with conditions ripe, the author reconstructs the Golden Elixir (Jindan) practice at Orchid Field, reconnecting with ancient auspicious radiance to transmit these immortal secrets. Through quiet cultivation, one realizes the "cosmos within sleeves" (a Neidan [internal alchemy] term denoting the microcosm of the human body) and "sun-moon in the gourd" (alchemical states of refinement), ultimately ascending with wind and thunder as escorts. This fulfills both gratitude toward the Celestial Emperor and relief for beings trapped in the Three Wretched Paths (hell, hungry ghosts, and animals). The author vows sincere transmission, providing future seekers with steps toward transcendence.

Though briefly mentioned without elaboration, the Preface to the Life Liberation Assembly evidently promotes the Daoist meritorious practice of compassionate animal release. The entire text embodies the dual Daoist pursuit of Neidan cultivation alongside worldly salvation.

Lü Dongbin (Daoist name: Chunyangzi), upon hearing of a life-release ceremony, joyfully composed this preface:

The heavens possess the virtue (De) of cherishing life, enabling all beings to flourish endlessly. Life exists within death, every realm contains vitality, every land teems with procreation, every moment brims with life-force, and every seasonal node embodies generative energy. All creatures carry the root of life within them, as celestial and terrestrial Qi follow the principles of life. Since we cannot completely eradicate harmful species, we should instead nurture precious lifeforms through continuous growth. If even harmful creatures can gain new life through liberation, how much more should benevolent beings have their lives extended through such acts?

Yet some question this practice: those plump creatures exceeding three inches in size are essentially no different from filth, and harming life to satisfy culinary desires seems justifiable. But consider—in nature, isn't the strong devouring the weak and the fierce preying upon the gentle an endless phenomenon? If liberators then kill those who harm life out of hatred, when will such killing cease? The harmed creatures would protest: "You liberate other lives, but am I not also life? Who but heaven governs life's destiny?"

The heavens never personally wield axes to execute evildoers, yet none escape celestial principle. Even if warnings exist about punishing wrongdoers, these are merely humans appropriating heaven's will. Liberation practitioners harboring hatred may lack genuine virtue. Thus, if life-release cannot truly benefit all beings, it would be better to let gluttons satisfy their appetites, abandoning both cautious gratitude and pure-hearted restraint. This would amount to heretical logic denying karmic retribution.

True life-release requires embodying heaven's life-cherishing virtue. Since heaven doesn't wish humans to kill living creatures, it nurtures life through waters, shelters life within mountains, creates rivers and seas as sanctuaries, and fashions valleys and caves as dwellings. Alas! Why can't humans cherish life as heaven and earth do? Precisely because waters provide refuge and mountains offer habitation can they assist heaven and earth in transforming creation. How could I not align with this celestial-terrestrial heart to express my intent? Hence this preface.

Autobiographical Account (stele inscription preserved in Tai'an County, Shandong):

The Lü lineage produced an authentic immortal (Zhenxian), whose deeds have long circulated in the world. Fellow Daoists, fearing unreliable accounts, specially requested my personal testimony. That you met me and I know you was no accident. Therefore... [text fragmentary]

Notes:

1. "Life-release" refers to a shared Buddhist-Daoist ritual of saving creatures, embodying the cosmological view that "heaven cherishes life"

2. "Three inches" alludes to Mencius' "Fish is what I desire; bear's paw is also what I desire" (Gaozi I), satirizing the fallacy of judging life's value by size

3. Through dialectical reasoning, Lü Dongbin reveals liberation's essence as aligning with the Dao (heavenly principle), not mere formalism

This passage is Lü Dongbin's (one of the Eight Immortals in Daoism) first-person account of his life journey and spiritual cultivation.

I was originally a descendant of the Tang imperial family, named Lü Qiong, courtesy name Boyu. Married to Lady Jin, I fathered four sons: Gan, Mei, Feng, and Chong. In my youth, a physiognomist examined my features, noting my prominent brow ridges, broad eyes, high nose bridge, elongated neck, radiant complexion, and thick beard—all marks of a Confucian scholar's countenance. Yet he warned that the mole at the root of my nose (Shangen) foretold misfortune for my wife, while the mole near my temples (Taiyin point) boded ill for my children. The only auspicious signs he praised were my crane-like gait, tortoise-paced breathing, and voice resonating from the Dantian (a Daoist cultivation term referring to the lower abdominal energy center), which he deemed marks of an extraordinary destiny to encounter immortals and attain the Dao.

In my youth, I dismissed such predictions. By ten, I could compose essays; by fifteen, I practiced martial arts; by twenty, I'd gained modest fame. Yet only at fifty did I pass the imperial exams and assume office. Governing my county through virtuous rule (De), my family thrived, earning respect from elders and youth alike—I thought the physiognomist mistaken. Then came Wu Zetian's usurpation of the Tang throne (her invented character "曌" symbolized "sun and moon shining over heaven"), bringing persecution to imperial kinsmen. Fearing execution, I abandoned my four sons and fled with my wife into remote mountains, dwelling in a cave. With just "two mouths" (两口) remaining, we adopted the surname "Lü"; living beneath cliffs, I renamed myself "Yan" (岩, cliff); inhabiting a cave, I took the courtesy name "Dongbin" (洞宾, "Grotto Guest"). After my wife's passing, I styled myself "Chunyangzi" (纯阳子, Master of Pure Yang—the Daoist state of absolute yang without yin).

Thereafter I roamed heaven and earth, finding solace in landscapes. Mornings and evenings I sought fellow Daoists, visited Penglai (legendary Daoist paradises like Fanghu, Yuanjiao, and the Ten Continents and Three Isles), rode clouds and cranes, kept company with dragons and tigers—utterly detached from worldly success or dynastic fortunes. Only then did I recognize the physiognomist's accuracy. Counting from the Tang through Five Dynasties, Song, Jin, Yuan to Ming, nine dynasties rose and fell; I lived from youth through centenarian longevity (passing milestones denoted by ancient terms like ai, qi, mao, die, yi, and ji), witnessing ten life phases—fulfilling the prophecy of "encountering and becoming an immortal."

Finally, I hint at eighteen unresolved mystic characters beside the words "human yet not human," beneath which lies "heaven yet not heaven" (靝 being an archaic form of 天, "heaven"), suggesting undisclosed cultivation mysteries.

This passage records the secret teachings transmitted by Daoist Patriarch Lü (Sovereign Lü Dongbin, the Divine Lord of Fuyou) through spirit writing to Fan Shiying, the magistrate of Jinan. Present at the occasion were Ge Shouli, Yin Shidan, Yang Bo, Wang Jiabin and others, who had devoutly prayed for a long time before finally welcoming Patriarch Lü's descent and receiving these precious instructions.

The text mentions that Master Puji once discussed with me, emphasizing the profound significance of these metaphorical revelations. He insisted they must be recorded in detail, as mere analogies might not convince people. This truly reflects Patriarch Lü's compassion in transmitting the mysterious principles connecting heaven, earth and humanity through this extraordinary text that has endured for millennia. We should make these sublime teachings known to the world, so as not to betray Patriarch Lü's original intent in bestowing this instruction.

A closer examination reveals hidden meanings in the references to the "clansman's" name and style name, his spouse "Jin," and phrases like "sweet abundance." Those with spiritual discernment can perceive this describes the practitioner's attainment of transcendental states and the achievement of the yang-spirit. When cultivation reaches "sun and moon in the sky" (symbolizing yin-yang harmony), one comprehends the core secrets of the Golden Elixir (Jindan) within celestial grottoes and blessed realms. At this stage, the yang-spirit can freely traverse the Three Realms, mastering all wondrous transformations and manifesting the true Dharma appearance.

The text particularly emphasizes the necessity of passing through the "Threefold Covenant" (san yu zhi qi) and the "ten-month" gestation period (metaphor for the cultivation cycle). Only when practitioners approach the attainment of Great Awakening as Golden Immortals can they fully grasp these mysteries. The final eighteen-character verse points directly to the essence, lest later generations mistake it for ordinary clan affairs. This indeed reveals the supreme method for achieving celestial immortality—a secret never before transmitted through the ages.

This passage records a Daoist practitioner's enlightenment experience on Mount Zhongnan, which can be interpreted in two parts:

The first section contains the preface by disciple Huijue of the Guanghua lineage. Humbly acknowledging his limited understanding of Daoist methods, he nevertheless emphasizes this scripture's importance in discerning authentic cultivation, believing its profound principles deserve illumination. With respectful audacity, he composes these notes outlining points of convergence between Chan Buddhism and the Mysterious Gate (Daoism), offering them for future readers with discerning eyes.

The second part details the cultivation process: The author recalls practicing with his master on Mount Zhongnan. During seated meditation on a couch, a young attendant would burn incense, brew tea, and play the jade pipe (a Daoist ritual instrument), its tones resembling phoenix calls and jade pendants, refreshing both body and mind. The master taught him methods of closing the eyes to regulate breath, circulating the celestial river (Neidan terminology for Qi circulation through meridians), and penetrating the energy channels, explaining the mutual transformation between cold/heat and movement/stillness. In a thatched hut, he maintained seated meditation for 120 consecutive days, sustaining himself solely on mountain pears and dew, attaining self-forgetfulness. Later, the master declared he had refined turbid Qi and condensed clear Qi (indicating completion of foundational practice), but the disciple expressed having severed worldly ties with no desire to return home. They subsequently visited Cuixu Cave together, encountering cranes, spirit-deer, and rare flora amidst perilous peaks and wondrous stone formations, eventually awaiting two immortal masters atop the mountain.

The terms mentioned—"regulating the bellows" refers to breath control; "turning the celestial river" and "rotating the earth's axis" are Neidan terms describing Qi circulation through the Governing and Conception Vessels respectively. These vivid accounts demonstrate the practical cultivation scenes of Daoist recluses pursuing unity of heaven and human through Qi absorption and seated meditation.

Deep in the pine and cypress forests of the southeast direction, white cranes could faintly be seen dancing and leading the way. Two Daoist attendants in blue robes cleared the path with horsetail whisks, followed by two immortal elders.

The first immortal had disheveled short hair, large eyes, and curly beard. He wore a black Daoist robe fastened with an embroidered silk belt. His dark complexion complemented his tall, portly frame as he walked with a slight limp, leaning on an iron staff. He appeared to be around fifty years old.

The second immortal possessed a crane-like slender frame with white hair yet youthful complexion. Dressed in white robes overlaid with a blue gown, he wore a square scarf tied with a green silk ribbon and held a ceremonial ruyi scepter (a Daoist ritual object). Though appearing over seventy, both wore straw sandals as they floated forward and exchanged courteous bows.

Our master introduced them: "These are Immortal Masters Li and Zhang. I've invited them to discourse on the Dao with you—listen well."

Immortal Master Li spoke: "We mortals dwell transiently in this floating world—our bodies mere conglomerations of earth. Hardness cannot match metal's resilience; straightness falls short of trees' uprightness; fluidity pales before rivers' movement; steadfastness hardly rivals mountains' immovability. Our existence resembles wild horses galloping in chaos or mayflies living ephemerally. Even emotions like joy and anger change less naturally than flowers blooming and withering; human gains and losses prove more fleeting than seasonal transitions. Fame and wealth vanish in moments—like palms turning to grave soil—utterly unpredictable."

"Physically, heaven-earth appears vast while we seem insignificant. Yet observing creation's mechanism: though cosmic movements follow patterns, our vital essence flows unceasingly. Understanding life's eternal principle allows transcending heaven-earth's cyclical laws. Knowing what changes and what endures, one reaches the state where 'my body is heaven-earth, heaven-earth is my body'—the three merging into unity. Then distinctions between great-small and form-formless dissolve, achieving timeless permanence."

Rising to inquire about "unceasing life's" profound meaning, I was referred by Immortal Li to Master Zhong. Wielding his horsetail whisk, Master Zhong chanted resonantly:

"River sources never stagnate—flowing day and night. Surging waves emerge from Kunlun (mythic immortal mountain), nourishing all channels to enrich the nine continents. This unceasing vitality springs from heavenly Dao, comprehended only through tranquil cultivation—eternal as a single day."

Immortal Zhang accompanied him by striking a fisherman's drum and bamboo clappers, responding:

"All things have origins—behold the rivers rushing forth. Bright pearls emerge from floating beams; a hundred streams become channels, nine bends form continents. Guard the Dantian's (cultivation term for energy centers) essence without leakage—this principle sustains life's unbroken flow, making years pass unnoticed."

Immortal Li waved his ruyi scepter from his seat, producing crystalline tones as it struck stone, then continued the chant:

This passage records the dialogue between Lü Dongbin (Emperor Lü) and his two masters, Li and Zhang, discussing the fundamental principles of Daoist cultivation. It contains profound insights into Neidan (internal alchemy) practice:

The primordial Qi (Zuqi, ancestral energy) of life is like a living spring that should flow ceaselessly day and night. Unfortunately, most people block this source channel, just as irrigation ditches become clogged with silt. Spiritual practice aims to reopen this fundamental source, allowing Qi to circulate freely again.

During their master-disciple exchange, Lü Dongbin describes his state as "utterly simple and unadorned." His master further enlightens him: The origin of all things is difficult to trace, just as the sun rises naturally from the east (Fusang symbolizes the eastern direction) or an old oyster produces a pearl. The true Dao-body has no form or appearance (formless), yet manifests countless phenomena (both beautiful and plain manifestations).

The master points out the key to practice: distinguishing between the "true self" and the "false self." That which perceives and acts—the "other"—is the false self, while what remains unmoving is the true self. Like a gourd (paogua) hanging on a vine, if one clings to the false self, one becomes like a nailed gourd without freedom; yet completely denying the false self leaves one like a gourd without a vine, having nowhere to attach.

Authentic cultivation means maintaining the true self like an emperor serenely seated in the ninth heaven (symbolizing stable consciousness), while allowing the false self (external conditions) to come and go freely. Thus one gains complete liberty—ascending to heaven or descending to earth, expanding or contracting at will (symbolizing the liberated state after attaining the Dao).

This dialogue reveals the essence of Neidan practice: recognizing the unmoving true nature (true self) while skillfully using the false self without being trapped by it, ultimately achieving the liberated state of unimpeded freedom.

This passage describes the process of losing one's true self in worldly affairs and the path to returning to one's original nature.

When first setting out on life's journey, one may still remember their original aspirations. But as they venture further into the bustling world, they become ensnared by alluring temptations. It is like renting a house and accumulating gold and treasures—seemingly living a prosperous life. In truth, the "Six Thieves" (referring to the sensory desires of eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and mind) act like robbers, stealthily plundering your wealth until you are left destitute and the house lies in ruins.

By then, the very things that once tempted you have abandoned you. When you seek to retrace your steps, you find yourself lost with no way back. Homeless and adrift, you settle for any makeshift shelter, pursued by debts and enemies, suffering bitterly until you are reduced to sleeping in haystacks and earthen huts. The further you stray from your original heart, the more impossible it becomes to find your way back.

All this suffering arises from being harmed by external things. Thus, one must take control of their own destiny and seek the root source. The true homecoming lies in returning to nature: Heaven and Earth become my dwelling, Yin-Yang my companion, the sun and moon my lamps, rivers and lakes my wine cup, mountains my earthen mounds, wind and clouds my breath, rain and dew my saliva. Only then can one see through the cycles of life and death, comprehending the origins and endings of all things.

Consider the historical figures who fought for power—Qin Shi Huang, the Overlord of Chu, Chi You, Xiang Yu—their victories and defeats now seem nothing more than a jest. Finally, when the author inquires how to reach such a state, the master replies that cultivation methods vary, but one must penetrate the most profound, subtle, and mysterious principles to discover the supreme Dao.

This scripture primarily critiques common misguided methods and rigid formalities in Daoist cultivation, emphasizing that true practice does not lie in external forms. The text enumerates various cultivation errors:

Consuming pine needles or elixirs cannot liberate one from the cycle of life and death; forcibly controlling breath or visualizing the Dantian (energy center) will hardly achieve genuine "embryonic breathing" (an advanced meditative state). Mistaking the mouth and nose for the Mysterious Feminine (source of life) or confining the heart-mind to a tiny space is to confuse the root with the branches.

The text specifically highlights several mistakes: treating Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy) as lead and mercury (alchemical materials) for accumulation, yet failing in alchemical refinement; conceptualizing Shen (spirit) and Qi as mother-child relations, only to lose the path to immortality; techniques like opening the cauldron for alchemy or refining "milk" to shrink the "turtle" are futile and heterodox. Those who practice breath retention or ingest "primordial yin" (innate energy) may toil for years without results.

Even seemingly profound practices like "recognizing the mind and seeing one’s nature," if misunderstood, may only cultivate a shadowy spirit. Meditating rigidly by the clock easily becomes dogmatic. The text further criticizes numerous misguided methods: rigidly interpreting the tongue as the "crimson dragon," mimicking fox breathing with closed eyes, fixating on the "Yellow Court" (upper Dantian) at the crown, or viewing the kidneys as the source of creation—along with deviant practices like ingesting water and fire for "returning to the origin" or harvesting lustful essences.

True cultivation lies in preserving the innate primordial Qi (source of life) and maintaining the unity of body and mind. Superficial efforts like writing talismans, chanting spells, bowing to the Dipper and stars (Daoist rituals), or massage and guiding exercises are mere formalities. Setting up altars for rituals or using bellows (cultivation tools) to gather the Po (corporeal soul) may instead lead one astray into harmful paths.

The key is revealed: the innate ancestral Qi (fundamental life force) is not found in imitating external forms, and the Supreme Elixir (spiritual achievement) is not forged from lead and mercury. One must transcend conventional understanding, awakening in "non-being" (wu) while contemplating "being" (you)—like plucking a lotus from fire or retrieving a pearl from water. The true union of dragon and tiger (Yin and Yang energies) or the harmony of turtle and snake (water and fire) requires no forced capture or smelting; it arises naturally.

The path of cultivation lies in completing transformation through subtle and gradual processes. While outwardly appearing active, one maintains true stillness within; though seemingly void, this very emptiness gives rise to a solid essence. There exists a presence that predates heaven and earth—formless yet inherent in the primordial state of all things. Throughout the twelve hours of the day, this innate Qi (the foundational energy of life in Daoist thought) continuously nurtures the original Shen (one's innate spiritual nature).

Know that the legend of Nüwa mending the heavens with refined stones is no mere fable. Practitioners can indeed attain the state of riding clouds and undergoing transformations through cultivation. This state of practice is lively and agile, flowing as naturally as a pearl rolling on the ground, its subtlety and profundity surpassing even the brilliance of the moon in the sky. It cannot be clogged by impurity nor obscured by ignorance. By penetrating the mysteries of life, one transcends the cycle of rebirth, rising and falling with heaven and earth, enduring as long as the cosmos itself. Such a state remains unburned by fire, unsoaked by water—even the churning of rivers and seas cannot disturb the spirit. This is the most profound truth, far beyond ordinary techniques.

Cultivation is a personal journey that must be sought within. To ask another is to stray from the path; one must walk the road meant for oneself, for starting on another's path leads only to confusion. Since fate has brought us together, I cannot remain silent. As I finished speaking, two attendants brought forth fruits and delicacies, arranging them on a stone table. After bowing in gratitude, I took my seat again and saw the peaches laid out, large as bowls, lotus roots shaped like small boats, pears from Hebei more precious than tangerines from Jiaozhou, and vessels brimming with melons and fruits. The aroma of qiongjiang yuye (precious drinks) surpassed even that of amber wine. We savored mushrooms and qingjing rice (a Daoist health food), their flavors ascending to the heavens. As we feasted, white cranes and blue luan birds danced in flocks, their movements rising and falling in perfect harmony—more graceful than the eight winds, more balanced than the seven virtues. When the dance concluded, the cranes stood in two rows, while several blue-robed attendants lined up, striking bamboo and singing.

The first song went:

The breath of Yin and Yang (the two fundamental energies of existence) echoes through the valleys,

Sweeping away fallen leaves from a thousand mountains,

Dispelling dark clouds from the nine heavens.

Seeking it, you find no trace;

Observing it, you grasp no form.

Suddenly silent, suddenly manifest—

It cannot be confined by form,

Nor easily followed in step.

Without seeking speed, it moves swiftly;

Without forced concentration, it connects with the divine.

Its voice unfolds through dense forests,

Born as naturally as a tiger's roar.

Open your robe and let it flow through you—

Instantly, thoughts clarify, and the spirit brightens.

The second song went:

Receiving the finest Qi between heaven and earth,

It flourishes uniquely in the heart of spring;

Shaped by the most exquisite craftsmanship of creation,

It shines brilliantly under clear skies alone.

The Collected Works of Emperor Lü employ resplendent imagery to depict the spiritual state of Daoist practitioners and the profound mysteries of cultivation. Let me explain each section in turn:

The first passage describes how adepts maintain their fundamental purity like blossoming flowers. Observe those countless blossoms competing in splendor upon the branches, each containing elegant fragrance and noble qualities, radiating intense perfume. Neither the reckless swarming of bees can damage their essence, nor the chaotic fluttering of butterflies make them lose their innate truth. Their roots grow deep and strong, their fruits mature only to regenerate anew. They stand tall through the seasons, raising their floral crowns defiantly against frost and dew.

The second section reveals the wondrous mystery of how Yin-Yang energies generate all existence. Like the intermingling and fermentation of these two primal forces that fill heaven and earth with manifested things. The clear Qi ascends while turbid Qi descends, endlessly transforming between celestial and terrestrial realms. They swirl throughout the six directions (the four cardinal points plus zenith and nadir), yet never gallop wildly like untamed horses. Sheltering all beings across the nine provinces, they spare no effort in carving this jade-like essence. When dispersed, they flow without constraint; when gathered, they coalesce into form. The refined Yin soul (Jing essence) permeates creation, while the transformed Yang spirit (Shen consciousness) ultimately returns to unknowable origins. These marvelous transformations defy comprehension—sometimes appearing in monastic cells, other times manifesting in taverns. Why cling to this physical shell? It's merely the plumage of pheasants or the feathers of cranes.

The third passage portrays the luminous mind of a cultivator. Holding this drop of Yin essence (internal Jing), it reflects solar radiance. The mind's clarity remains undimmed, its brilliance shining resplendently. Like divine dragons exhaling pearls that roll across the Milky Way. Suspended at the zenith of heaven in perpetual illumination, we rejoice in this unique effulgence. Nothing escapes its light—like a wisdom bag discerning right from wrong; no place lies beyond its reach—like a sage king's benevolent rule. We marvel at this spiritual radiance (Lingtai, the mind's platform) that remains constant through myriad ages. Though waxing and waning, it never ceases, making ordinary mortals seem like sightless beings groping in darkness.

The final section depicts celestial youths performing divine music. After concluding their songs, the immortal youths begin playing carefree melodies. Golden sheng pipes, jade flutes, phoenix whistles, dragon xiao, brocade zithers with crystalline strings, jade clappers and flower drums—all celestial instruments sound in harmony. At crescendos, like cranes crying across the nine heavens, shaking cloud layers; at diminuendos, like ten thousand mountain springs whispering through deep ravines. Sometimes all instruments play together like ministers paying solemn homage to the Son of Heaven; other times the sparse notes resemble fish stirring from sleep, gently flicking scaled tails. Add to this cranes stretching necks in counterpoint, phoenixes beating wings in song, parrots clearing throats to match the rhythm—until listeners forget heaven's height and earth's depth, dissolve all self-other distinctions, and become utterly immersed in supreme bliss. When the music ends, the three immortal masters drink heartily from dawn till dusk, nearly losing all sense of time's passage.

This passage describes a gathering with immortals including Lü Dongbin (Ancestor Lü) and subsequent spiritual realizations from cultivation practice.

As the gathering neared its end with cups and plates in disarray, the immortal masters Li and Zhang rose and said to Zhongli Quan (Master Zhongli): "Today's assembly was arranged for Ancestor Lü's enlightenment. If one can transcend worldly dust and comprehend the Dao of transformation, they may ascend with us to the immortal realm—do not delay this opportunity." Master Zhongli respectfully assented. The two masters then turned to instruct the narrator: "You must cultivate with unwavering determination and attain awakening swiftly—we await you." With these words, they mounted cranes and departed westward.

The narrator gazed after them in melancholy. Master Zhongli counseled: "Since the two venerables have departed, we too should return to our hermitage. Did today's gathering bring you joy? A true cultivator remains untroubled by joy or sorrow, unattached to meetings or partings. See myself as him, and him as myself. When others rejoice, I maintain my fundamental mind; when others grieve, I abide in my original nature. Not clinging to gatherings, nor lamenting separations—this is the true state where 'form is emptiness, emptiness is form.'"

Thereafter, the narrator and Master Zhongli devoted themselves to deep cultivation in their hermitage. By day beneath pines and bamboos they discussed essential cultivation methods; by night they sat in stillness contemplating profound mysteries. Through practice, the narrator perceived his original face and dispelled all illusory visions. The text employs vivid imagery like "twin eyes leaping from ten-thousand fathom pools" and "golden lotuses growing from jade tiger pits" to describe the wondrous states experienced during cultivation.

Ultimately, they reached the realm where "all formless illusions become reality"—as inconceivable as snowflakes dancing in raging flames or ice forming in boiling water. At this stage, the narrator could spiritually roam the six directions (heaven and earth's four quarters), transcending physical constraints. Seeing his disciple's cultivation perfected, Master Zhongli instructed: "Having witnessed the realm of 'non-being,' you should now comprehend the mystery of 'being.'" Thus the narrator profoundly grasped these subtleties.

Note: The "three samadhis and seven thieves" refer to distracting thoughts hindering cultivation; "nine-grade golden lotus" symbolizes cultivation attainments; "six directions" denotes heaven, earth and the four cardinal directions; "three platforms" refers both to constellations and higher cultivation realms.

This passage records the spiritual journey of Lü Dongbin (one of the Daoist Eight Immortals) attaining enlightenment while cultivating the Dao at Wudang Mountain. On that fateful night, he sat in meditation facing the North Star and apprehended the true essence of Taiyi (the Supreme One, highest deity in Daoism), thereby obtaining the profound supreme method. Overjoyed, he composed a poem using "coiled repose of tortoise and snake" to symbolize the alchemical state of water and fire merging, while "lead and mercury uniting" metaphorically described the harmonization of Yin and Yang energies within the body. Through such cultivation, he ultimately realized the state of "Threefold Radiance Illuminating" — the luminous realm of perfected Jing (essence), Qi (vital energy), and Shen (spirit).

The text emphasizes that spiritual practice requires unwavering perseverance, like grinding an iron rod into a needle through arduous effort. Only after enduring three thousand six hundred kalpas of cultivation could one forge the demon-subduing sword (symbolizing Daoist attainment). This represents the most sublime practice method since the creation of heaven and earth. After achieving immortality, Patriarch Lü intentionally left behind these Golden Elixir (Jindan) teachings to deliver sentient beings. The vivid descriptions make these profound cultivation states appear palpably real.

The latter section contains Lü Dongbin's autobiographical account: Originally from Sichuan, he failed the imperial examinations three times during the late Tang dynasty before wandering the land. He first received longevity techniques from Fire Dragon Perfected Person, then learned the method of "sun and moon conjoining" (a Yin-Yang harmonization practice) from Bitter Bamboo Perfected Lord. Finally at Zhongnan Mountain, he met Zhongli Quan (leader of the Eight Immortals) and acquired the Golden Fluid Great Elixir (supreme Daoist practice). He achieved complete realization at sixty-four, often appearing in white robes with black sash, capable of shape-shifting at will. Addressing rumors about his flying sword killing people, he laughed that Daoist cultivation emphasizes compassion — while he indeed possessed a sword, its purpose was solely to sever the three poisons of greed, anger, and delusion.

Editor Layman Huijue concludes by explaining these precious cultivation methods were secretly preserved for generations. Now publicly transmitted, sincere practitioners who recite them ten thousand times will surely receive divine protection and awakened wisdom, making Dao attainment readily achievable.

The Collected Works of Emperor Lü contains three distinct sections, each offering profound insights:

The cultivation essentials passage states: Severing worldly attachments and cutting through delusions—these three metaphorical "swords" (representing essential practice methods) form the core teachings I transmitted after attaining the Dao. The two disciples I enlightened, Immortal He and Guo the Stove-tender, possessed exceptional spiritual aptitude, and to them I taught the "Method of Returning to the Root" (a fundamental Neidan practice of reconnecting with one's origin). I often tell people: Rather than daily offerings before my statue, better to implement my cultivation methods. Without practicing these techniques, even constant proximity to me proves futile.

The Record of the Eastern Peak Temple Stele describes the temple's origins: Heaven and Earth nurture all beings, and human souls return to the divine after death. The Eastern Peak Mount Tai (foremost among the Five Sacred Peaks) concentrates the world's vital Qi (energy)—its western cliffs reflect rosy dawns while eastern walls shimmer with golden light, marking it as supremely numinous ground. During the Song dynasty, Jianyuan and others erected this magnificent temple whose halls pierce the clouds. Now its incense burners grow cold, reminding us of worldly transience. Nestled among pines and cypresses, the temple welcomes eminent visitors through all seasons, with frequent auspicious signs of blossoms and birds. The Great Emperor of the Eastern Peak (sacred guardian of Mount Tai) joyfully descends on cloud chariots to bless humanity. In my (Lü Dongbin's) woodcutter guise, I lingered near Yan Mountain when requested to compose this inscription: As Heaven and Earth revolve, all things flourish—but the Yan-Ji region manifests special spiritual brilliance. Mount Tai inherits the dragon vein's residual power, its temple aligned with celestial constellations to facilitate divine resonance. Human life passes swift as a white steed's shadow; only Dao-realized beings commune with deities. Those trapped in delusion become prey to the Three Corpses Demons (Taoist malevolent spirits within the body), drowning in illusory glory and shame. The Qi (energy) of all directions ultimately converges in the central palace (the Dantian energy center).

The Immortal Songzi's Travelogue records: When the Nine Virtues Daoist ascended, the skies cleared as his Shen (spirit) soared straight to the highest heavens without faltering. A celestial youth riding rosy clouds from Mount Jiuhua encountered him midair, asking: "Which immortal are you, to reach such heights?" Before the Daoist could reply... (the text abruptly ends)

This passage recounts the wondrous journey of an ordinary man attaining immortality and ascending to become a transcendent:

There was a commoner named Ziqi who lived an honest life devoted to good deeds. The celestial youth Xia Chui observed him during the state of Dingguang (the luminous vision seen during meditation), noting that while Ziqi practiced virtue, there was nothing particularly extraordinary about him. Just then, a Heavenly Lord clad in purple robes arrived from the east and reported to the youth: "Though this man appears ordinary, his unwavering commitment to goodness has even caught the attention of the immortal officials who govern the constellations. They specifically wish to guide him to transcendence."

Xia Chui proposed accepting Ziqi as a disciple. Upon receiving approval, he led him to the Pure Land of Frosted Lotus Blossoms (a Daoist paradise for cultivation). There, Ziqi devoted himself daily to chanting scriptures and quiet meditation, completely severing worldly attachments, becoming a rare individual with profoundly virtuous roots.

During a grand gathering at the Jade Pool (the abode of the Queen Mother of the West), Ziqi's children inquired about their father's whereabouts. The purple-robed Heavenly Lord summoned Ziqi from the Pure Land. When the Daoist (Ziqi) first returned home, his countenance still bore traces of sorrow, but he soon regained composure. Suddenly, miraculous manifestations appeared in the courtyard: phoenixes sang in harmony, cranes performed sacred dances, dozens of celestial youths formed ceremonial processions, the ground turned to gold, buildings transformed into glazed jeweled structures, divine fragrances filled the air, and celestial delicacies materialized.

Overwhelmed by these visions, the Daoist found himself at a loss—wanting to bow but hesitating, attempting to speak but stammering, trying to rise but trembling. The purple-robed Heavenly Lord explained: "This is the Great Celestial Worthy of Marvelous Practice whom you've devoted yourself to (referring to Lüzu, Patriarch Lü Dongbin)." Only then did the Daoist realize he had attained the Dao and achieved immortality. With deep reverence, he performed ceremonial bows, feeling his entire body infused with spiritual energy. Gradually composing himself, he knelt forward and humbly confessed that he had never sought fame for his good deeds, having simply cultivated with a quiet heart.

Through Ziqi's spiritual journey, this narrative illustrates the Daoist principle of "accumulating virtue to attain immortality," along with the miraculous signs accompanying spiritual realization.

The Collected Works of Lü Dongbin contains two distinct sections: the first elucidates cultivation methods of the heart, while the second depicts the celestial scenery of Eight Immortals' Grotto.

The cultivation section teaches: Maintain inner emptiness and clarity, returning consciousness to its original simplicity while nurturing body and mind. Neither covet wealth and status nor despise poverty and lowliness—abide peacefully in your pure fundamental nature. Though one may aspire to supreme perfection, understand that human life can never attain flawless completion; thus constant vigilance is essential. The text speaks of revering the karmic cycles of rebirth, admonishing disciples to embody cultivation through personal conduct. The disciple Wensong ("Inquiring Pine") devotedly followed his master, hoping to transcend the suffering of samsara and abide eternally in the Jeta Grove (a Buddhist Pure Land symbol). The master bestowed the name "Wensong" along with an instructive verse, explaining it signifies an arhat's (Buddhist perfected being) vow to remain near the Buddha, encouraging steadfast practice to become a cultivator revered by all Three Teachings (Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism).

Rhapsody of Eight Immortals' Grotto describes: On the sixteenth night of the eighth lunar month during the Yiyou year, under crystalline moonlight, Lü Dongbin (one of the Eight Immortals) convened with overseas transcendents in a radiant cloud-veiled immortal city. Here stood the Eight Immortals' Grotto—its peaks elegant as rising cloud-roots, adorned with sky-piercing pavilions, surrounded by crane-roosting fields. Encircled by walls, myriad household lanterns glowed ahead. During this sublime night, the immortals held banquet while jade-hued auroras bathed countless cliffs and valleys. The rhapsody paints myriad celestial vistas: Coiling Dragon Ridge, Sky-Propping Pine, Sword Pool's flowing spring, Cinnabar Well (alchemical furnace), stone couch, emerald-peaked mountains, cloud-nested crane roosts, and bamboo-hemmed mountain temples. Millennia-old wells, Jade Spring's immortal bridge, exquisite pagodas, and other wonders appear alongside traces of transcendence like Toad Wall and Jeweled Necklace Lane—including such divine arts as "turning stones into iron trees" and "nurturing fire to grow golden lotuses." The piece concludes with the resonating notes of a Jiaotong zither, completing this ethereal panorama of the immortal realm.

The passage depicts an ethereal night scene. Amidst lush and precipitous cliffs, the lake waters are crystal clear while river currents surge vigorously. Mist envelops the government offices, and dew moistens the stone stele of King Qian. Scholars here inscribe tales of the Yingzhou fairylands, while the writings of recluses hang suspended in celestial palaces. Through the vicissitudes of time, only righteous energy endures, and the pure breeze never fades.

We who cultivate the Dao seek the secrets of immortality at the Dantian (Daoist cultivation sites) and trace the footsteps of transcendent beings on the Penglai fairy isles. We gather the peaches of the Queen Mother of the West and collect the giant divine jujubes of Anqisheng (an ancient immortal). By subduing the dragon and tiger (symbolizing the harmonization of Yin and Yang within the body), we refine essence (Jing), and by concocting toads and crows (alchemical ingredients), we forge elixirs. Transcending the natural order, we attain longevity equal to heaven and earth. Yet the author also emphasizes that upholding loyalty and cherishing integrity are equally in accordance with the Dao.

Gazing southward, one sees Mount Gaizhu; westward, the Cloud Peaks; northward, the Stone Drum Mountain; and eastward, the Lotus Mountain. Countless mountain ridges resemble dragons turning their heads, while innumerable streams converge. At midnight, the company drinks freely of jade nectar, pouring wine into conch-shell cups. Before the golden goblets are emptied, their faces are already flushed with intoxication. In this numinous realm, they wander in carefree joy, nourishing the Great Harmony Qi (the harmonious energy of the cosmos).

Then, the Fairy of the Green Peach is invited to sing the "Song of the Bright Moon":

"Thin clouds disperse, the azure sky vast and wide,

The bright moon hangs high, celestial fragrance cold.

It illuminates the city towers, reflecting stars,

As immortals sit in rows atop the mountain cliffs.

Gazing down at the Eastern Sea’s boundless waves,

They hold coral rods to fish for golden turtles."

As the song fades, all sound ceases, and moonlight bathes the world. White cranes from the grotto-heavens and blessed lands descend in graceful flight, and the assembled immortals prepare to depart—I follow them as they leave.

In the spring of the Yiyou year, I served in Xiacheng. A hundred paces behind the government office stood the Eight Immortals’ Cliff, where I often wandered during leisure hours. On the night of the sixteenth day of the eighth month, beneath a bright moon and clear breeze, I feasted with colleagues in the open space behind the office. Suddenly, faint strains of sheng pipes and the crisp cry of cranes drifted from the cliff—I knew this was no ordinary sound. Strangely, no one else heard it. As the moonlight grew brighter and the gentle breeze stirred, all was silent by the Ear-Washing Pavilion. Accompanied by a single attendant, I ascended straight to the cliff’s summit. There I met the early-rising monk Huizhi, who, upon inquiry, revealed he too had heard the strange sounds. Climbing the pavilion together, we found a sheet of paper on the desk, its ink strokes radiant as treasure. Upon close reading, we realized it was composed the previous night by the Sovereign Lord Lü Dongbin (one of the Eight Immortals).

The author marvels at the profound meaning in Patriarch Lü’s poetic inscription and dares not keep it hidden. Thus, craftsmen are summoned to restore the temple halls. This passage blends landscape travelogue, Daoist cultivation, and literati gatherings, embodying the dual Daoist pursuit of immortality and the reverence for moral integrity.

This passage depicts a grand spring gathering of Daoist immortals, with Lü Dongbin (known as Chunyangzi) among celestial companions on a sea-bound mountain isle. On the eighth day of the third lunar month beneath clear skies and balmy breezes, the assembled transcendents convened at their island abode. Seated behind mica screens, they kindled rare incense in golden burners while arranging fresh fruits and fragrant offerings.

Raising conch-shell goblets of Hongliang vintage wine, some immortals chanted ramie-cloth ballads while others composed melodies of golden millet dreams. The revelry swelled with bamboo flutes, fisher's drums, and sandalwood clappers—silk sleeves swirling like colored clouds, feathered fans fluttering like crescent moons. Such celestial mirth surpassed even the jade towers of heaven's palaces. As sunset gilded the waters and the new moon rose through river mists, the undimmed company lit silver candles to prolong their songs and discourse.

Among these perfected beings stood elder immortals like Han Zhongli (foremost of the Eight Immortals) and ranked transcendents who had mastered longevity arts. All bore traces of their ascension from Penglai's fairy isles, where they dwelt with elk as companions and natural beauty as friends. Gathering lingzhi mushrooms from cavern mouths and simmering white stones (alchemical metaphors) beneath pines, they transformed their bodies through daoyin exercises and ingestible elixirs. Whether former Qin-Han dynasty heroes or reclusive sages, their names now graced the registers of immortality—no accidental honor.

When midnight's stillness fell, a sudden crane-cry pierced the clouds as a white crane circled and alighted in the courtyard. Recognizing this as heaven's summons, Lü Dongbin and the company mounted feathered chariots to ride auspicious clouds back to their grotto-heavens. This account survives as Lü Dongbin's own record of this extraordinary celestial symposium.

"Neidan Fu" (Rhapsody on Internal Alchemy) in Plain Interpretation:

Cultivating internal alchemy (Neidan) is like searching for the path to the Moon Palace amidst boundless clouds. Within the body nurtures precious essence (Jing) - like a giant oyster concealing its pearl - as the spiritual bird transforms into the Golden Elixir (Jindan). True gold can emerge from lead and mercury (basic alchemical substances); recognizing this fundamental principle is like refining mercury from sand, where harmonizing yin and yang presents no difficulty. Thus can mortals achieve bodily transformation, redeeming their aging forms.

The alchemical ingredients must be sought within oneself; the furnace and cauldron (referring to the human body) require personal cultivation. Employ the divine water (saliva) for blending, pouring it into the Hua Pool (mouth cavity) to stir. Through the mutual nourishment of water and fire, the circulation of yin and yang, one experiences the meeting of Kan (water) and Li (fire) across 360 days, commanding thunder and lightning through seventy-two solar terms. Penetrating the Nine Palaces (acupoints), subduing the Tiger (emotions) and Dragon (vital energy), one activates the pivot of the Three Powers (heaven, earth and humanity) and constructs the framework of the Eight Trigrams (Bagua).

The application of fire (yang energy activation) begins from winter solstice to summer solstice, while following celestial timing for creation continues from summer solstice to winter solstice. Silently operating divine mechanisms, secretly aligning with celestial patterns, one completes twelve two-hour periods of circulation and the flow of Three Blossoms Gathering and Five Qi Returning to Origin. Regulating yin-yang, taming dragon and tiger, one explores the mysteries of Seven Returns and Nine Reversions (essence-energy cycles). Gathering the quintessence of metal-water mutual generation, returning it to the True Earth (spleen). Thus the cycle repeats, moving from being to non-being, filling the body's inner cauldron with the medicines of firm and yielding.

Nourished by golden essence and jade liquor, cultivated by yang fire and yin talismans. Within the body replicates heaven-earth creation, as two orbs (sun and moon) manifest sacred forms, illuminating the Dantian (energy center) where spiritual pearls condense. Marvelous functions operate unseen, true origins naturally align - like crimson wine soaking branches, yellow sprouts (embryonic elixir) nourishing roots. After ingesting the elixir, dogs transform into dragons, humans shed their skins like cicadas. Transmuting mortal flesh into sage substance without diminishing earthly lifespan.

Ultimately marrow congeals into frost, white bones turn gold-hard. Seeing through worldly illusions, pointing the way back to emptiness. Transcending kalpic limitations, escaping yin-yang constraints, untouched by flowing years. Practitioners should cherish true essence, knowing life's swift aging demands early awakening. Observe how glory and disgrace, rise and fall all return to Beimang Mountain (graveyard) and Chang'an Road (vanity fair).

"Dengxian Fu" (Rhapsody on Ascending to Immortality) in Plain Interpretation:

The Dao cultivator maintains original purity, unified spirit, noble character and serene mind. Their aspiration dwells constantly in realms of bliss, body and soul uniquely entrusted to the immortal domain. Riding azure clouds they roam above and below, mounting white cranes they come and go freely. Having established the mind for cultivation, the path to Dao becomes climbable.

(Note: Due to text truncation, complete translation isn't possible. Both rhapsodies employ strict rhyming schemes - the plain interpretation maintains original meanings while adjusting sentence structures appropriately, preserving essential alchemical terms with necessary explanations.)

This passage depicts the ideal realm of Daoist cultivators transcending worldly affairs in pursuit of eternal life. The text describes practitioners observing celestial phenomena (the symbols of Qian, the Heaven trigram), ascending to the heavens astride the stars of Ji and Wei (constellations associated with immortality), recalling the literary talents of the Jian'an era, and admiring the immortal Nanhua Zhenren (the Southern Florescence Perfected Being, referring to Zhuangzi).

Cultivators believe the world is not devoid of kindred spirits with whom to share fine wine from orchid-adorned vessels; nor is the mortal realm entirely without paths to transcendence, as evidenced by the rising blue smoke from staff tips. They yearn to study the Daoist methods of Qingxi (Green Stream), fluttering their feathered sleeves with effortless grace, while also desiring to wander the earthly realm (Chixian, referring to China) astride white deer in elegant motion.

The text mentions immortal maidens at Magpie Bridge and cultivators (feathered guests) by Mandarin Duck Looms, their laughter blending with the fragrance of medicinal herbs. Practitioners are not without means of celestial ascent—when robes are tinged with mist and cloud qi, it signals the timely attainment of the Dao. Some stand atop purple phoenix chariots with jade feet gleaming; others ride divine empyrean carriages (the Numinous Empyrean Chariot) taking their first starry steps. Nectar of jade may be drunk, phoenix pipes (Fengguan) may be played.

The author criticizes those who rely on power, flaunt luxury, chase fame and profit, or crave comfort—all superficial worldly vanities (floating embellishments) rather than essential secrets (arcane strategies) of self-cultivation. The physical form ultimately vanishes (forms empty, shadows extinguished)—what connection has this with the Four Seas? Only by aiding the world and delivering humanity can multitudes benefit. True cultivators possess perfectly rounded qi resonance (authentic qi perfectly spherical) and luminous purity—how could they mingle with worldly people while lacking transcendent character?

The "Yellow Crane Fu" section elucidates cultivation essentials: The supreme vehicle (the highest single vehicle) is governance through Wuwei (non-action); the sevenfold reverted elixir (a Neidan term for seven cycles of Jing-Qi refinement) finds stillness through movement. Those of superior De (virtue) preserve form through the Dao, like unbroken pure Yang (untouched pure Qian); those of lesser De prolong life through techniques, like the already-formed Kan trigram (dug-up Kan). Cultivating Yin-Yang's Dao requires using worldly methods to perfect transcendental practice; emulating procreative principles means grasping celestial mechanisms without leakage. For dual cultivation of nature and life (Xingming shuangxiu), both method (technique) and resources (material support) are required. First forge alliances with like-minded companions as support, then seek suitable environments (great chambers) as practice sites. Those pursuing the ultimate Dao (supreme Dao) must penetrate the Mysterious Pass (Xuanguan, the crucial energy aperture) and select virtuous methods for practice.

This passage elucidates the core principles and methods of Daoist Neidan (internal alchemy) cultivation. Practitioners must approach the process with the same care as governing a nation, properly establishing the "furnace and cauldron" (metaphors for key energy centers in the body) within the alchemical chamber (the cultivation space). The entire practice resembles recreating heaven and earth within one's body, where "refining the self and laying foundations" stabilizes both body and mind.

Several crucial aspects demand attention during cultivation: facing worldly temptations requires emotional detachment and stillness preservation, while cultivation itself demands relentless vigor. Like forging a sword in furnace flames, one must grasp the principle of Metal generating Water among the Five Phases. Operation requires mastery of timing—knowing when to "extract and replenish" (regulating the fire phases) and when to enter the "bathing" (gentle nurturing) stage, maintaining rhythms as precise as plucking zither strings or tapping bamboo. When encountering conflicts, maintain yielding softness ("guarding the feminine"); after a hundred days of practice one gains flexibility, and within a year achieves effortless mastery.

True cultivation lies in gathering the generative Qi of heaven and earth to transform oneself. The refinement of "golden liquor" (kidney Jing/essence) and "jade liquor" (saliva) concerns both innate nature (xing) and life force (ming). The process follows two periods (midnight and noon) and four seasons, balancing the Kan (kidney Water) and Li (heart Fire) trigrams. It begins with generating being from non-being, returning true Yang (the dragon) to its position, and culminates in the harmonious fusion of Yin and Yang like the dragon and tiger meeting.

Pay attention to the firing time of the "medicinal ingredients" (essence, Qi, and spirit), discerning the purity of the "water source" (original essence). Practitioners must await the emergence of Yang energy ("Yang arising in Red County") and the activation of Gui Water (menstrual cycle or kidney Qi activation). When true Yang manifests ("seeing the dragon in the field"), refine urgently; when Yin energy stirs ("the tiger roars from its cave"), reverse the circulation. This constitutes "fire forcing metal to move" (heart fire descending to warm kidney water) in the sevenfold return (essence-Qi ascending) and "metal refined by fire" (kidney water rising) in the ninefold restoration (returning to the heavenly summit).

The Dao of cultivation follows reversal: ordinary progression creates humans, while inversion achieves immortality. Though employing "external medicine" (partner energy), this is absolutely not sexual techniques. Personal cultivation requires soaring ambition (the roc bird heading south). The true lead (primordial Qi) within Kan and true mercury (primordial spirit) within Li must achieve Yin-Yang harmony, using Qian and Kun as the alchemical vessel, seeking the original ancestral Qi contained within the Great Unity (Dao), obtaining the mysterious pearl within water (primordial Qi) through Yin-Yang harmonization.

At the culmination, when water returns to the spirit chamber (unity of essence, Qi and spirit), one attains celestial immortality. The golden elixir descends into the Yellow Court (middle Dantian), revealing the divine presence. After ten months of gentle nurturing (gestation metaphor) and nine years of wall-facing meditation (prolonged cultivation), one ultimately achieves the wondrous state where form and spirit become sublime. These methods may appear conventional, but in truth constitute the immortal path of reversing destiny against heaven's course.

This scripture is divided into two main sections: the first part discusses the crucial timing (fire phases) in Neidan (internal alchemy) practice, while the latter expounds on the relationship between the Dao and all phenomena.

Regarding Neidan cultivation: Lead and mercury (representing the body's Yin and Yang Qi) remain separated like east and west. The infant (original spirit, Yuanshen) and the maiden (original essence, Yuanjing) will remain disharmonious without the mediation of the "yellow matron" (true intention). Practitioners must discern the proper timing like generals commanding troops, recognizing when to advance or withdraw, and understanding the urgency or gradualness of the fire phases. True adepts perceive the waxing and waning of Yin-Yang as naturally as observing ocean tides, and grasp creation's rhythms as clearly as tracking moon phases. The crescent moon's first appearance (at the Geng position) symbolizes Yang energy emerging from the Kun body (pure Yin), while the full moon (at the Jia position) represents the perfection of Qian's primal Yang.

The latter section discusses the ontology of the Dao: During primordial chaos, the Dao preceded all phenomena. While the Dao is formless, all formed things carry this formless Dao. The Dao and phenomena mutually depend on each other—names and meanings all originate from the cognition of the Dao. Heaven, earth, and the myriad things are essentially manifestations of the Dao, which permeates everything from primordial chaos to human emergence. As the most spiritually endowed beings, human loyalty and filial piety naturally manifest the Dao's principles. The Dao exists both before heaven-and-earth's formation and within the human body, perfectly revealed through human nature and mind without deviation or interruption.

The mentioned Longjiangzi was a Daoist priest with immortal destiny. Lüzu (Lü Dongbin), admiring his celestial bearing, shared alchemical secrets to help him refine the Golden Elixir (mysterious pearl), hoping they might eventually ascend together to the immortal realms (Langyuan Kunpu).

This passage explores the relationship between the human heart-mind and Heaven-Earth, as well as the foundation of loyalty and filial piety. When human thoughts manifest as consciousness and consciousness expresses through actions, the human body becomes a microcosm of Heaven-Earth, while Heaven-Earth itself constitutes the Taiji (Supreme Ultimate, the cosmic origin), which in turn originates from Wuji (the ultimate state of Dao). Thus we understand that while Dao encompasses more than just loyalty and filial piety, these virtues serve as the starting point for practicing Dao, with filial piety forming the root of loyalty.

Every person is born with the innate nature of loyalty and filial piety. If all could become filial children and loyal subjects, there would be no rebellion in the world. Yet in reality, though these virtues remain pure in the womb and manifest naturally in childhood, they become obscured by desires in adulthood—wives and children alter original intentions, wealth shakes one's resolve, official positions tempt the mind, and gains and losses disturb the fundamental heart, gradually eroding these innate capacities.

While it's difficult for people to be born as loyal subjects and filial children, guiding them to become such through learning is achievable. Practical methods include: studying to understand principles, maintaining reverence to nurture one's fundamental heart, accumulating sincerity to activate virtuous thoughts, and constantly examining selfish distractions. In solitude, one should be as cautious as when facing rulers and parents; in conduct, follow the teachings of elders. Serve parents wholeheartedly at home without boasting of filial piety (and naturally be called filial), serve the country diligently without claiming loyalty (and naturally earn the reputation). Loyalty and filial piety are two sides of the same coin—as the ancient saying goes, "Seek loyal ministers from the households of filial sons." Those capable of filial piety naturally understand loyalty; to be loyal, one must first fulfill filial duties. Though some achieve prominence through loyalty and others through filial deeds, their fundamental principle remains the same.

Perfect loyalty and filial piety can only be fully realized by sages who know them instinctively, yet great loyalty and filial piety remain attainable through ordinary people's efforts. "Perfect" refers to virtues being complete, subtle, and flawless—such individuals embody Dao through their being and even participate in Heaven-Earth's creative transformations, approaching divine sanctity. "Great" and "ultimate," however, denote remarkable achievements in concrete actions, where loyal and filial conduct becomes widely celebrated. Though not reaching perfection, such people remain blameless before Heaven-Earth's bestowed moral principles while making tangible contributions to the world.

This scripture emphasizes that loyalty and filial piety are the foundation for attaining immortality (xian) or Buddhahood, as well as the fundamental principles of human conduct.

Lüzu (Lü Dongbin) points out that those who become immortals (xian) or Buddhas all cultivated themselves through loyalty and filial piety. Just as trees have roots and rivers have sources, true transcendence is impossible without these virtues. Some people in the world study Buddhism or cultivate immortality, but if they harbor disloyal or unfilial thoughts, the immortals and Buddhas will immediately abandon them, rendering their efforts futile.

The power of loyalty and filial piety is immense: it can move heaven and earth, startle spirits and deities, alter natural phenomena, bring blessings to descendants, and even help one become a sage. The scripture particularly stresses that sincere faith in these virtues, coupled with daily recitation and practice, will invite divine protection, auspicious fortune, and deliverance from calamities.

In the "Discourse on Human Virtue" section, the author laments that although the world is filled with people, few truly deserve the title of "human." The essence of being human lies in fulfilling one’s duties—loyalty as a subject and filial piety as a child. Only by embodying these virtues can one truly fulfill the human role. Since ancient times, those revered as sages have invariably been loyal ministers and filial sons.

The core message of the scripture is this: loyalty and filial piety are not only the basis for spiritual transcendence but also the fundamental principles of human existence. A person who fails in these duties may bear the name of a human but cannot be considered one in truth.

Filial piety toward parents and fraternal love are the foundation of human virtue. If one can consistently practice these fundamental ethical principles—dwelling in benevolence (the "abode of ren" refers to making virtue the home of one's heart) and handling affairs with righteousness ("yi chu shi" means conducting matters according to moral principle)—while cultivating De (Virtue/Power) as the root and adapting flexibly to circumstances, they will naturally attain the realm of sages and become true exemplars of cultivation. Why must one deliberately pursue esoteric methods of immortality or vainly attempt to grasp the unknowable? The key lies in repeatedly contemplating these truths.

The Can Tong Lun states: A person must perfect themselves through concrete action. If one regards themselves too lightly, they lose the foundation of being human. In Buddhism (Shi refers to the Buddhist path), liberation from the cycle of life and death is sought through meditation; in Daoism, transcendence is achieved through cultivation; in Confucianism, the emphasis is on living with a clear conscience even in solitude ("dark rooms and hidden corners" signify private, unobserved moments). These principles and methods should be earnestly practiced by all, yet most remain confused. In this world, what truly constitutes the essence of so-called Buddhism, Daoism, and Confucianism? I do not claim these traditions lack genuine truth, but rather that few truly grasp their essence. Those who genuinely understand Buddhism are not unrecognized—they are simply rare; those who truly comprehend Daoist methods are not unrespected—they are few; those thoroughly versed in Confucian teachings are not unhonored—they are scarce.

If one can truly recognize, revere, and uphold these truths, then the Dao will naturally manifest. Even without full comprehension, encountering the right conditions—being able to recognize, revere, and uphold—is genuinely beneficial. Thus, the principles of being human are fulfilled, and the work of self-cultivation is perfected. Excessive attachment to Buddhism risks rigidity and desiccation; obsession with Daoism may lead to unrestrained indulgence; rigid adherence to Confucianism alone still contains within it the truths of both Buddhism and Daoism. Yet who in this world can fully embody them?

Master Lü (Chunyang, referring to Lü Dongbin) forged a unique path by advocating the harmony of the Three Teachings. When a practitioner once sought his guidance, he taught them: The practice of generosity aligns with Buddhism yet does not conflict with Daoism. He also said: Practicing filial piety, fraternal duty, loyalty, and trustworthiness while recording merits and faults ("ji guo gong" refers to accounting for errors and virtues) is especially consonant with the essential Confucian way. If people carefully study my writings and grasp their meaning, the principles of being human will naturally be complete, and the work of cultivation will be perfected. Practitioners of Buddhism, Daoism, and Confucianism fill the world—how can they be lightly dismissed? If everyone denies them, what then can be affirmed? The key is that those who encounter these teachings must truly recognize, revere, and uphold them, lest these traditions be betrayed, and the full practice of human virtue remain unrealized.

Regarding filial duty and ancestral veneration ("xiao yang jian xian" refers to caring for parents and honoring ancestors), understand this: Filial piety values sincere devotion over formality; ancestral rites prize heartfelt reverence over pomp. Serving parents diligently in life and honoring them sincerely after death—this constitutes complete filial piety.

This passage elucidates that the essence of filial piety lies in sincerely caring for one’s parents, not in superficial material conditions. The author begins by posing a pointed question: Do you, as children, truly understand the real meaning of honoring your parents?

True filial piety is not measured by the refinement of food. Even in poverty, offering the best one can afford—simple meals prepared with devotion—far surpasses extravagant delicacies served without genuine care. The key is attentively discerning parents’ preferences. For instance, in summer when fruits and vegetables spoil easily, one must carefully select what’s suitable to serve; the same mindfulness applies in spring, autumn, and winter. Remember that parents, as ordinary people, cherish simple comforts rather than extravagant luxuries.

A crucial emphasis: Even after parents pass away, one should continue making offerings as if they were still alive—this defines a truly filial child. Few in this world have the privilege of caring for white-haired grandparents. If one fails to serve living parents wholeheartedly, how can posthumous rituals (sacrificial offerings to ancestors, jianxian) constitute real filial devotion? Parental nurturing grace is vast as the heavens (haotian wangji)—how dare children treat it lightly?

The passage concludes by clarifying the true meaning of jianxian (ancestral sacrifices): Such rituals inherently acknowledge the ancestors’ absence. Rather than lavish ceremonies after death, genuine filial piety means devoted care while parents live. Those who neglect living parents yet perform elaborate posthumous rites fundamentally misunderstand filial duty.

Regarding the ancestral sacrifices performed during the spring and autumn seasons, as well as those marking seasonal transitions and death anniversaries throughout the year—these traditions have endured. Yet few truly understand the meaning of "offering seasonal tribute" (jianxin), which has become vaguely categorized as ancestor worship. In truth, jianxin requires presenting the freshest seasonal offerings: spring's first harvest for spring rites. As descendants perform these filial sacrifices aware of spring's arrival, so too will ancestors perceive the season's energy and descend to partake. Spring's bounty isn't limited to one offering—all seasonal products may be presented, allowing ancestors to fully receive spring's gifts. This bloodline resonance connects living and deceased as if sharing one home—how could family fortunes then decline? Where such practices endure, prosperity naturally follows. What applies to spring holds equally for summer, autumn, and winter. This jianxin custom dates to antiquity; may later generations preserve it faithfully.

On cultivating merit and rectifying faults:

The standards I've established aren't superficial—they demand genuine discernment of gain and loss within one's heart. What feels unutterable to others remains unconcealable from Heaven. Those who think to deceive the celestial realm merely fool their own innate conscience (benxin). To honor one's conscience is to revere Heaven's principles, for the heart mirrors cosmic order. Thus merit and fault become self-evident. Rather than emulating immortals, better to cultivate this inner mirror; mastering one's heart constitutes true immortal study. The perfected beings most treasure sincerity—without it, the heart becomes a thief ravaging its own essence. Can those claiming self-cultivation while daily accumulating misdeeds call it merit? True skill lies in daily purification and fault-reduction. Yet perfection isn't demanded immediately: among eight disciples, if three or four achieve half-measure progress, gradual completion will follow. Even beginners attaining minimal progress should emulate these practitioners—thus all may become sages.

Why must perfection require relentless refinement?

Human form is earned through accumulated merit (gongde), yet this very body creates karma. Over lifetimes—two, three, four—misdeeds accumulate while virtue diminishes. When merit exhausts, human incarnation vanishes instantly. Practitioners fear losing this precious form—thus karma purification becomes paramount.

How can one eliminate transgressions? Only through rigorous cultivation can they be dissolved. Yet it often happens that as soon as one fault is cleared, new offenses arise, making it insufficient to offset karmic retribution. The blessings that are diminished this way are truly lamentable! Therefore, one must fortify the resolve for diligent practice and dissolve karmic obstacles through sustained cultivation.

In the process of cultivation, understand that each act of austerity repays a karmic debt. Persist hundreds and thousands of times—the only fear is that the transgressions may not be fully eradicated. As long as this unwavering determination remains unshaken, what is there to fear, even if the accumulated faults span lifetimes? Know this: without decades of devoted practice, it is impossible to completely dissolve karmic burdens. I hope all of you can fully eliminate your transgressions and become whole, perfected beings.

You might ask: "Though I reflect daily and monthly, I still err repeatedly. How, then, should merits be tallied? How can transgressions be dissolved?" The method is simple—though the faults of this life may be difficult to fully erase, a sincere heart can gradually dissolve them. The key lies in maintaining constant vigilance. In every matter, reflect deeply: Does this conceal hidden faults? Could acts that seem meritorious harbor unseen errors? Hold yourself strictly to the principles of human ethics. The moment you recognize impropriety, immediately admonish yourself and vow never to repeat it. This sincere resolve to abstain from wrongdoing must be utterly pure, free from even the subtlest self-deception. Persist in this way, and naturally, you will become immune to transgression.

When you reach the state where you naturally distance yourself from faults, every thought and every action will accumulate merit. At that point, would you still count whether you’ve performed one or a hundred virtuous deeds? Merit will naturally become complete, and the path to immortality (Xian Dao) will be realized in the present. Thus, I first speak of dissolving transgressions, then of accumulating merit—you must strive to practice this diligently.

Now, consider the fate of scholars. Some study diligently for years yet remain impoverished and unfulfilled, never able to realize their aspirations. Does this mean Heaven has no pity for talent? In truth, one must understand that in a lifetime, the thoughts and deeds hidden from others are often numerous. Heaven records them all in secret, reducing blessings, rank, and success accordingly—without the slightest error. Yet people remain unaware. When examinations approach, they console themselves: "After years of hardship, success must surely follow—it cannot fail me." How pitiful!

How could such reasoning hold in this world? I've always known matters are never this simple, and those truly learned in principle should understand this truth. How is it possible that practitioners of shallow cultivation and brief training could suddenly obtain wealth and honor through occasional attempts? Could it be because they possess extraordinary innate gifts, having already reached the pinnacle of cultivation? In truth, it's because their ancestors' accumulated merit (De) and their fathers' early spiritual practice laid the foundation for them.

Heaven often shows compassion to diligent students of humble means, bestowing success when least expected; those who accumulate virtue (De) and devote themselves to the Dao will also receive blessings due to their sincerity. As for those who scheme with clever calculations, some may achieve their desires while others fail—all depends on whether their personal store of blessings is sufficient. Reflect calmly, and this principle becomes perfectly clear. May those who understand these truths grasp what I'm conveying—what must be will be, and what cannot be cannot.

Now follows the "Dialogue Between Dao and Demon":

The Daoist Lü (known as Huidaoren, the Returned Daoist) observed past and present, descended to the Purple Ultimate Palace to propagate the true Dao (Zhengyi), and with compassionate heart used words to dispel confusion, enlightening beings from the ritual platform. He lamented how worldly beings degrade themselves, trapped by desires, with cunning schemes multiplying while spiritual awareness dims daily. Thus he established this "Dialogue Between Dao and Demon" to clarify:

When heaven and earth first separated, there was yet no form or name. Only after the establishment of the Three Powers (heaven, earth and humanity) did distinctions between self and others arise. What is the Supreme Ultimate (Taiji)? What is a True Person (Zhenren)? What are life and death? What are spirits and deities? These are but troubles humans create for themselves. The clever prove inferior to the dull—constantly speaking of seeking the Dao while vowing to eradicate the demonic path, viewing demons as sworn enemies. They seek to sever desires, cut off greed, dispel confusion, even using virtue (De) and ritual propriety to oppose the demonic, employing non-fabrication and purity to isolate it—never realizing their own error while decrying the demonic as evil.

The demonic path has coexisted with humanity since antiquity, never altering its fundamental nature. It merges with humans internally and externally, achieving harmony through prolonged interaction. A single thought resonating with the seven emotions (joy, anger, sorrow, contemplation, grief, fear, shock) allows the demonic to exert tangible influence. By contrast, your so-called Dao remains elusive and intangible, exhausting mind and spirit—seemingly ahead one moment, then behind the next, offering no concrete form to grasp, so perplexing that people can only follow established rules helplessly. From Laozi to Shakyamuni, the three sages each established their teachings...

This passage adopts the voice of "demonic forces" (mo) to reveal the fundamental opposition between spiritual cultivation and worldly desires. It outlines three paths of practice: one may become a sage through innate moral awareness (liangzhi), attain immortality through purity and stillness (qingjing), or achieve Buddhahood through mind illumination and seeing one's true nature (mingxin jianxing). Yet the "demon" mockingly observes how few in this world can actually accomplish these.

The "demon" boasts of its sophisticated temptations: it caters to human emotions, indulges desires, and drowns people in pleasures of wealth and lust. Money is packaged as the foundation of life-nourishment, while carnal beauty is glorified as life's joy. Under such temptations, unrestrained indulgence becomes the norm, while restraining desires grows exceptionally difficult. Compounded by negative emotions like anger, stubbornness, and delusion, even when armed with loyalty and filial piety as commanders, sincerity and kindness as troops, people still struggle to resist the "demon's" onslaught.

The text contrasts the differing fortunes of the sages' path (Dao) and the demonic path: while sages anxiously try guiding people toward enlightenment yet find few followers, the demonic path requires no deliberate teaching to make people bow in submission. Does this mean the sages' way is incomplete? Or are demonic temptations too powerful? Or is it that human hearts, comfortable with worldly habits, find the proper path too difficult to attain?

The crux is revealed: only those who fail to establish their fundamental nature and destiny (xingming) — trapped in the shifting techniques of Yin-Yang (being deluded by external phenomena) — succumb to demonic temptation. Before Heaven and Earth separated, there was originally no distinction between Dao and demonic paths; this opposition stems from human choice. Those of superior wisdom naturally avoid demons without needing to eliminate them; those of middling wisdom can repel demonic obstacles through cultivation; only inferior fools remain perpetual companions of demons. For the proper path takes stillness as its root, while the demonic path takes agitation as its nature — stillness nurtures life, while agitation depletes primordial Qi.

This scripture reveals the core tenets of health cultivation and Daoist practice through a dialogue between the Dao (the Way) and demonic obstructions. The text explains how excessive pursuit of sensory stimulation inevitably harms one's vitality—a fundamental truth. Those who seek longevity techniques while indulging their desires have already fallen into demonic hindrances (referring to obstacles in spiritual cultivation). The Three Sages (likely referring to the Three Pure Ones/Sanqing in Daoism) studied the ephemeral nature of life and comprehended the laws of heaven and earth, never acting arbitrarily but instead propagating transformative teachings.

The author criticizes those who dismiss the Dao as elusive and intangible, when in truth the natural Dao is as evident as the sun and moon's ceaseless motion. People's inability to approach the Dao resembles remaining in darkness unaware of dawn, clinging to material attachments like earth and stones. The demonic obstruction counters that although sunlight and moonlight illuminate all under heaven, few truly encounter those who follow the Dao.

The Dao observes that while many abandon the proper path when facing demonic obstacles, some well-intentioned practitioners may lose their progress through temporary confusion. Yet occasionally, even evildoers hearing orthodox teachings may experience sudden awakening—such individuals can maintain their fundamental nature despite internal and external temptations. Against these, demonic forces cannot prevail. The text emphasizes the "Sword of Wisdom" (metaphor for penetrating insight), noting that those with moderate wisdom can wield it to repel obstructions.

Finally, the demonic obstruction raises an objection: since heaven and earth's principles originate from innate dispositions, and as preferences differ, those following their natural inclinations may reject the formless Dao. This dialogue ultimately illuminates the crucial importance of "guarding the One and embracing the Source" (maintaining original mind and returning to the root) in spiritual practice, along with wisdom's pivotal role in dispelling obstructions.

This discussion addresses common misconceptions about the "Dao" and "demonic paths" in spiritual cultivation. Some practitioners find Daoist practice too arduous, mistakenly viewing demonic paths as more carefree and even confusing the Dao with demonic influences. In truth, human nature originally contains no inherent error, and there's a fundamental distinction between diligent practice and idle indulgence. Achieving tranquility through disciplined cultivation is called "stillness" (jing), while seeking comfort only to descend into turmoil is called "agitation" (dong). Stillness belongs to the Dao, agitation to demonic forces. Here, stillness and agitation don't refer to external manifestations but internal states—true stillness emerges from the realm of emptiness (the ethereal state pursued in Daoist cultivation).

When one maintains inner purity while diligently practicing physical cultivation, the subtle distinction between demonic paths and the Dao becomes clear. Those who claim "demonic paths are the Dao, the Dao is demonic" reveal their insufficient wisdom and doubtful minds. Such individuals mistake their path, cling stubbornly to wrong views, and ultimately degenerate—they're unworthy of discussions about the true Dao. Authentic cultivation requires "guarding the One" (shouyi, focused preservation of primordial Qi), through which one may coexist with heaven and earth.

Countless cultivation methods circulate in the world, some orthodox and others heterodox—how to distinguish them? Blind faith is inferior to maintaining prudent doubt. As Laozi taught, "In guarding the One, you unite with heaven and earth"—this is the true path. The genuine Dao is singular; why create artificial divisions? The orthodox path remains orthodox, while heterodox paths are merely demonic deceptions. The standard for judgment lies in accordance with cosmic principles and alignment with heavenly order.

The teachings of the Three Religion's Sages (Confucius, Buddha, and Laozi) share fundamental unity despite differing expressions. Contemporary practitioners who embrace Buddhism while rejecting Confucianism, or honor Daoism while disparaging Buddhism, demonstrate shallow understanding and ignorance of ultimate truth. Such bigotry itself manifests demonic tendencies.

Demonic rhetoric claims: "Though all revere the Three Sages' teachings, their specific cultivation methods often invite skepticism." Consider Lü Dongbin (the Pure Yang Perfected Being)—while identifying as a Daoist cultivator, his decades of spiritual attainment and worldly manifestations meet varied responses: perhaps one in ten believes upon hearing, two or three upon witnessing, while eight or nine remain unconvinced even after direct encounter. His spirit-writing revelations particularly divide opinion—some accept completely, others reject entirely, with most hovering between belief and doubt.

People talk endlessly about countless principles all day long, yet refuse to act upon even a single word. Though the doctrine of karmic retribution for good and evil is spoken with solemn gravity, in reality it appears vague and intangible. What's more, through the planchette (a divination tool), thousands of words of instruction are written on a small table—descending whenever summoned, arriving at every call, even fulfilling requests for paintings or calligraphy, never refusing to wield the brush. Could an inkwell truly suffice for such extravagance? How could so much be accomplished in mere moments? Besides, people cannot see the true form of immortals, separated as they are by the veil of the mundane world.

Even if I were to tell people, "Be sincere, avoid deception—sincerity brings one closer to Dao-De (the Way and its Virtue), and retribution will swiftly manifest; be loyal and filial, uphold fraternal duty and trustworthiness," from beginning to end, I've scarcely seen anyone truly practice these words. Even those who recognize me as Lü Dongbin (Lü Chunyang) may not fully believe, let alone those who doubt my identity yet wish to follow the teachings of Chunyang—how could they easily achieve it? I am well aware that my own cultivation of Dao is indeed still lacking.

Ah, the true transmission of Dao! Confucius (Zhongni) comprehended the heavenly secret of "one thread running through all" and spread it under heaven; Buddhist disciples saw through the illusion of form and returned to the realm of non-birth; while Lü Chunyang (disciple of Laozi) propagated the Dao of compassion and reverence for life, revealed the mysteries of the Golden Elixir (Jindan), and made great vows to guide the lost. Chunyang's teachings emphasize saving the world—though he cannot stand alongside the Three Sages (Sanqing), the Dao of those sages indeed cannot be separated from Chunyang's lineage.

The transformations between the manifest and hidden are but the functioning of Dao—can Dao be limited to these miraculous phenomena alone? If people do not believe in me, so long as I fulfill my cultivation merits, ensuring heaven no longer reproaches me and realizing my long-held wish to aid the world, that is enough. Though planchette writing seems unfathomably mysterious, it too follows discernible patterns—like the sun shining overhead, its light reaching countless rivers, not even omitting a thatched hut. How could one doubt it merely because a small table and an inkwell produce a thousand words? To employ petty cleverness like mayflies or nitpick like literati—how does that differ from ordinary folk? To respond through a planchette medium is a special affinity—how could worldly sentiments easily fathom it?

This passage from the Daoist classic Collected Works of Emperor Lü expresses Lü Dongbin's (Daoist name: Chunyangzi) lament over humanity's worldly attachments and difficulty in awakening, along with the wisdom of sages in aiding the world.

People today—some are no better than ordinary folk, yet they doubt even these commoners. I truly cannot comprehend why. The retribution of good and evil is actually quite evident, only people fail to perceive it. Look at those in the world who ride in luxurious carriages or fine horses, enjoying long lives, while the poor suffer short lives and frequent illness—these disparities all have their causes. Does Heaven announce retribution in advance? Thus, what seems mysterious about cause and effect is, in truth, not mysterious at all.

As for my writing these words, they are merely the product of spontaneous inspiration. Though not intended to compete with scholars, they still express a transcendent sentiment beyond worldly concerns. Every character and phrase carries profound meaning—none are written carelessly. Alas! My sincere efforts go unappreciated, as the righteous path and demonic delusions share the same boat. Even when I speak plainly (the blue lotus symbolizes pure wisdom), who among them will awaken? Some doubt whether I am truly Lü Dongbin descended into the world, yet they fail to realize that this very skepticism proves how obscured the great Dao has become.

When sages aid the world, they always address the most urgent issues of their time—like prescribing the right medicine or using a demon-revealing mirror to strike at the root. Laozi left behind the Daode Jing in five thousand words, the Buddha expounded twelve divisions of scriptures, and Confucius brought order to Lu State in just three months—these are all models of sagehood in action. Today, we who cultivate the Dao painstakingly expound the teachings and transmit the scriptures, using poetry, calligraphy, and painting—forms the world enjoys—to guide them, employing all manner of skillful means to instruct sentient beings.

Yet, lamentably, beings remain stubbornly deluded. They mistake the compassion of cultivators for meddling, regard scriptural teachings as empty talk, and dismiss admonishing verses as trivial. As a result, greed grows daily, attachments deepen, and the grand aspirations of cultivators come to naught—instead dismissed as mere idle words. Those who strive to aid the world are mocked as objects of ridicule. Ah! For cultivators to remain in this world...

This passage contains Lü Dongbin's (Emperor Lü) earnest admonitions to spiritual practitioners, expressing his lament and concern over people's lack of diligent cultivation.

The Patriarch Lü sighs at how swiftly time passes and how fleeting human life is, fearing people may not live long enough to receive his complete teachings. Even Guanyin, the Great Compassionate One who responds to all cries of suffering, can only sigh helplessly before beings drowning in worldly attachments. Though he has exhorted with heartfelt sincerity until his mouth runs dry, the results remain meager. Among millions, scarcely one can truly grasp the essence of spiritual practice.

He observes that while seventy names may be listed as cultivators currently, only thirty-four practice sincerely, and merely seven among these show genuine promise for liberation. Should even these seven fail to persevere, he would be powerless to help. The human heart proves more treacherous than mountain passes, harder to fathom than deciphering Heaven's will. To comprehend the Great Dao, one must first purge inner demons—only by enduring trials can one become attuned to the Way.

Authentic cultivation requires genuine practice. One must use the Ledger of Merit and Demerit from the Taishang Ganying Pian (Treatise on Response and Retribution) as a standard, constantly examining one's words and deeds. Accumulating a thousand virtuous deeds earns divine guidance; completing three thousand good acts leads to Dao-realization. Yet people fritter away precious time, squandering golden opportunities.

The conclusion emphasizes: virtue accumulation through cultivation represents the most essential method across all three teachings (Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism). Reduce faults, and evil inclinations naturally diminish; accumulate merit, and virtuous conduct spontaneously grows. The ancient sages attained transcendence precisely because they restrained wicked impulses and vigorously pursued goodness. How lamentable that modern people dismiss these truths as antiquated! Some oppose virtue while perpetrating wickedness lifelong; others recognize goodness yet refrain from action, shackled by malicious thoughts. Some scheme endlessly; others defy cosmic principles—every thought stems from selfishness and deception. They commit unrighteous deeds while proclaiming themselves just, practicing treachery yet claiming clear consciences.

How grievous that in this world, licentiousness and cruelty grow daily worse while people show no fear of Heaven's retribution! Filial piety and loyalty are cast aside, with none cultivating a sense of shame. Occasionally some perform minor good deeds—outwardly chasing reputation while inwardly harboring guilt—yet boast of their virtue before accumulating even an inch of merit. How can such people hope to truly practice goodness? When right and wrong become indistinguishable, we must reconsider the matter through the lens of merit and fault.

Heaven's retribution never errs, operating in cycles—three thousand years for minor reckoning, eight hundred for manifest consequences. Some initially find virtue easy but fail to recognize perseverance's difficulty; those who understand the challenge and act accordingly will find progress surprisingly effortless. The key lies in the strength of one's vow. Merit accumulation occurs at three levels: The highest involves performing virtuous deeds without conscious awareness of their goodness, or accomplishing what ordinary people find difficult without considering it extraordinary. The middle level consists of recognizing virtue and striving toward it, or maintaining virtuous intent while acting. The lowest level involves performing good deeds for reputation, exaggerating minor virtues, or seeking blessings through merit without repenting faults. As intentions differ, so too will Heaven's response—each receives recompense precisely matching their cultivation, never misplaced.

In truth, self-motivation makes cultivation far from difficult—as the saying goes, "The sea of suffering has no bounds, yet enlightenment lies in turning back." If one begins with imperfect virtue, progresses to the middle level through gradual effort, then strives upward, what prevents reaching ultimate perfection? When a person acts virtuously without conscious intention, they merge seamlessly with heavenly principle, becoming indistinguishable from the ancient sages. This is the proof of perfected merit—what wish could remain unfulfilled?

The Ledger of Merit and Demerit has circulated for ages, while the Treatise on Response and Retribution details karmic consequences exhaustively. May all cultivators take inspiration, honoring our patriarchs' compassionate efforts to deliver humanity. Those who consider these principles too difficult while fantasizing about shortcuts aren't even qualified to discuss the Dao. Reflect deeply on this.

(Here follow essential cultivation methods)

Regard all worldly attachments as emptiness—retain not the slightest clinging in your heart, remain untainted by mundane emotions, and concentrate on nurturing your vital essence (Jing, primordial energy). Maintaining this practice constitutes true precept observance.

(Above are the essentials of precepts)

Let no deluded thoughts arise within; sever all paths to wretched rebirths (the evil realms among the six paths of rebirth), and guard the spiritual terrace (Shen, the spirit-mind) like the moon reflected in water—its clear radiance illuminating all directions.

(On Cultivating "Stillness")

Sever demonic obstructions and eliminate covetous desires until the mind becomes lucid and transparent, impervious to external disturbances. Accurately recognize one's true nature, maintain rigorous discipline, act without rigidity, and progress without slackening.

(On Cultivating "Wisdom")

Remain unshaken amidst chaos, with clear spirit (Shen) and tranquil Qi, harmonizing with natural flow. Even when facing external disruptions, respond with composure, maintaining inner steadfastness while advancing gradually in practice.

(On Cultivating "Tranquility")

Turn the light inward (neiguan, introspection) to penetrate worldly delusions. Grasp truth through words, contemplate deeply without clinging to others' views or worldly attachments, and advance courageously.

(On Cultivating "Awakening")

Proceed unhurriedly, nourishing primordial Qi (vital energy), balancing inner and outer being in alignment with Yin-Yang transformations. Stabilize body and spirit, subdue desires, calm the mind like still water, and relinquish scheming thoughts to attain the Dao. Single-minded devotion leads to immortality.

(On Cultivating "Refinement")

Strengthen resolve and practice diligently without regression. Treat obstacles as closed gates and temptations as invisible. Externally accumulate virtue (De), internally focus on goodness, persevere in teachings, and dissolve the self into the realm of Dao and De.

(On Cultivating "Practice")

Recognize the body as a temporary vessel and penetrate life's origin. After returning to the source, engage skillfully with the mundane world. Dispel falsity to preserve true nature; when true nature is firm, eternal existence follows.

(On Cultivating "Authenticity")

Observe falling petals and flowing water—like Sima Xiangru's fleeting fame (symbolizing impermanence); witness scattered clouds and spent rain—recalling the illusory passions of Wushan. Guard the mind's mirror to fear no illusions. Present karma stems from past deeds, future consequences from current actions. Penetrate the mystery of the "Xuanguan" (pivotal point in cultivation) to shatter worldly delusions.

Mortals rush about like willow catkins in wind, burdened by sorrows like demonic banners. See stormy waves and know the peril of sailing—only through detachment can one grasp the purity of "gathering the medicine" (alchemical practice). Sin is self-wrought; only perfected merit brings liberation. Dreaming within a dream is pitiable; seeking immortality beyond the body is folly. Cease delusions, return to the source, and wait serenely like still water. Through karmic cycles, awakening dawns.

(Closing Imagery)

An ancient mirror reflects the dusty world against azure skies; amidst myriad sunbeams, perceive the void. Dragons and tigers (symbolizing internal Yin-Yang Qi) resonate with wind and clouds beyond form... (This passage uses metaphor to depict transcendent realization, emphasizing detachment from worldly phenomena.)

This passage contains cultivation insights from the Daoist scripture Collected Works of Emperor Lü (吕帝文集), which I will explain section by section:

The first section discusses transcending worldly fame and profit in spiritual practice. Chasing fame and fortune obscures one's true nature, like wisdom's light in the eyes being scattered by cold winds. Practitioners should observe the moon with the stillness of a woodcutter, realizing the path of loyalty and filial piety lies close at hand. Those who penetrate the eternal mysteries can comprehend heaven's hidden mechanisms. True adepts speak as cautiously as bashful lotus flowers and forget cunning like innocent children. Advancing like blossoming peach flowers while maintaining precepts, viewing worldly affairs as ephemeral as mayflies, one attains the transcendent awareness of cranes. When white clouds encircle you and green apricots fill your arms, with both loyalty and filial piety perfected, life and death are seen through. Who says stubborn stones cannot nod or withered pines cannot regain verdure?

The second section uses contrasts to illustrate life's impermanence. Cranes have long legs while wild ducks have short—each being follows its own path; mayflies live just from dawn to dusk—the world's joys and sorrows remain unpredictable. Upon sobering from wine, we find time has flown like Zhongshan Mountain aging; only upon fulfilling vows and returning do we see the imperial gardens welcoming spring. While white clouds carry away worldly desires, phoenixes (symbolizing accomplished adepts) still enlighten mortals. The green ox (Laozi's mount, representing Daoist wisdom) brings enlightenment, and purple mists (auspicious celestial clouds) turn practitioners around. Amid clouds and mist, true cultivators see through form's illusion, unattached to externals while quietly realizing inner truth. In selfless cultivation, lone luan birds (celestial phoenixes) bring rainbows from the nine heavens, and great floods (symbolizing calamities) transform into the harmonious qi of the Three Realms (heaven-earth-humanity). Rank and wealth are but burdens in the dusty world, while passing years resemble infants buried in yellow earth. Worrying over grave weeds or clinging to birdsong among flowers are both attachments. Though the cosmos has limits, the original vow of cultivation knows no bounds. Just as Lantian's fine jade requires warm sunlight and true gold needs cleansing in the Red River (legendary gold-producing waters), may fellow practitioners jointly realize the great Dao.

The third section describes cultivation experiences. Ancient adepts once witnessed Mount Jie glowing bright as day at night—we practitioners still meditate there today. Su Dongpo (the Song Dynasty poet) followed cultivation at Huashan Temple, yet the true Dao remains present now as then.

The fourth section explains the nature of Dao. Dao simply is "this" (the ineffable essence), fundamentally beyond description. If forced to define it, Dao is just itself (emphasizing its indescribability).

The fifth section contains Lüzu's personal account. In my stone chamber at Cloud Abode, I attained realization through vowed practice. Though appearing intermittently in the human world, regrettably my disciples remain unawakened.

The sixth section reveals life's illusory nature. Floating existence resembles an inescapable dream where people mistake their true faces, trapped in samsara. One should contemplate the spiritual light within emptiness (a meditation method) to perceive ultimate truth.

On the Crane Ridge of Zhongnan Mountain grow extraordinary trees—some towering straight into the clouds, others twisting along the valley contours. Tigers and rhinoceroses dwell in these peaks, and when the mountain winds howl, the entire forest resonates with their roar. Those who have attained the Dao (the Way) remain serene in such moments, while ordinary people panic in fear.

Regarding alchemical cultivation, one must first refine the primordial Qi (Yuanqi, the innate vital energy of the body). It is like trying to transform a chicken into a phoenix—if one’s cultivation is insufficient, even obtaining elixirs would only make one a slave to them.

Though I have many disciples, among the seventy-eight since He Xiangu (one of the Eight Immortals), most who attained the Dao now follow the teachings of the Elder of Qingcheng (a Daoist immortal). Traces of their practice still remain in western Guangdong, where seekers may explore them.

The path of cultivation is actually simple: dwell in whatever humble hut you encounter, and bow when you hear the temple bell. These eight words alone are enough to plant the seeds of virtue for lifetimes. Yet today’s cultivators talk too much, and you still fail to awaken, always saying, "We must ask again, ask again." Heh, truthfully, even I don’t understand.

True cultivation does not lie in dwelling in the mountains. To live in seclusion amid the mundane world, unmoved by its temptations—that is the mark of a great cultivator. Thus, the mountain is merely a place of quiet; the real work is in refining the heart.

From the Teachings for the World:

Scholars revere immortals as teachers, not in pursuit of empty fantasies. Scholars study the classics to comprehend principles, just as immortals cultivate to perfect their Virtue (De). The difference is that Confucianism emphasizes engagement with the world, while Daoism advocates transcendence. Worldly engagement easily leads to indulgence in desires, whereas transcendence allows one to rise above attachments. Rather than harming loyalty and filial piety with selfish cravings, it is better to relinquish the suffering of greed and befriend the Dao. If you speak of renouncing desire yet spend your days thinking of distancing yourself from your master, how can a teacher bear to abandon their disciple? True distance is not a matter of outward form. Excessive focus on form is discourteous; disrespect for form is rudeness; indulgence in form is insincerity; failure to understand form is foolishness; inability to uphold form is disloyalty; quickness to anger is inhumanity; and lack of filial piety and compassion is a loss of Virtue—all of which run counter to the Dao.

Here is the rule: Upon rising at dawn, do not immediately leave your chamber. First sit quietly, silently recalling uplifting words, reciting them three times, and calmly reflecting on what you learned the day before.

This scripture primarily discusses the behavioral guidelines and cultivation methods for Daoist practitioners, presented in two main sections:

The first section outlines daily cultivation conduct. It emphasizes focused study, repeated examination of scriptures, and reviewing learned material before sleep. Practitioners should constantly model themselves after their master (Shifu) - recalling the master's teachings when facing temptations, fearing the master's admonitions when encountering desires, and seeking guidance when puzzled. Numerous precepts are listed: never discriminate against the poor while favoring the wealthy, avoid harshness and extravagance, shun arrogance and laziness, abstain from jealousy and suspicion, refrain from gossip and slander, and prohibit verbal abuse or physical altercations. Fellow practitioners are advised to counsel each other gently, communicating with the warmth of family members to prevent conflicts.

The second section discusses hierarchical stages of cultivation. Practitioners are classified into superior, middling, and inferior grades (three levels): superior-grade individuals intuitively comprehend truth, middling-grade require guidance for enlightenment, while inferior-grade remain indolent even with instruction. Lüzu (Lü Dongbin, Daoist name Chunyangzi) explains his distinctive teaching method of "investigative learning" (canxue, probing truth) for disciples. Though this approach differs from traditional immortals' seated meditation practices, it represents tailored instruction - the very process of investigating truth constitutes cultivation. Breakthroughs achieved through such inquiry can yield results equivalent to seated meditation.

Notable terms: "Shifu" refers to the practitioner's master; "Chunyang" is Lü Dongbin's Daoist name; the three grades reflect Daoism's classification of practitioners' spiritual capacities (genqi). The text embodies key Daoist principles: valuing master-disciple transmission, emphasizing mental-spiritual refinement, and balancing external behavioral discipline with internal contemplative practice.

This passage conveys Lü Dongbin's (Daoist name: Master Chunyang) teachings on inner cultivation methods to his disciples. The essence is:

Practicing inner cultivation enables one to swiftly attain realms ordinarily difficult to reach—what was previously unattainable becomes immediately accessible, what remained unaccomplished is suddenly perfected, what seemed incomprehensible turns instantly graspable. Like ritual purification through bathing, a hundred ordinary cleansings cannot compare to one true purification through cultivation. Regrettably, most people have never witnessed Master Chunyang's teachings and remain unaware of how miraculously he enlightens disciples.

The method you now witness—Master Chunyang's way of guiding disciples—is precisely the supreme wondrous technique (Jade Purity Secret Teaching) that helps transcend life and death to return to one's primordial authenticity. This method doesn't interfere with worldly pursuits; one can practice it during intervals between chasing fame and fortune, making it more practical than mere seated meditation. A gatha awakens practitioners: those who appear clever before your eyes have yet to recover their original nature. To eradicate karmic obstructions accumulated through lifetimes, one must re-cultivate primordial Qi.

The text then discusses the unity of Three Teachings: Confucian investigation and Chan Buddhist huatou contemplation are fundamentally identical. By grasping the lucid awareness of the present moment, one perceives the root through phenomena and realizes mind-nature through the root. Upon genuine enlightenment, one discovers Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism share the same origin.

Finally, Lüzu reflects that since attaining the Dao, though transcending worldly concerns, he has always maintained boundless compassion. Especially after the You year (possibly referring to a specific cultivation phase), he feels increasingly responsible for enlightening beings. Some awaken to the Dao upon hearing the name "Chunyang," others convert upon reading Chunyang scriptures, some begin practice through Chunyang rituals, while certain individuals only develop Daoist resolve after receiving Chunyang's salvation. This transformative power has grown stronger through the ages, with specific examples mentioned (omitted here).

Some people may be dull-witted by nature, but the moment they hear my name (referring to Lü Dongbin), they immediately cleanse their hearts and reform. When I see this, I nod in approval and grant them double protection. Take for instance a certain person who was inherently stingy, yet upon reading my scriptures, instantly broke free from his miserly ways—such a one I particularly look after and safeguard.

There are others who originally walked paths contrary to the Daoist teachings, but after participating in Dharma assemblies (collective Daoist cultivation activities), their yearning for the Dao grew increasingly fervent, their resolve ever firmer. Witnessing this, I cannot help but feel joy arising from the depths of my heart—a happiness that springs from celestial nature itself. Not only does this eradicate their past transgressions, but it also accumulates blessings for their descendants.

Consider another case: someone who was close to Buddhism and initially unfamiliar with Daoism, yet after receiving deliverance, first developed a detached attitude toward worldly affairs, then gradually became immersed in the true essence of Daoist teachings. Year after year, they nurtured the desire to walk the path with me eternally, even reaching the state where self and objects are forgotten. This fills me with both profound consolation and quiet concern—consoled by their unwavering devotion, yet worried their impoverished circumstances might hinder sustained practice. Rather than dwell on worries, I choose to transform them into joy. Recently, returning from the borderlands, I heard someone reciting my scriptures and was suddenly reminded of my original intention when first transmitting the Dao. Moved, I gladly took up my brush to record these reflections.

Writing this, I cannot help but think of my disciples. Thinking of them compels me to describe their temperaments; describing their temperaments inevitably leads to detailing their cultivation journeys. When the traces of their hearts are revealed, their natures become even clearer. Thus, it becomes evident who has progressed well and who still has shortcomings. Those lacking must strive diligently—do not assume current shortcomings mean perpetual failure; those who have achieved must also persevere—do not assume leading means never being surpassed. Know this: deficiency may transform into excellence, and excellence may revert to deficiency—victory and defeat are impermanent; the key lies in examining one’s own heart.

At this point, someone asks, "Then whom should we ask?" I reply, "Ask the disciples’ own hearts." They inquire further, "How can we see their hearts?" I answer, "Those who recite my scriptures with sincerity will naturally behold their original hearts."

(Postscript to the Doudou Commentary) The Great Dao fills heaven and earth—everywhere is a place for cultivation; Primordial Qi (Yuanqi) encompasses the Three Realms (Desire Realm, Form Realm, and Formless Realm)—every person possesses the capacity to nurture Qi.

If one does not cultivate the inner Qi (vital energy), the essence of the Dao will gradually fade and fail to manifest; if one does not practice the methods of the Dao, the primordial Qi will scatter and struggle to flourish. Though such people may appear human in form, their nature resembles wooden puppets—unresponsive when questioned, inert when touched. If indulgent, they become vulgar and restless, lacking foundation; if obstinate, they sink into dullness and coarseness, losing their original truth. Therefore, the sages of Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism would rather guide and save those who are simple and unrefined than accept the frivolous and clamorous.

I (Ancestor Lü) truly cannot bear to witness this, and thus I have made a great vow: to widely deliver both the simple and dull as well as embrace the frivolous and restless. I make no distinction between the high or low status of the dull, nor do I dwell on the past wrongs of the restless. I act solely with benevolence, never abandoning compassion, and practice righteousness without forsaking reason.

If a person is dull, they will be entangled by desires, often trapped in material attachments and emotions; if a person is restless, they will be burdened by numerous karmic obstructions, mostly losing their original nature. To free oneself from the weight of desires, the best method is first to nurture the roots of the Dao (the foundation of cultivation); to return to one's original truth, the best approach is first to dissolve karmic obstructions. Once obstructions are dissolved, one can illuminate the mind and perceive true nature; with this illumination, Dao Qi arises. With Dao Qi, one can cultivate the true Dao, and through cultivating the true Dao, one attains the fruit of realization.

Take these devout disciples, for example. They devote themselves to worship, register their names, record in detail, and pray sincerely—all they seek is to eliminate karmic obstructions to preserve Dao Qi, illuminate the mind to cultivate their Dao vows, and ultimately realize the true fruit. I earnestly beseech the Five Dipper Star Lords (important Daoist stellar deities) to bestow blessings according to the register, allowing Dao Qi to endure and gradually attain the fruit of realization, fulfilling our original intention to aid the world and deliver beings.

The Admonition on Nature states: Heaven and Earth endow all things with nature, but humans are the most spiritually luminous, hence called "spiritual nature"—this luminosity means non-attachment. Humans understand principle, hence called "rational nature"—this principle means impartiality. Ordinary people fail to grasp these two points, casually speaking of "temperamental nature." They do not realize that human nature is the nature of Heaven and Earth, and human Qi is the Qi of Heaven and Earth. The nature of Heaven and Earth mostly manifests as gentle, nourishing Qi, rarely as violent, destructive Qi. Yet when humans indulge their temperamental nature, it is like a raging fire, poison taking effect, an arrow loosed, or a sharp blade unsheathed—most likely to harm others. Such a nature is violent nature; such Qi is murderous Qi. How could this be non-attachment or impartiality?

This scripture contains Lü Dongbin's (one of the Eight Immortals in Daoism) admonition about the dangers of an irascible temper. He points out that losing one's temper at inappropriate times transforms non-issues into conflicts, minor matters into major crises, ultimately creating irreparable situations. Speaking disrespectfully to elders disrupts the natural hierarchy, violates the rites of seniority and juniority, and damages one's reputation.

When anger flares up unnecessarily—when one cannot bear honest criticism, tolerate minor inconveniences, or practice patience and forbearance—such habitual rage harms the liver and stirs destructive fire (huo). Accumulated over time, this plants the seeds of illness. Particularly dangerous is losing temper while ill, intoxicated, immediately after eating, or upon waking—times when the body hasn't fully recovered. Sudden outbursts during these vulnerable states severely damage health and shorten lifespan.

Before guests and friends, turning red-faced and bellowing over trivial matters not only breaches etiquette and reveals poor composure, but also exposes one as uncultivated and narrow-minded—unfit for important responsibilities. The wealthy and powerful with fiery tempers inspire fear rather than honest counsel, attracting only flatterers who abandon them when fortunes fade. The poor and lowly with bad tempers become social pariahs, missing even the best opportunities.

An irritable disposition toward parents nullifies filial piety, however generous one's material support; toward children, it voids paternal kindness despite diligent upbringing; toward siblings, it invalidates fraternal harmony despite surface cordiality. These are the harms of temper.

The Patriarch Lü advises temperance: the elderly should dissolve their fiery nature, the young should restrain their rigidity. In conflicts, remember: others have tempers too, and adding fuel to fire only brings mutual destruction. Better to step back, transforming conflict into harmony.

This passage discusses two major taboos in human conduct: unyielding temperament and insatiable greed.

First, let's examine the dangers of a fiery disposition. Excessive anger clouds rational judgment—when two unyielding individuals clash, both suffer damage. Minor conflicts may result in financial loss, while major ones can cost lives. Some mistakenly believe that without fiery temperament one cannot be considered a true man, or that lacking unyielding resolve means failing as a real gentleman. In truth, the nature bestowed by Heaven and Earth requires temperance even within firmness—only through restraint can one preserve the innate clarity of one's heavenly nature. Those who achieve great things are often people of tolerance and cultivation, while the impatient and narrow-minded frequently meet failure. Those capable of forbearance and self-control are not just true gentlemen, but genuine heroes.

Now to the perils of greed. Nothing harms people more than insatiable desire. The ancient saying "He who is contented cannot be humiliated; he who knows where to stop will not be endangered" contains profound truth. Yet people remain perpetually dissatisfied: the poor crave wealth, the wealthy seek greater riches; those without power desire official positions, while officials hunger for higher ranks. In amassing wealth, they discard all sense of propriety and righteousness; in climbing the social ladder, they resort to any sycophantic scheme. They fail to realize that the heavier their greed, the swifter Heaven's retribution—every increment of greed brings corresponding misfortune, and when retribution comes, it arrives with terrifying speed.

(The terms "bribery" and "exploitation" mentioned here refer to these corrupt practices.) Such behaviors may yield temporary gains, but they violate cosmic principles. The higher one's position, the more clearly Heaven observes; the greater one's official rank, the swifter the retribution. Insatiable greed ultimately brings self-inflicted calamity.

The Collected Works of Emperor Lü primarily discusses the perils of greed and the karmic consequences of killing living beings.

First, regarding greed: the more one covets, the greater the harm. A little greed brings a little harm; much greed brings much harm, and these consequences manifest swiftly. Greed is the root of calamity and the breeding ground for resentment. Thus, only those who understand contentment and know when to stop can avoid disgrace and danger. Greed for wine leads to illness; greed for lust leads to ruin; greed for gambling leads to bankruptcy; greed for conflict leads to injury; greed for lawsuits leads to financial loss. Even coveting a trivial matter can bring shame; craving a small profit may cost one their entire fortune; indulging in a single delicacy may invite disease. Therefore, greed is harmful regardless of scale—one must not dismiss it simply because the object of desire seems insignificant.

Next, concerning the killing of living beings: people casually take lives to satisfy their appetites, unaware that humans and animals alike are born of Heaven and Earth, equally capable of feeling pain and endowed with spiritual awareness. The instinct to cherish life and fear death is universal—how can one bear to scald with boiling water or slice with knives, leaving flesh torn and bloodied? If one household kills a single creature in a day, a hundred households kill a hundred, accumulating to thousands upon thousands. This aura of slaughter and bloodshed blots out the sun. Heaven favors the virtue of nurturing life, yet human hearts delight in killing. When such cruelty persists, it invites disasters, punishments, banditry, and war, where lives are cut down like grass, ultimately culminating in calamity. This is the natural retribution.

Wealthy families host lavish banquets, preparing fresh fish, fatty meats, and rare delicacies from land and sea. In the kitchen, creatures writhe in agony, while in the dining hall, guests laugh and feast. A single dish requires the lives of multiple beings; a single meal costs tens of thousands of coins. Such behavior draws the hatred of Heaven, Earth, and the spirits. The retribution may be the extinction of one's lineage, leaving no descendants to offer sacrifices; or the birth of unworthy heirs who squander the family fortune; or a lonely grave three feet deep, without even a humble offering of wheat porridge. This is the natural law of cause and effect.

Those who fall ill fail to preserve their Jing (essence), purify their hearts, reduce desires, and cherish their blessings to prolong life. Instead, they vainly seek to nourish themselves by killing animals. Little do they know that killing to supplement the body shortens lifespan. Even if death does not come immediately, they will linger in sickness, enduring day and night in torment, as if living in a hell on earth. This is the natural retribution.

Moreover, during the mourning period for deceased parents, ordinary people—who are not saints—inevitably harbor past transgressions. This is precisely the time to observe vegetarian fasts and purification rituals to absolve their sins.

When people commit acts of killing and harming life during their earthly existence, they accumulate karmic debts with vengeful spirits in the underworld. What use then are the rituals performed by Buddhist monks or Daoist priests?

Though descendants may hope for unbroken family continuity during weddings, excessive killing of living beings first damages one's own vital energy—how then can one expect prosperous offspring? While rituals shouldn't be abandoned, moderation is essential. Preserving one life accumulates blessings for future generations. Particularly on birthdays or childbirth days, one should reflect on the hardship of parental nurturing—where life and death hang by a thread. These occasions call for vegetarian practice and self-reflection rather than slaughtering animals. Such cruelty violates celestial laws above and provokes underworld spirits below, invisibly shortening one's lifespan. Is this truly cause for celebration or rather for mourning?

When guests visit, my refusal to kill for feasts may seem stingy—but understand this isn't miserliness with wealth, but with blessings. Offending people can be mended; angering heaven brings unpredictable consequences. Daily vegetarian meals avoid mutual karmic burdens—isn't this profoundly beneficial? Though I've repeatedly explained the advantages of non-killing, I've omitted discussion of sacrifices. Confucian sages taught that inadequate or impure sacrificial offerings constitute filial impiety. Yet "abundance" here conflicts with non-killing—I won't judge this dilemma. But can ancestral spirits truly partake of lavish offerings? Only through descendants' virtuous conduct and sincere worship do ancestors receive true sustenance. Ponder this deeply.

May all people remember these two words—"no killing"—and maintain this wholesome thought in all matters. Thus heaven and earth will naturally achieve clarity and peace, wars will cease, prosperity will endure, illnesses will stay distant, and descendants will flourish. As for celestial principles, the cycle of rebirth, or yin-yang retribution—these need no elaboration. People should simply practice diligently.

Admonitions on Cultivating the Heart-Mind

In human existence, both good deeds and evil arise from this heart-mind. The Buddhist sutra states "All phenomena are created by the mind"—a profound truth. Observe how newborns possess pristine, innocent hearts with complete heavenly nature. But as worldly knowledge accumulates and habits form, cunning schemes emerge—the "person" is no longer the newborn, the "heart" no longer the original.

Some harbor cruel hearts, while others nurture...

When the human heart harbors thoughts of malice, deceit, cunning, greed, wickedness, jealousy, contempt, or fraud, these are all manifestations of an unvirtuous heart-mind (xinshu). What gives rise to such harmful intentions? The root lies in excessive self-interest that completely disregards harm to others. In truth, one needn't actually commit evil deeds—the moment these vicious thoughts arise (harshness, malice, deception, cunning, greed, lust, envy, or bullying), the celestial deities and earthly spirits (tiandi guishen) immediately perceive them. No transgression, however great, can remain hidden.

Some people appear never to have committed selfish acts harming others, their words constantly invoking moral paragons and sages. By all reasoning, they should enjoy enduring blessings and flourishing households. Yet in reality, they suffer continuous misfortunes, with descendants reduced to落魄 (destitution) and poverty. Why is this? Ordinary people often blame the Dao of Heaven (tiandao) for being unjust, failing to recognize that they've only heard such individuals' fine words without discerning their true inner thoughts. Though such persons haven't actively harmed others, they constantly scheme to dominate; their surface amiability masks secret schadenfreude. Precisely this unvirtuous heart-mind summons their calamitous fate.

Should such people gain power, they become like daggers concealed in smiles or poison mixed in honey—outwardly gentle yet inwardly venomous. What evil would they refrain from committing? The human heart proves most difficult to restrain: it turns harsh before profit, malicious toward enemies, deceitful with the weak, cunning when resentful, greedy at the sight of wealth, lustful before beauty, envious of talent, contemptuous toward elders, and bullying toward children. These vicious thoughts arise neither from nature nor teaching, but wholly from inner demons (xinmo). When coupled with political cunning, they grow truly terrifying—employing schemes to fool others, setting traps to harm covertly, calculating secretly in the shadows. The underworld courts (yinsi difu) judge such hidden malice most severely, for concealed arrows poison deeper than open spears, and covert harm exceeds overt wickedness.

The Collected Works of Emperor Lü presents two key teachings: the essentials of self-cultivation and rectifying the heart-mind, and stern warnings about the calamities caused by speech.

Regarding self-cultivation, the text states: Scholars seeking to refine their character must first correct their thoughts. The practical method involves transforming harshness into magnanimity, cruelty into gentleness, deceit into honesty, and cunning into openness. Covetousness should become integrity, wicked thoughts should turn to righteousness, envy should shift to humility, and disrespect should transform into reverence—falsehood must become sincerity. Once thoughts are rectified, no wicked schemes will arise. When the heart-mind inclines toward goodness, it naturally attracts blessings and the principles of Heaven. Why then worry about failing to accumulate auspiciousness, prosper one's household, or receive abundant fortune? The Supreme Venerable Sovereign (Taishang Laojun) said: A single good thought draws benevolent spirits, while a single evil thought summons malevolent spirits. This precisely teaches the principle of rectifying one's heart-mind—how could one not take this as a solemn warning?

The second section sternly cautions against the disasters wrought by speech: The harm caused by words is immense! A single phrase can disrupt the harmony of Heaven and Earth; a few sentences may provoke the wrath of spirits; mere fragments of speech can exhaust a lifetime's blessings. Specific manifestations include: publicizing others' faults, exposing private matters, exaggerating shortcomings, envying talent to damage reputations, resenting achievements to sabotage success, begrudging the wealthy to incite lawsuits, estranging parent-child bonds, breaking marital harmony, and alienating friendships. More egregious still: slandering the upright as wicked, defaming the virtuous as evil, or staining chaste women as licentious. Such speech may cause kin to turn hostile, friends to draw swords, or flesh-and-blood to commit violence—forcing filial devotees to take their lives in grievance, chaste women to hang themselves in shame, or loyal souls to nurse lifelong regrets. It renders the trustworthy suspect, turns compromise into conflict, and drives those who might live toward death. Rather than resolving difficulties, it exacerbates disputes; instead of calming anger, it fans flames. These verbal transgressions may stem from careless slips or deliberate malice—flaunting ornate phrases like brocade, parading cunning rhetoric like a serpent's tongue. Such slanderous speech outwardly pleases its audience while secretly wounding with hidden arrows. Though speech-induced sins may seem fine as hair, none escape Heaven's justice. As for frivolous jests or caustic remarks....

The Collected Works of Lü Dongbin primarily discusses two types of precepts: those concerning speech and those concerning litigation.

Regarding speech, the text warns that seemingly harmless jokes can lead to grave consequences. Mocking one's parents, spouse, or children disrupts hierarchical harmony and interpersonal relationships, violating cosmic harmony (tianhe) and angering spirits, resulting in diminished blessings. Many lifelong grudges originate from careless remarks. Thus, one must abstain from seven harmful speech patterns: slander (chan, divisive words) reduces transgressions; improper speech (xie, unvirtuous words) rectifies the heart; sarcasm avoids resentment; angry words dissolve enmity; arrogance (kuang, boastful words) averts calamity; haughty speech fosters affection; and jesting dispels discord. It is best to emulate a sealed box or a coiled tongue, knowing when to remain silent. Accumulating merit, increasing prosperity, and prolonging life—this is what the ancients meant by "the blessed speak sparingly."

Concerning litigation, writing was originally created by Fuxi's trigrams (Bagua) and Cangjie's characters to clarify principles. Later, as human hearts deteriorated, ancient kings established laws to warn people against wrongdoing. Yet some study legal texts to distort truth, exaggerating minor offenses into major crimes and fabricating facts. Their words cut like blades and sting like scorpion venom, clouding judgment. Even officials as discerning as Zhao Guanghan (Han Dynasty governor of Yingchuan) or as impartial as Yu Dingguo (Han Dynasty chief justice) struggled to discern truth. A single lawsuit filed at court could subject people to beatings, wasted wealth, bankruptcy, or even death. In truth, apart from theft or capital cases, most disputes stem from momentary anger and could be resolved. But some litigation masters (songshi, professional advocates) deliberately provoke unnecessary lawsuits, inflating minor issues into major cases, framing the innocent, and breeding irreconcilable feuds. For the sake of pride, people exhaust their fortunes in futile battles.

This scripture primarily criticizes those who abuse their literary skills to engage in litigation, distorting truth and falsehood, while admonishing people to steer clear of legal disputes.

Those who prioritize reputation over their very lives—even to the point of bankrupting their families and persisting unrepentant until death—may appear foolish for pursuing lawsuits, but in truth, they are victims of unscrupulous legal scribes who manipulate words for profit. These "knife-and-brush officials" (specialists in drafting legal petitions) harm others most severely—is their guilt not immense? People who learn this craft do so merely to scrape together meager earnings to support their families, unaware that they are sustaining themselves by ruining others, preserving their own households by destroying others'. How could the spirits of Heaven and Earth tolerate such conduct? The law of karma is clear: rarely have I seen those who escape punishment or avoid family ruin.

The ancients invented writing brushes and ink to enable the study of noble arts—why use them to confound right and wrong, invert black and white? A clever mind may compose refined essays; with skill in writing, who would fear lacking scholarly honor? Eloquence may craft poetry; with exquisite verses, who would worry about lacking renown? On a modest scale, one may become a master of calligraphy or painting; on a grander scale, one’s name may resound through the ages—these are the proper uses of brush and ink. Why wield this "knife" of writing to injure lives, engage in sinister and malicious deeds, incurring the wrath of Heaven and Earth’s spirits and the inevitable retribution of karma? The harm is extreme, the sin profound. Thus, I hope none will learn the craft of these litigious scribes. Without their cunning words and lies, lawsuits would lack deceitful arguments, and judgments would lack wrongful penalties. Without striving for governance, the world would naturally attain peace; without forcing harmony, human hearts would naturally settle. Could the ancient ethos of writing without falsehood not be revived today?

The Admonition Against Litigation further states: Among all things that squander wealth and ruin families, none surpass lawsuits. Even if officials are as incorruptible as clear water, their duty is to quell disputes, not fuel them. Yet yamen underlings often act not for justice but for profit, hoping to prolong legal battles. Professional litigators and witnesses likewise seek not fairness but gain, desiring endless strife. Thus, when a petition enters the yamen, the officials know full well: the wealth of a household determines how much must be offered to win the case—otherwise, even the most righteous claim may be twisted against you.

The passage describes the various malpractices in ancient government litigation, warning people against rashly engaging in lawsuits.

Those in power always nitpick and find fault. The officials are insatiably greedy, constantly demanding bribes. They hint to plaintiffs: to win a case, one must pay enough—otherwise, even straightforward cases are deliberately delayed, and resolvable matters are dragged out. They manipulate legal provisions at will, scheming freely so that no one escapes their calculations.

The litigation masters (ancient professionals who helped people with lawsuits) are even more detestable. For minor disputes, they frighten parties by claiming the other side won’t let things go, urging preemptive action; for trivial matters, they incite exaggerated responses; where reconciliation is possible, they sow distrust, saying mediators are deceiving them; for easily adjudicated cases, they claim insufficient payment prevents a swift hearing. Some take money from one side while pretending to mediate, actually fueling conflict; others take bribes from both parties, appearing diligent while secretly betraying them. As a result, a case that could be settled once requires multiple lawsuits, and what should cost a single sum ends up demanding tenfold.

Alas! The wealthy may possess no more than ten thousand in gold, the middle class a thousand, and the poor a mere hundred. Once embroiled in litigation, everyone from officials to clerks and litigation masters fixates on this wealth. The parties, helpless, are forced to spend. Even if they win the case, their family fortune is ruined, leaving them with nothing. Is litigation truly useful?

Worse still, lawsuits breed deep-seated hatred. This enmity is not only remembered for life by the parties involved but also passed down to their descendants. Future generations will resentfully say, "Our ancestor’s lawsuit with them ruined our family." They won’t blame the officials and litigation masters who profited—instead, they’ll hate the opposing party from generations past. Even a legal victory sows grudges that last for generations. Is a lawsuit truly worth it?

Foolish people, why not consider this? Moreover, lawsuits over money turn friends into foes; lawsuits over family property turn kin into enemies; lawsuits over wives and concubines expose domestic shame. In the end, what is lost far outweighs what is gained.

People often contend for victory in disputes, yet what is gained rarely outweighs what is lost. Therefore, lawsuits should never be pursued, and contentious matters should never be litigated. Why do people not exercise caution in such affairs and take this as a stern warning?

Regarding the matter of seeking offspring, it is essential to understand that among the three forms of unfilial conduct, the gravest is having no descendants. The continuation of a family line for millennia and the preservation of ancestral rites for centuries are matters of utmost importance in the natural order of heaven. The retribution for severing the ancestral line is severe, while the virtue of perpetuating descendants is exalted. Nowadays, people only know to pray to deities and buddhas for children, yet fail to comprehend the true intent of these divine beings. Such prayers are as good as not praying at all. If one could but slightly grasp the true intent of the deities, even without bowing before them, it would be equivalent to having prayed. Since ancient times, have sages ever been obtained through mere supplication? Do the heavens contain deities who exist solely to receive prostrations? What deities value most are the twin virtues of loyalty and filial piety.

To seek offspring, one must first follow the path of loyalty and filial piety. Loyalty does not necessarily mean serving in government—scholars who understand principles, maintain their station, await their moment, cultivate their talents, and prepare to serve their country are being loyal. Obeying national laws, revering imperial decrees, not using cleverness to disrupt established systems, not manipulating legal texts, and not frequenting government offices to bully elders and neighbors—these are all manifestations of loyalty. The principles of loyalty are boundless and can be extended by analogy. As the Buddhist scriptures say, "Do not forget the grace of the ruler's land and water," and the Book of Songs states, "Under the vast heaven, all is the ruler's land; within the sea's bounds, all are the ruler's subjects." Reflecting on these, who should not be loyal? For the ignorant, let me first set forth three precepts: first, promptly pay all state taxes; second, do not recklessly discuss government affairs; third, do not disrespect local officials.

The principle of filial piety permeates heaven and earth, encompassing all things. There is lifelong filial piety, daily filial piety, momentary filial piety, and filial piety in every thought—since ancient times, countless texts have exhorted filial conduct. The Wenchang Scripture says, "Heaven and earth are condensed from filial virtue; the sun and moon shine through filial radiance"—these two lines are especially profound and illuminating. Now consider: why do we seek offspring? It is so that we may become parents ourselves. Since we wish to be parents, do we not have parents of our own? Those unmoved by this realization are truly without the karmic affinity for descendants, and no amount of prayer will avail. Further reflect: we bear children not only to become parents ourselves but to repay our own parents, and through them, our parents' parents. Extending this reasoning leads to understanding the Way of the ancient sage-kings.

This passage from the Collected Works of Lü Dongbin discusses two main themes: the principles of seeking offspring and admonitions against lustful conduct.

Regarding seeking offspring: The mindset of seeking progeny remains consistent whether one is a sage ruler, virtuous person, or filial child. While the timing and number of children vary for each individual—being matters of destiny—they come naturally when not desperately pursued. Lüzu (Lü Dongbin) states: "Above every father stands a grandfather; honoring ancestors requires utmost sincerity. Below every son will be grandsons; transmitting family teachings must emphasize moral guidance." Those seeking offspring need only practice "loyalty and filial piety" consistently, and children will follow naturally. Lüzu pledges to dispatch the Child-Delivering Marshal (a Daoist deity overseeing childbirth) and the Guardian of the Birth Chamber (goddess of fertility) to bring noble descendants, citing historical examples like the Song dynasty minister Wang Zeng and Ming dynasty Confucian master Wang Yangming. The Dao of Heaven operates impartially, blessing only the virtuous—truly good people always feel their virtuous deeds are insufficient. Why then shouldn't those desiring children diligently cultivate goodness?

Concerning abstinence from lust: Among human weaknesses, none proves harder to overcome than carnal desire; among all transgressions, none bears heavier consequences than lust. The manifestations of sexual misconduct are manifold, with Lüzu detailing several types: Obsessively fantasizing about beautiful women to the point of losing appetite or dreaming of encounters constitutes "lust of thought"; using flirtatious language to arouse others represents "lust of speech"; deliberately staring or stealing glances with seductive intent qualifies as "lust of vision"; and feigning courtesy while harboring ulterior motives amounts to "lust of intention." Though physical contact may not occur, these behaviors already activate licentious impulses and wicked intentions—merely awaiting opportunity—all meticulously recorded by the underworld's laws.

More egregious is seducing young maidens: Their minds still unsteady, unscrupulous men gradually entice them with material gifts and flattering words. Human hearts aren't made of wood or stone—emotional stirrings inevitably occur, and once willpower wavers, irreversible mistakes follow. Such acts defile family honor: husbands feel shamed by such wives, children by such mothers, in-laws by such daughters-in-law, parents by such daughters, and clans by such kin. One woman's loss of chastity brings disgrace to three generations of ancestors, tarnishing the family name for decades. Such monstrous lust crimes find no forgiveness between Heaven and Earth. As for widows maintaining chastity through years of hardship—if someone pressures them to compromise their virtue in moments of weakness, or threatens them unto death...

This passage expounds on the gravity of sexual misconduct, warning against indulging in momentary pleasures that lead to licentious acts.

Married women, vulnerable to temptation under moonlit blossoms, may see their steadfast virtue crumble in an instant. While new lovers entwine in the darkness, their husbands weep beneath the yellow springs. Such acts bring shame upon ancestors, provoke the wrath of spirits, and constitute an unforgivable offense—one that even Heaven and Earth struggle to pardon.

Unmarried maidens, upon reaching marriageable age, awaken to desire. But how many, when faced with seduction, can emulate the ancient heroines who severed their arms to preserve chastity or cut open their hearts to prove purity? Secret trysts in the night may seem easier than seducing a married woman, yet a single misstep brands them with lifelong disgrace—ashamed before the wedding candles, violating marital rites, and sowing discord in families. Such sins are intolerable to Heaven and Earth.

As for household maids, though sustained by your provision, they must not be violated at will. Courtesans may accept your silver, yet the sin of lust remains. Though the degree of guilt varies, the nature of the transgression is the same.

Alas! The world easily falls into lust’s snare. Even those who pride themselves on virtue and moral conduct, when suddenly faced with temptation, often falter and drown in desire. Why not consider this: If another man coveted, teased, spied upon, or seduced my wife or concubine—or worse, lay with her—would I not burn with rage, wishing to kill him with my own hands? Then when I lust after another’s wife, should he not feel the same toward me? This principle is universal.

To defile another’s spouse violates not only the laws of the underworld but risks mortal peril. Why court death for fleeting pleasure? Moreover, retribution for lust is inexorable: Tonight you violate another’s wife or daughter, yet who knows if your own wife or daughter suffers the same fate this very night? If not now, Heaven’s wrath accumulates—justice delayed is not justice denied.

On the Retribution of Lust: Excessive indulgence in carnal desires may result in one's future wives and children being reduced to prostitution—a dreadful consequence beyond anticipation. Therefore, those who refrain from licentiousness are esteemed by Heaven and Earth and revered by spirits and deities. They neither violate the laws of the living world nor transgress the precepts of the underworld. Such households will inevitably nurture chaste maidens and virtuous women, fostering harmony within the family and upright conduct among its womenfolk, ensuring the flourishing of descendants. If unfortunately tempted, one should emulate the ancient sages: like the man of Lu who shut his door to resist temptation, like Liu Xiahui who remained unmoved with a woman in his lap, or like Xie Duanming who slept fully clothed. To remain steadfast in the face of temptation, unshaken in mind and spirit, is the realm of sages and the foundation for attaining immortality or Buddhahood. Why do people not take this as a warning and strive to cultivate themselves?

On the Way of Master and Disciple: A master nurtures disciples just as Heaven and Earth nurture all things—both desire their growth and flourishing. Even a single blade of grass or tree that shows upward vitality will receive Heaven and Earth's care and nourishment to develop fully. Such is the bond between master and disciple. In serving one's master, disciples should attentively reflect on his intentions in daily life: Why does he sternly reprimand me? Why does he praise and affirm me? Why does he instruct and guide me? Why does he lead and enlighten me? Why does he help resolve my karmic entanglements? Why does he assist me in surpassing our ancestors? Without such deep contemplation, even slight self-reflection should bring shame and remorse. Before birth, one is governed by Heaven and Earth; after birth, one is guided by rulers, parents, and masters. The kindness of parents in nurturing is boundless, and masters spare no effort in teaching literature and wisdom. Yet, an immortal master (a Daoist adept) willingly accepts disciples, tirelessly imposing strict demands and timely encouragement, hoping each will fulfill their human duties and ultimately align with the Dao (the Way). Only by reaching a state worthy of Heaven's admiration and approval can one truly repay a master's years of compassionate guidance. Those who achieve this are genuine disciples.

On Filial Piety: The kindness of parents is loftier than Heaven and deeper than the sea. Children should serve them wholeheartedly—warming their quilts in winter, cooling them with fans in summer, and greeting them morning and evening. Even in poverty, one must ensure their parents' food and clothing. When parents fall ill, children should taste their medicine first and attend to them day and night. After their passing, observe three years of mourning and offer timely sacrifices. Filial piety is the foremost virtue; those who practice it will surely receive divine protection and lasting blessings. The unfilial are forsaken by Heaven and Earth, inviting calamity. Thus, filial piety is the foundation of human conduct and the root of establishing oneself in the world.

The greatest virtue in this world is filial piety, while the gravest transgression is unfilial conduct. Consider how a newborn child cannot speak, move its limbs, or understand anything—it is the parents who toil tirelessly to feed and cradle the infant, constantly tending to its hunger, cold, and warmth. Who else would do such things?

When parents grow old, their hearing fades, their vision dims, their teeth loosen, their joints weaken, and their movements become labored—shouldn’t children reflect on their own infancy and ask themselves whether they ought to be filial? Think back to those early days when, as a helpless babe, you suffered sores and illnesses, soiled yourself, and faced mortal danger at every turn. It was your parents who nursed you day and night, treated your ailments, cleaned and changed you, enduring every hardship. Who else would have done this? When parents lie bedridden in pain, groaning in distress, shouldn’t children recall those times and repay their devotion?

Consider further how, as you grew older, your parents provided your clothing and food, arranged your marriage, and labored to secure your future. Who else would have done so? When parents, now frail with age, need fine garments and nourishing meals just to stay warm and fed, shouldn’t children remember their sacrifices and show gratitude?

Even wealthy parents, with abundant resources and servants to attend them, can scarcely repay the debt of nurturing and education—how much more so for impoverished parents, who endure hunger to save food for their children, bear the cold to clothe them, and struggle through hardship to raise them. Ah, the boundless love of parents!

This is especially true for widowed mothers, who raise their children alone through bitter toil—a devotion so profound it moves heaven, earth, and the spirits themselves. For those who are unfilial to such mothers, their sin is tenfold worse. And what of those born of concubines, abused by the principal wife, where both mother and child live in peril? If such a child, having survived to adulthood, still fails in filial duty, their crime is triply damned.

Thus, the sin of unfilial conduct is pardoned neither by the laws of this world nor by the justice of the unseen realms. I observe that from infancy to adulthood, the days of parental care are long, yet from decline to death, the time for children to serve their parents is tragically short. The sun is setting; the hours grow few. How much time remains to fulfill one’s filial duty? Those who feel no sorrow or dread at this thought have hearts closed to heaven’s principle and bereft of human feeling—and calamity will surely find them.

This passage is from the Collected Works of Emperor Lü (Lüdi Wenji), emphasizing the importance of fraternal bonds and exhorting people to cherish sibling relationships.

It first discusses the significance of filial piety: If I can honor my parents, there will be no disobedient children; if children are filial, there will naturally be no unfilial descendants. Passed down through generations, the family will flourish eternally. This is the greatest virtue and the most abundant blessing.

The focus then shifts to brotherly love: In life, no relationship is closer than that between brothers, born of the same parents and bound by shared blood. In childhood, they play together, inseparable, their affection deep and natural. Yet when grown, as they establish separate households, conflicts may arise—stirred by wives' gossip, friends' instigation, or disputes over inheritance—turning them into enemies. One must understand that friends are often unreliable, vanishing in times of hardship, whereas brothers, despite quarrels, will stand together in crisis.

The text further observes that while marital love is profound, if one spouse dies, the other may remarry, abandoning the children. But brothers, bound by flesh and blood, will naturally care for the orphaned. Thus, even spousal devotion cannot surpass fraternal bonds.

Finally, it laments: Why do people obsess over marital love while resenting their brothers, trusting friends yet alienating siblings? As for fighting over ancestral property, dragging disputes to court—how it grieves the living elders!

(Note: "Emperor Lü" refers to Lü Dongbin, one of the Eight Immortals in Daoism, revered as "Sovereign of Abundant Blessings.")

Those who cannot close their eyes in death—their lifelong toil was meant to secure their descendants' future, yet it instead becomes a source of strife where swine and dogs fight over scraps. Is this worth it? Brothers share the same roots, like two branches from one tree—one withers while the other flourishes; or like a person's two legs—one walks while the other cannot. The withered, immobile one is beyond help, but can the flourishing, mobile one last forever? Why not consider this: rather than endless contention, mutual yielding would neither seize nor quarrel, bringing peace to ancestors above and deepening fraternal bonds below. Let roots and branches thrive together, hands and feet support each other—isn't this a far wiser plan?

I hope all who have brothers in this world might recall their childhood days—playing with tied hair, sharing sweets, riding bamboo horses as if yesterday—yet in a blink, their hair turns white. Shouldn't they cherish each other like the Tian brothers who revived a withered bramble, the Jiang brothers who shared one quilt, or Elder Zhang who engraved "forbearance" in his heart, ever fearing he fell short? Reflect deeply—never neglect this.

On Integrity: Integrity is the Dao of heaven and earth, the root of the human heart. When halos appear around the moon, wind rises; when halos circle the sun, rain falls. Extreme heat brings thunder; extreme cold brings snow. The cycles of seasons—cold and warm, cool and hot—never err. If they deviate, calamity strikes. This is heaven's integrity. Damp earth heralds wind; moistened pillars foretell rain. Morning tides ebb by dusk; plants flourish and wither seasonally without disorder. If this falters, strange omens emerge. This is earth's integrity.

Should heaven and earth lack mutual integrity, Yin and Yang would fall into disarray, bringing suffering to all things—droughts, floods, plagues, landslides, and deluges would erupt. Thus, integrity is the Dao of heaven and earth. Humans receive the Qi of Yin and Yang at birth—how can they lack integrity? A ruler's integrity toward ministers makes him sage; a minister's integrity toward his ruler makes him loyal. A father's integrity toward his son makes him kind; a son's integrity toward his father makes him filial. A husband's integrity ensures his wife's virtue; a wife's integrity ensures her husband's goodness. Brothers' mutual trust fosters affection; friends' mutual trust upholds righteousness. Thus, deceit cannot arise, wickedness cannot flourish, human relations stay upright, and customs remain pure—gentlemen multiply while petty men dwindle. Truly, humans cannot lack integrity.

Integrity is the most fundamental quality of the human heart. I observe how people today, whether at home or in society, often show inconsistency between words and deeds: their speech contradicts their thoughts, presenting one face while hiding another; they break promises made in the morning by evening; they make rash commitments when pleased but become miserly with excuses when displeased; they agree readily in joy but forget everything in anger; they make wild promises when drunk only to regret them when sober. Some even specialize in deceiving the elderly, bullying children, and exploiting honest folk—their minds are ever-shifting, their nature inconstant, rushing forward when profit appears yet finding excuses to flee when trouble arises. Alas! Such people cannot even establish basic integrity—having lost their fundamental root, how can they be expected to practice loyalty, righteousness, filial piety, or fraternal duty?

Some justify themselves: "I only break trust occasionally, just in trivial matters." They fail to realize that one broken promise makes people doubt all your words; failing to keep faith in small matters makes others question your reliability in all affairs. Others argue: "I'm only untrustworthy in minor things, not in important matters." Yet they don't understand that dishonesty in small things leads others to distrust even your major commitments.

Heaven and Earth never break faith: the skies send rain and sunshine in season, the four phases follow their orderly progression; the earth keeps its covenant to nourish water and soil, enabling all things to grow. Only when humans maintain integrity can the virtues of loyalty, righteousness, filial piety, and fraternal duty take root. For "trustworthiness" (xin) means genuine sincerity—without this honesty, even relationships like ruler-minister, father-son, elder-younger brothers, husband-wife, and friends will be filled with deception. Thus, isn't this character "trust" the very thread that connects cosmic principles and rectifies the human heart? Therefore Confucius said: "I don't know what can be done with a person who lacks trustworthiness." I reiterate this truth to admonish the world.

Supplementary note on "Righteousness" (Yi):

When people speak of filial piety, they say "filial heart" (xiao xin); when speaking of loyalty, they say "loyal heart" (zhong xin)—but for righteousness, they say "righteous qi" (yi qi). Why is this? Because righteousness contains an unyielding, steadfast vital energy (qi), a heavenly endowment in human nature. Those who truly embody the Dao of righteousness cannot be swayed by wealth or status, nor can poverty or lowly station alter their integrity; neither harsh torture can break their resolve, nor can gold and jewels tempt their hearts.

This scripture expounds upon the crucial concept of "righteous Qi" (yiqi). This refers to the most fundamental righteous energy (the Qi of the proper Dao) that permeates heaven and earth. In its grandest manifestation, it enables sages to achieve sanctity; in its humblest form, it preserves an individual's moral integrity—both are manifestations of this righteous energy.

The author laments how many people today have lost this righteous energy: ministers prioritize their families over the state, husbands favor concubines over wives, brothers value property over fraternal bonds, and friends chase power rather than genuine affection. As righteous Qi diminishes, wicked Qi grows—just as when a person's primordial Qi weakens, they become plagued by countless ailments.

True righteous Qi manifests in all aspects of life:

• Personal righteousness: Receiving a salary demands loyal service; accepting a trust requires wholehearted effort. Remember kindnesses, not grudges; never forget the roots of one's blessings when helped.
• Standards for righteous individuals: Repay even a meal's kindness, honor promises as worth a thousand pieces of gold, share hardships, and repay debts with fervent devotion.
• Standards for righteous children: Serve adoptive parents with the same filial piety as biological parents—fulfilling all rituals of care in life and mourning sincerely in death.
• Standards for righteous friends: Maintain sincere friendship regardless of wealth or status, with genuine affection in every meeting.
• Standards for righteous kin: Be generous and responsive to relatives' needs, never harboring disdain.
• Standards for righteous servants: Serve masters with the loyalty due to parents and rulers, remaining steadfast even when the household declines.

Those who embody such righteous conduct preserve both heaven-earth's righteous Qi and their own primordial Qi. Such individuals live in the world with their reputation and moral integrity intact. The scripture vividly illustrates that a person without righteous Qi is like one without breath—physically alive yet spiritually dead.

The Collected Works of Emperor Lü conveys its admonitions to the world through two main perspectives: first, by emphasizing the importance of "righteousness" (义), and second, by expounding on the benefits of scholarly study.

First, the text elucidates the principle of righteousness: A dog will lick its wounded master's injuries, a horse will pull its reins to save its rider at a cliff's edge, an ox will resist a fierce tiger to protect its calf, and a monkey will help push a cart—even these wild beasts understand moral duty. Sparrows bring seals to repay kindness, carrier pigeons deliver letters, wild ducks retrieve clothing, and geese carry messages home—these birds too grasp the meaning of righteousness. Turtles rescue drowning men, turtleshells heal the sick, ants guard their dead companions, and flies cling to brush handles (alluding to ancient tales of insects saving lives)—even tiny insects recognize great virtue. The intertwined branches of the redbud tree and the "green mounds" where trees shelter departed souls show that even plants embody devotion. All things between heaven and earth are imbued with this righteous energy (正气). If humans fail to grasp righteousness as well as beasts, birds, or plants, it would be a profound disgrace.

Next, the text outlines ten major benefits of scholarly study: First, it clarifies human relationships, as scholars better understand the Three Bonds and Five Constants (traditional Confucian ethics). Second, it clarifies principles, distinguishing right from wrong and order from chaos. Third, it teaches ritual propriety, refining speech and conduct. Fourth, it instills a sense of shame, differentiating noble men from petty ones. Fifth, it broadens the mind. Sixth, it expands knowledge. Seventh, it cultivates moral integrity. Eighth, it elevates virtue (德). Ninth, it enables one to achieve merit. Tenth, it ensures a lasting legacy. Conversely, neglecting study leads to five regrets: ignorance of principle, lack of propriety, failure to achieve merit, absence of renown, and missing the path to the Dao (道). The author particularly stresses that the clouds and stars of heaven are its "writings," the mountains and rivers of earth are its "writings," and poetry, books, rites, and music are humanity's "writings." Only through study can one truly deserve the honored title of the "Three Powers" (三才)—standing alongside heaven and earth.

The distinction between people lies in whether they possess a sense of shame. Petty individuals unfamiliar with the classics of sages often lack moral restraint, while cultivated gentlemen well-versed in canonical texts always maintain proper conduct in their actions. Reading offers four great benefits:

First, it nurtures self-restraint. The unlearned panic when encountering unexpected situations, fly into rage when provoked, and cannot conceal their thoughts. Those truly steeped in learning remain unperturbed by honor or disgrace, their emotions as unfathomable as a thousand-acre lake of jade-green water—this is the cultivated state achieved through scholarly refinement.

Second, it enhances wisdom and insight. The records of successes and failures throughout history are preserved in classical texts. While the unread lack independent judgment in all matters, learned individuals can discern truth as clearly as examining tortoise shells by torchlight, using history as their mirror.

Third, it cultivates refined temperament. The unlearned often appear vulgar in demeanor and coarse in speech, their very countenance repulsive. Scholars, however, possess clear-eyed nobility and extraordinary eloquence, naturally exuding an approachable grace.

Fourth, it prevents ignorance and folly. The unread feel awkward in social interactions, either tongue-tied or stiff as wooden puppets. Learned individuals move with ease, their conversation sparkling like scattered jade fragments.

Fifth, it secures worldly success and prosperity. A decade of diligent study may lead to passing the imperial examinations—riding through Chang'an streets admiring flowers, bringing honor to one's ancestors—all such glories stem from learning.

Sixth, it earns posthumous fame. Whether assisting rulers to benefit the people, leaving enduring achievements between heaven and earth; or composing works that transmit one's name through generations. While the physical body decays, reputation may become immortal; deeds can transcend time, carrying both person and name forward—all these come through learning.

For affluent families whose traditions remain unbroken and scholarly heritage continues, leaving classics to descendants proves more valuable than bequeathing gold. Four situations are most regrettable: first, having parents alive and material comforts ample, yet neglecting serious study; second, possessing natural brilliance and handsome features, yet idling through well-fed days without purpose; third, enjoying robust health and carefree circumstances, yet failing to cherish time with esteemed teachers and friends; fourth, dwelling in serene retreats amidst renowned flowers, bamboo groves, tea fragrance and books, yet squandering precious hours.

This passage from The Collected Works of Emperor Lü discusses the importance of education and reading, offering admonitions in two parts.

The first part criticizes those who neglect reading. It states that the beauty of clear breezes and bright moonlight should inspire literary thought, making it a true pity when people fail to read. While those burdened by family obligations may be excused, those who can read but choose not to are like people standing facing a wall, sleeping with their heads covered, or walking in darkness—their eyes and minds are obscured, leaving them ignorant and unenlightened. Such individuals hardly deserve to be counted among the "Three Talents" (Heaven, Earth, and Humanity) and are little better than beasts.

The second part specifically addresses parents and elders. While the earlier passage urges the young to study, the fault does not lie solely with them—their parents and elders share responsibility. The greatest joy in life is having virtuous and capable children, but love must not become indulgence, just as precious trees wither without cultivation. Conversely, the greatest sorrow is unworthy offspring, yet aversion must not lead to abandonment, just as scorched crops yield no harvest without tending. Whether children turn out virtuous or not depends on whether their elders teach them well. Proper instruction must focus on the crucial period between fifteen (the age of "dancing elephants," symbolic of youthful vigor) and twenty (the age of "weak capping," marking the transition to adulthood). The method should emphasize strictness over leniency, with more supervision and less indulgence. Before twenty, desires are not yet strong, and habits are not yet fixed—character can still be corrected, but once this window passes, it is too late. Once children marry, excessive strictness may only alienate them. Too often, parents and elders sigh in resignation when their children become incorrigible, failing to realize that their own earlier indulgence and tolerance planted the seeds of trouble. Such permissiveness is more harmful than poison and must be guarded against.

The text particularly emphasizes: only parents who accept good advice and correct their own faults will have children who heed their teachings, while children who humbly accept instruction are truly rare. Thus, education must seize the critical period and employ strict yet appropriate methods.

This passage discusses the importance of educating one's descendants and the common mistakes families from different social strata make in child-rearing.

Wealthy and powerful families often commit two errors: the privileged think, "With my high status, my descendants could never fall into destitution," and thus indulge their children's misbehavior, assuming others will fear their authority too much to challenge them. The affluent reason, "With such family wealth, how could my descendants ever know poverty?" and consequently spoil their children without enforcing discipline, believing others will hesitate to cheat them due to their financial clout. Both attitudes result in neglected upbringing.

Impoverished families also harbor misconceptions: the poor rationalize, "We're already at rock bottom—things can't get worse," while the low-status think, "We have no prestige left to lose," allowing their children to disregard reason and morality, assuming others will tolerate their unruly behavior out of fear. These approaches similarly lead to educational deficiencies.

Two special cases deserve mention: parents who have children late in life treat them like precious jewels, thinking, "Now we have an heir to continue the lineage and inherit the estate," and thus spoil them excessively. Children born of favored concubines, for fear of arousing the principal wife's jealousy, also receive overindulgent treatment without proper discipline. In both situations, children fail to learn essential knowledge or study necessary texts.

People often make excuses like "Official rank is predetermined by heaven—why study hard?" or claim "Studying actually misleads people." They forget that the fundamental purpose of education is self-cultivation and understanding principles—not merely securing official positions. When fathers and elder brothers neglect their duties, privileged descendants inevitably squander family fortunes through hedonism, while impoverished youths grow up unskilled and unemployable. Worse still, some associate with outlaws and break laws. When disaster strikes, these very descendants blame their elders: "Why didn't you discipline me strictly?"

The passage concludes by emphasizing: the best method for educating descendants is through proper study, which must begin with revering teachers and honoring the Dao (the Way). When teachers are respected and instruction is rigorous, students naturally comply; when teachers are belittled and teaching lax, students become undisciplined. If teachers are treated as dispensable, students will inevitably consider studying optional. This completely undermines the teacher-disciple relationship's true significance.

In educating one's descendants, one must first discern whether they are worthy of instruction. If their nature proves intractable, forceful teaching serves no purpose. What truly matters is helping them overcome harmful addictions, correct bad habits, cultivate virtuous conduct, and establish strong foundations for upright living—only then can wayward children transform into worthy individuals. As for book learning, diligent instruction will naturally yield accomplishments, and descendants will become capable scholars of their own accord. Whether they achieve official honors, however, depends on Heaven's will.

The Admonition on Accumulating Good Deeds states: "Families that long practice goodness will enjoy enduring blessings, while lineages steeped in wickedness inevitably meet with calamity." This truth proves infallible through the ages. I have witnessed many powerful officials who, while holding authority, oppressed others at will—meting out floggings and punishments, roaring in courtrooms while countless innocents suffered unjustly below the bench. Yet before long, those who oppressed others saw their own descendants similarly oppressed; those who wielded the lash found their offspring likewise beaten.

Wealthy magnates, blinded by greed, exploited others' property, schemed for their neighbors' assets, indulging in silken robes while ignoring others' hunger and cold. Did they consider how soon their descendants would be exploited by others, just as they had exploited? Though such men reached pinnacles of power and wealth, their hearts remained perpetually unsatisfied. They never reflected that their prosperity came from generations of ancestral virtue (De) accumulated through good deeds—a heavenly gift. By failing to nourish and preserve this blessing through their own virtuous actions, they squandered their ancestors' profound legacy and exhausted the family's stored fortune.

When misdeeds accumulate to their limit, disasters—both natural and human—follow in succession. If descendants escape deeper calamities, stopping at mere poverty and low status, it already counts as extraordinary fortune. Therefore, those in high positions ought to treat others generously, act with fairness, avoid corruption and injustice, and refrain from creating wrongful imprisonments. Through such sustained goodness, their families will flourish like that of Yu Gong in the Han Dynasty. The wealthy should delight in charity, relieve the poor, give liberally without regret—thus their lineage will prosper like Fan Zhongyan's illustrious Song Dynasty household.

Truly, one need not anxiously scheme for descendants' welfare. By steadfastly accumulating virtue through good deeds, descendants will naturally prove more worthy than unworthy, maintaining prosperity while avoiding destitution. Is this not the greatest benefit of virtuous action?

This scripture primarily addresses the relationship between destiny and the accumulation of virtuous deeds (De), divided into two sections:

The first section discusses the root causes of poverty and lowly status. If a person suffers from cold, hunger, sorrow, or abandonment by relatives and friends, these hardships stem from the karmic retribution of their ancestors' misdeeds affecting later generations. Should one continue committing evil acts, this negative cycle will intensify, potentially leading to the extinction of one's lineage. Conversely, by accepting one's circumstances without resentment, refraining from improper or unjust actions, maintaining gratitude, and persistently cultivating virtue (De), one can dissolve ancestral misfortunes and accumulate blessings for descendants.

The second section explains the principle of destiny. Human life is governed by fate—what is destined cannot be taken away, and what is not fated cannot be forced. The text illustrates seemingly unfair phenomena: the intelligent may possess nothing, while the dull-witted amass wealth; the erudite may languish in obscurity, while the ignorant rise swiftly to prominence. These apparent injustices are, in truth, preordained arrangements.

Finally, it admonishes people: wealth and status are as fleeting as morning dew, while poverty and hardship vanish like mayflies. Rather than clinging to these illusory conditions, one should devote time to accumulating virtuous deeds (De). Like the parable of "the Millet Dream" (where Lu Sheng awakens from a dream of riches to find his millet still uncooked) or the story of Qian Lou (a famously impoverished but virtuous ancient hermit), both wealth and poverty are transient. Thus, people must not only nurture good intentions but also strengthen their commitment to cultivating the Dao (Dao).

Note: "Lu Sheng" refers to the protagonist of the Tang-dynasty tale The Pillow, who dreams of a lifetime of wealth only to wake and find his millet still cooking; "Qian Lou" was a renowned impoverished but virtuous recluse of the Spring and Autumn period. Both parables symbolize life's illusory nature.

People constantly demand fairness from Heaven (referring to the divine Dao) regarding food, clothing, shelter, and livelihood, asking Heaven to tally the gains and losses of worldly affairs. But the faults of mortals outnumber the sands of the Ganges—how could Heaven possibly oversee them all? In truth, each person has their own destined fate, but the ignorant fail to understand this principle.

Foolish people spend their days calculating: "My talents are no worse than so-and-so's—why does he rise effortlessly to prominence? My intellect is no weaker than so-and-so's—why does he amass sudden wealth? My scheming methods are no fewer than so-and-so's—why does he secure high position first? My looks are no uglier than so-and-so's—why does he possess boundless riches?" Some then grumble against Heaven and blame others, while others grow envious and resentful. Yet they never consider that what truly falls short is not talent, intellect, scheming, or appearance—but fate itself! What use is there in resentment and jealousy?

Those who do not understand Heaven's mandate, I observe, are either arrogant or foolish. They rush headlong like someone tripping in a sprint, where haste leads to regression; greed brings loss; the pursuit of wealth results in poverty; ill-gotten gains invite calamity; and improper actions provoke disaster. Like flies diving into boiling soup, moths throwing themselves into flames, or dumb beasts falling into traps—they do not even care about death, let alone recognize the existence of fate. Alas, how pitiful!

Now, I will reveal to the world a few methods for understanding Heaven's mandate:

The first is "creating fate." Like a crumbling house, if not repaired in time, it will collapse. When fate is declining, one must rely on accumulating virtue (De) to transform it, reshaping it through good deeds—only then can fate ultimately achieve fulfillment and success.

The second is "cherishing fate." Like facing a sharp blade, honey, or poison—indulging without restraint harms the body. Fate must be treasured; knowing contentment and limits ensures that fate remains long-lasting and free from worry.

The third is "settling fate." Like walking on thin ice over a deep abyss, a single misstep leads to a fall. To stabilize fate, one must follow Heaven's will, accepting circumstances with equanimity—only then can fate be free from peril and at ease.

If one can achieve these, though each person has their own fate, Heaven cannot entirely dictate it. Through "creating fate," "cherishing fate," and "settling fate," humans can take control of their destiny. For those fated to poverty and lowliness, Heaven may grant wealth and honor; for those fated to hardship, Heaven may bestow blessings and prosperity; for those fated to a short life, Heaven may confer longevity. Yet in the end, status, wealth, misfortune, fortune, life, and death are not entirely within Heaven's power to decide.

The chapter "Master of Destiny" teaches that human fate is actually governed by one's own heart. If the human mind can achieve self-mastery, the most important thing is to understand the principles of destiny and become a person of profound wisdom.

In the "Treatise on Filial Piety," Lüzu (Lü Dongbin) states: Emperor Shun appointed Xie to propagate the Five Teachings (righteousness in fathers, kindness in mothers, friendliness in elder brothers, respect in younger brothers, and filial piety in sons), with the parent-child relationship being primary, thus establishing filial piety. Yet filial piety did not originate from the eras of Yao and Shun—since humanity's beginning, parent-child relationships existed, and where there are parents and children, natural filial devotion and parental love arise. A father's kindness needs no learning, nor does a child's filial piety. In ancient times, when human hearts were simple and pure, filial piety was most sincere; in middle antiquity, as civilization developed, filial customs became more refined; in later ages, as hearts grew increasingly shallow, only empty forms remained without genuine feeling. Though times change, filial piety's origin in heavenly nature remains constant. Filial piety endures as eternally as heaven and earth. While heaven and earth transform and humans evolve, filial piety should never alter. I wish people could preserve ancient sincerity in childhood and, upon growing up, embody both genuine feeling and ritual propriety as in middle antiquity, rather than degenerating into later generations' hollow formalism. Most pitiable are those devoid of both feeling and propriety.

The preface to "Admonition Against Licentiousness" records: While inspecting human virtues and transgressions by divine mandate, I examined the Black Registers (records of misdeeds) submitted by the Blue-Robed Youths and found countless entries documenting sexual transgressions. Moved by compassion for beings lost in delusion, I composed this admonition to awaken the world.

The main text declares: Scholars should value integrity and shame; educated men must root themselves in uprightness. Cherish your reputation and body, keeping far from licentiousness. Those who indulge desires in pursuit of pleasure plunge into bewildering paths with no return, sinking in seas of suffering beyond rescue. Without guidance from the greatly wise, how could they awaken? Therefore I proclaim these precepts. Those noble maidens and secluded women who should maintain purity—yet...

This passage sternly criticizes various forms of improper relationships that violate ethical virtues (De), admonishing people to maintain moral purity.

It first addresses young women whose sense of chastity is not yet firmly established, making them susceptible to seduction by frivolous men. When such women, while still under their parents' care, engage in improper conduct, they bring shame upon their gray-haired elders. If they lose their virtue during the early days of marriage, they defile the sanctity of matrimony. Even if they later bear children, they can hardly become proper mothers. And even if they attempt to redeem their honor through death, the stain of their misconduct remains irreparable.

Next, it discusses widows who, left alone in their empty chambers, may be tempted to remarry. Such betrayal of their deceased husbands would leave the departed souls resentful in the underworld. Equally disgraceful are masters who carry on illicit affairs with their servants—harsh and domineering by day, yet whispering sweet words by night—a hypocrisy that is especially contemptible.

As for those who indulge in brothels, squandering vast sums for fleeting pleasure, it is akin to handing their wealth to bandits or willingly stepping into the path of a blade. Once their money is exhausted, they will face scorn and wither in spirit.

The text also condemns authors of obscene fiction, whose fabricated tales mislead rural men and women. These works stir up fantasies, driving readers to pursue illusory romances at great peril. Ultimately, all such behaviors are likened to mirages—false and fleeting—and when the truth comes to light, they bring only disgrace.

Through multiple vivid examples, the passage systematically exposes the harms of immoral relationships, emphasizing that such conduct inevitably invites ruinous consequences.

The most essential virtues of human character are often undermined by moments of careless gossip. The speaker may mean no harm, treating it as mere banter among friends, yet listeners become enthralled, eagerly spreading tales of romantic indiscretions. A single word can stir tremendous turmoil—such profound transgressions are truly inescapable.

Consider how husband and wife should respect each other like honored guests (as exemplified by the virtuous couple Ji Que of the Spring and Autumn period), never emulating the endless domestic strife of the Cui family. How much more reprehensible are those who dote on concubines while neglecting their proper wives? Those who marry plain-looking spouses and blame fate, unaware that great beauty often accompanies tragic fortune; those who indulge in licentiousness with beautiful concubines, failing to recognize that their transgressions stem precisely from such dissipation. Marital discord, with its constant quarrels, is enough to anger the celestial deities (Tianshi) and damage one's vital essence (Jing).

Reflect on the ancient sage Liu Xiahui, whose reputation for "remaining unmoved with a woman in his lap" has endured for millennia, or the noble scholar whose integrity in "keeping vigil with candlelight till dawn" is revered through the ages. Torn paper windows are easily mended, but once jade-like purity is fractured, it can never be fully restored. The refined tones of the zither rarely find appreciative ears, yet the character as luminous as the moon and as refreshing as the breeze is all the more precious. Why not emulate these lofty exemplars instead of racing headlong into depravity?

Achievements built through diligent study and spiritual cultivation (Qingdeng Huangjuan) are often squandered in pleasure quarters; wealth painstakingly accumulated is frittered away in brothels. Even with unparalleled talent, one may repeatedly fail the imperial examinations; even if granted an official post, dismissal becomes inevitable. Worse still, some dissipate their primordial Qi (Yuanqi) and cloud their spirit (Shen), dying young like Pan An (styled Anren); others end their days in lonely solitude, childless like Deng You (styled Boda). By the time they seek medicinal remedies, their illness is already incurable; when they implore ghosts and deities for help, whom can they deceive? Contemplating this is truly lamentable.

Know that the sea of suffering has no shore, yet it's never too late to turn back from straying. Just as breaking open an iron jar brings cooling relief, so does "laying down the butcher's knife to attain immediate Buddhahood." In the lair of demons, venomous serpents and fierce beasts lurk everywhere; but with a mind kept pure and tranquil, all perceived becomes like flowers reflected in a mirror—illusory and insubstantial.

I exhort all to return to the upright path (Zhengyi) and see through worldly delusions. Those bewitching women erode the resolve of heroes; those rosy-cheeked beauties bury the prospects of gifted scholars. After the clouds and rain of Mount Wu, recollection brings only emptiness; when facing the Rakshasa demons in regret, biting one's own navel proves futile. Rather than trading a lifetime's blessings for fleeting pleasure, better to uphold steadfast virtue and bequeath an enduring family legacy for generations.

Use vigorous Qi to expel wicked thoughts; maintain chastity through persistent discipline. When tender emotions stir, the divine spirits (Shen) stand witness nearby; when wayward thoughts arise, demons already peer from the shadows. Never claim that idle fancies are harmless—between neglecting sleep and meals, one's vital essence (Jing) quietly dissipates.

This passage from the Collected Works of Emperor Lü primarily elucidates essential methods for self-cultivation and refining the heart-mind (Shen) in Daoist practice. The first section warns against indulgence in sensual pleasures, particularly the allure of physical beauty, which leads to moral degradation. Such attachments ultimately result in one's name being recorded in the underworld's registers, forfeiting the chance for celestial ascension—a peril scholars must especially guard against.

The second part, titled Refining the Heart-Mind, details the methodology for cultivating inner nature. The foundation of practice lies in maintaining inner radiance. If the mind becomes entangled in worldly trivialities, even outwardly virtuous actions will fail to align with the Dao (the Way). Refining the heart-mind is not about secluded contemplation alone; it requires constant application, much like learning—ensuring that no action violates heavenly principles, that no deceit arises in friendships, and that even during leisurely activities like drinking or composing poetry, one preserves purity of intention. By nurturing the innate heart-mind in every moment, allowing words and deeds to flow naturally, even ordinary people will instinctively respect the practitioner, though they may not fully comprehend the path.

The text employs the metaphor of tending a plant to illustrate heart-mind refinement: the inner nature is like a delicate spiritual entity requiring meticulous care, much like daily watering and sheltering. By examining the heart-mind morning and evening, one's nature grows robust like a well-tended plant, eventually bearing extraordinary fruit. Those who taste this spiritual fruit not only experience vitality and clarity but also attain longevity. Through sustained practice, one reaches a state of physical lightness and robust health.

How could the myriad beings ever fail us in the matter of ascetic cultivation and celestial ascent? The principle of cultivation is thus: true practice lies not in external things, but within the heart-mind. It is not I who cultivates, but my original nature (innate true essence) that governs the practice. Yet this governing principle in turn refines me, testing me as fire tempers water, inspiring awe and reverence.

Holding fast to this true heart is essential. It enables me to perceive myself clearly; through such perception comes mastery, and through mastery comes application. When I can both perceive and apply this original nature, I become one with it, ultimately reaching the state where both self and objects are forgotten. How then could any of you slight this true heart? How could you disregard it without accumulating merit through practice?

(Reference to the principle of "One comprehending Three")

When I discuss these profound truths with you, it is to illuminate the gateway to cultivation. But worldly people's innate nature is obscured by mundane concerns, making it difficult to perceive their primordial spiritual awareness. Even if I were to transmit the Great Dao of the Golden Elixir (the Neidan internal alchemy method) to you, if the timing isn't ripe, it would be like ancient scholars teaching children through the Four Books and Five Classics—daily recitation without comprehension renders such teaching meaningless.

But does this mean we should abandon instruction altogether? If I persist in teaching you the classics through old methods, you would surely protest: "We sought a master to transcend worldly pursuits and follow the Great Dao through actual practice and realization. We follow our teacher reverently to attain sagehood and pursue the highest path—why then are we still being taught these worldly classics? Are you mocking us?"

Thus transmitting the Golden Elixir tradition is indeed necessary. But if we are to transmit it properly, we must clarify: What truly constitutes the Golden Elixir? How does it enable transcendence from worldly dust? How does one verify the Great Dao of the Golden Elixir? Disciples who resonate will say, "This is precisely what I seek," though they may find it daunting; those who don't will question: "If immortal cultivation is so arduous, isn't such teaching mere empty talk?" If a master cannot guide disciples toward transcendence but instead causes them to lose their original nature, how could this be permissible?

Better to comprehend the essence of one teaching among the Three Teachings (Confucianism, Buddhism, Daoism), and within that one teaching, integrate the truths of all three. The crucial point is to illuminate the mind and perceive one's nature without losing the original essence. Transmitting the Golden Elixir is one method; studying the Four Books is another; silent meditation and contemplating the mysteries is yet another.

Here Lü Dongbin (Emperor Lü) presents his unique perspective on spiritual practice and human relationships. Regarding cultivation methods, he points out that merely pursuing silent meditation can lead to barren stagnation, forced stillness may breed inner demons, while excessive intellectual analysis only creates mental disturbance. He advocates transcending these formalized practices, promoting instead a natural way of awakening where people of different aptitudes can all attain enlightenment.

In matters of interpersonal connection, Patriarch Lü particularly emphasizes the importance of "boundless affection" (chanmian zhi qing). This is no ordinary emotion, but rather a profound spiritual bond between practitioners. When such sincere, enduring affection arises between people, it naturally generates three virtuous inclinations: upon witnessing others' suffering, one feels compassion and desire to help; seeing others in pain spontaneously evokes a salvific impulse; encountering virtuous deeds continuously inspires admiration. This emotional connection exists not only between individuals, but can endure as eternally as heaven and earth.

Patriarch Lü considers those capable of such deep affection worthy of profound friendship, as they already approach the realm of immortals (xianren). He advises disciples to cultivate this transcendental affection in their relationships, much like himself—where even physical separation cannot sever heart-to-heart communion, achieving dreamlike spiritual resonance. Such affection may arise either through prolonged sincere interaction or be sparked by momentary inspiration. The essence lies in maintaining its purity and permanence, allowing it to become vital sustenance on the path of cultivation.

Some people develop profound and inseparable bonds because they encounter too many like-minded friends. Others naturally cultivate such enduring affection through deep life experience and long companionship. There are also those of refined temperament who, upon meeting kindred spirits, immediately form this deep connection.

Then there are those whose attitudes fluctuate between reverence and indifference—using such capriciousness to move others with lasting affection. What manner of people are these? You cannot fathom it, nor can I. One might say such people do not exist, yet one might also say they do. If they truly exist, while you claim not to understand, I say I do. If you come to understand by following my reasoning, what does it signify? Have you truly grasped it? I believe that rather than forcing understanding, it is better to follow nature's course. What is lost may yet be regained, but forcing comprehension may cause us to lose the true essence.

I cherish this deep affection of yours, just as you respect my sincere feelings. Let us allow this bond to continue naturally. Like-minded souls naturally gather; those who resonate in speech naturally connect. May we forever maintain this profound affection, caring for one another. Share my sorrows, rejoice in my joys—let this companionship endure always. I will stand with you through life and death, weathering the vicissitudes of heaven and earth together.

As for those words of melancholy:

What use is fretting over poverty all day? If worry could bring wealth, the five grains would need no cultivation; if anxiety could bring enlightenment, the Three Treasures (refuge in the Dao, the scriptures, and the master) would require no devotion. Sorrow can both aid and harm. How does it aid? During morning and evening practice, reflect upon yourself: From where does this body come? From where does the Dao's teaching arise? Through such questioning and answering, each realization brings a spark of understanding—your spiritual nature becomes vibrant, and celestial affinity naturally gathers. Though you may not attain the Dao immediately, your insight will deepen daily. Persist in this manner day after day, month after month, year after year—can you ultimately fail to attain the Dao?

The crucial point is this: When selfish desires are wholly purged from the heart, heavenly principle manifests of itself. Though I dare not claim perfect enlightenment, one approaches that inexhaustible wellspring of the Dao. With but a single trigger, the fountain of wisdom will flow forth naturally.

The Dao permeates heaven and earth, yet it is right before our eyes—why not awaken to its truth? Why create unnecessary suffering? Consider those who harm others—what mentality drives them? There was once a man devoted to the Dao, yet he constantly boasted of his spiritual prowess while belittling others.

He often proclaimed: "If my master forbids me to touch fire, so be it—but permit me, and I shall master it; forbid me to cross waters, so be it—but allow me, and I shall traverse them. Life's gains and losses are decreed by heaven's will—I remain carefree and unfettered." Such a man! How often masters praised him, how even celestial beings favored him. I too once deeply admired him, believing him pure in character, steadfast in aspiration, with a mind clear as water—so close to the Dao, surely he would never falter.

Yet later, when his master did not permit him to cross waters, calamity struck unexpectedly: floodwaters rose over his head, flames consumed his body, and his household drowned in endless sorrow. From then on, he grieved over poverty, lamented hardship—leaving home with a heavy heart, returning with bitter words. His days became a tapestry of misery: meals turned to sorrow-feasts, pillows to grief-stones, nights to brooding vigils. Even chanting scriptures became sorrow-sutras, reciting mantras turned to lamentations. His once-resonant voice grew plaintive; melodies once uplifting now carried only grief.

The Celestial Venerables and Bodhisattvas most delight in connecting with joyful practitioners, while shunning those steeped in sorrow. Not that they lack compassion—when this man first wallowed in grief, divine aid did come. Today's flood is but the working of destiny, the movement of celestial timing. No individual's sorrow can alter heaven and earth's constant rhythms.

If sorrow truly benefited oneself, there might be some justification. But to claim it benefits all under heaven? A grave error. For sorrow neither truly aids oneself nor the world—instead, it risks eternal bondage to suffering's sea. I teach this man: Do not grieve; rejoice in cultivating the Dao. To endorse his sorrow would be to subvert the true path.

Have you not seen how sages remain unshaken even in tempests? Their steadfastness comes from holding fast to their innate nature, refining heart-mind through purposeful self-cultivation. Had those sages wallowed in sorrow like you, their tears would have long flooded their paths—how then could they have attained sagehood?

This passage discusses the mindset and spiritual pursuits of Daoist practitioners. The general meaning is as follows:

A genuine cultivator of the Dao must possess an independent spirit and avoid drifting with the tide. Those who become anxious and troubled when encountering difficulties are like duckweed floating on water—such individuals are far from attaining the transcendent state of Daoist cultivation. Whether studying Confucianism, Buddhism or Daoism, such people will never achieve greatness. As the saying goes, "Lean on a wall and it collapses, rest against a cliff and it crumbles"—reliance on external things ultimately proves unreliable.

The key to Dao cultivation lies in self-realization. If one can maintain humility in seeking guidance, like Zhang Liang's teachable spirit when encountering the Yellow Stone Elder (Huang Shigong), and diligently contemplate the teachings day and night while discovering the taste of the Dao in daily life and natural surroundings—befriending immortals and merging with heaven and earth—one may attain the carefree and unconstrained state. Then one might witness phoenixes dancing before celestial palaces and cranes soaring through purple clouds, experiencing the boundless delight of the Dao.

Cultivation has nothing to do with wealth or poverty. Consider the great perfected beings who attained the Dao—were any of them renowned for their riches? Even the Celestial Worthy (Tianzun) and bodhisattvas refer to themselves as "poor Daoists"—why should ordinary people worry about poverty or wealth? Such worries are utterly futile.

The text then addresses the principle of "longevity": Heaven above enjoys infinite lifespan, Earth below possesses endless longevity, and humans between them have their own allotted years. Heaven's longevity manifests in its eternal clarity, while Earth's longevity is evidenced by its enduring stability.

Where does the true essence of longevity lie? It resides in a tranquil mind and contentment that brings perpetual joy. When people offer blessings, they often speak of "abundant fortune," "numerous descendants," or "long life." But does longevity truly equate to having more blessings and progeny? Or is it about enjoying both prosperity and descendants while living many years?

In truth, people tailor their blessings to the recipient's desires: wishing wealth for the miser, offspring for the childless, long life for the frail. Yet the blessing I offer is different—when I see you dwelling in splendid mansions attended by servants, I wish you the joy of peace and health; when I behold your children outstanding as osmanthus and orchids, I wish them boundless futures; when I observe you standing tall like ancient pines upon Mount Song, I wish your name immortalized in history.

Is such a blessing not extraordinary enough? To go further—should I wish you eternal steadfastness like the earth itself? That would be pedantic. Or perpetual clarity like the vast heavens? That seems too remote. My true blessing borrows not the eternity of heaven and earth, but recognizes in you the essence of longevity—that transcendent spiritual state.

Amidst worldly turbulence, you need serenity to dissolve life's entanglements. By maintaining inner peace and cultivating contentment, you gradually attain perfect liberation. This path to longevity perhaps comes closest to the Dao's true meaning.

I would gather lotus blossoms for your birthday, may autumn waters reflect their radiant glow; cut autumn gauze as tribute, may floral hues brighten your days; offer chrysanthemum fruits as gifts, may morning dew nourish your immortal grace. This is my heartfelt wish—I wonder if you think likewise? Regardless, this remains my most sincere blessing.

This scripture explores the relationship between humanity and Heaven-Earth, and how people may attain longevity through cultivating virtue (De). Using the metaphor of parents and children, it illustrates Heaven-Earth's expectations for humanity:

Heaven-Earth treats people like parents treat their children. Though not every child is born virtuous, they guide awakening through teaching, rewards, and punishments. The key lies in nurturing those capable of self-reflection and understanding the Dao—those whose words and deeds incline toward goodness, whose hearts return to the right path, who uphold benevolence and righteousness (Ren-Yi), becoming models for others. Such people, when eliminating wicked thoughts, prevent violent energies (Qi) from arising; when practicing good deeds, bring forth harmonious atmospheres—just as harmonious families prosper through their descendants.

Heaven-Earth manifests responses to good and evil through auspicious signs and calamities, which result from long accumulation. What truly stabilizes society are those with steadfast hearts and upright conduct. The earth yearns for people to turn toward goodness, just as a mother hopes her child finds a wise teacher. If all sincerely pursue virtue (De) and practice ethical norms like filial piety, fraternal duty, loyalty, and trustworthiness, they may become revered exemplars.

When one's heart sincerely aspires to sagehood, internally emulating the right Dao stabilizes primordial energy (Yuanqi), while externally practicing virtue (De) consolidates vital essence (Jing). This preserves physical and mental health, ensuring harmony through the four seasons. The most vital connection between humans and Heaven-Earth lies in those who pursue the Great Dao (Da Dao) and hearts that comprehend it. From this perspective, humans should naturally share Heaven-Earth's longevity.

This passage discusses the contrasting attitudes of heavenly principles and human hearts toward good and evil. Heaven and Earth treat all things with impartial selflessness, wishing longevity for both the virtuous and the wicked alike. Yet the Dao (referring here to the path of Daoist cultivation) operates differently, adjusting lifespan according to the goodness or wickedness of one's heart.

Practitioners often face contradictions: some virtuous actions prove unworthy of persistence, while certain bad habits feel unbearable to abandon. Sages (those of lofty virtue) frequently lament their delayed awakening, while teachers and friends worry their admonitions lack sufficient depth. The author Yunpingzi (likely referring either to Lü Dongbin himself or another figure) at fifty years of age neither rejoices in past achievements nor frets about the future.

True joy springs from these realizations: delight comes not from clinging to past merits, but from the ability to relinquish attachments; not from preserving one's lifespan, but from upholding the Dao's principles; not from longevity's comforts, but from comprehending the great Dao amidst life and death. The significance of reaching fifty lies in: dissolving past transgressions through accumulated good deeds, perfecting cultivation to realize Dao-fruits, inspiring fellow practitioners to broaden the path, and universally delivering beings while blessing future generations.

The author foresees: with a fifty-year-old's mindset, sixty will bring broader understanding; seventy will deepen mastery of Daoist methods; eighty will witness true enlightenment; ninety will enable audiences with sages (perfected adepts). Authentic longevity resides not in years counted, but in the cultivation foundation laid at fifty.

Finally addressing doubts: some criticize Yunpingzi for indulging like a profligate youth (mentioning past faults involving wine, lust, and material attachments), but such critics fundamentally misunderstand his genuine heart. This implies that Daoist practitioners may traverse phases of unrestrained behavior, yet the ultimate journey back to pristine simplicity holds greater significance.

Worldly affairs often appear dubious, yet Dao cultivators must stabilize their inner core. Ordinary people constantly speak of the "heart-mind" yet never truly recognize their original nature—how can this be called understanding the heart? To truly see one's own heart, one must verify it through realization of the Dao. When the heart-nature is verified, the measure of one's lifespan naturally becomes apparent, leaving no room for doubt.

When a person gains power and influence, many will tempt them through diverse means. If one completely loses their original heart, wouldn't they overstep boundaries through excessive flattery? Circumstances change with terrifying speed—those seeking to take everything from you require no justification. Yet if calamity ultimately doesn't befall someone, doesn't this demonstrate their heart-nature has withstood the test?

A genuine Daoist immortal transcends harm from the Five Phases (Wuxing): gold cannot dull their radiance, fire cannot consume their Qi (vital energy), floods cannot submerge their form, earth cannot bury their traces, and though wood could be used against them, they relinquish its advantage. This occurs because the Five Phases lose their object of domination—the authentic Dao Qi has transcended material constraints. That this cultivator (the text's "this gentleman") remains unharmed by the Five Phases—is this merely external protection? In truth, it stems from self-cultivation. Mundane people call it heavenly protection; immortals name it self-refinement. The crux of self-refinement lies in cultivating the heart.

Consider the tribulations this cultivator endured—tasting utmost bitterness yet emerging unscathed. Could such preservation arise from baseless divine favor? Could someone with unvirtuous intentions receive such comprehensive protection? This complete safeguarding was preparation for today's attainment. He ought to rejoice rather than resent.

Five years ago he lost his eldest son, yet now praises heaven's gift of an immortal child (the "crimson peach boy"), crying to the skies: "Why do I live? Why didn't I perish when ropes strangled, flames scorched, chasms swallowed, assassins pursued, and allies abandoned? Why must I lose my beloved child?" What state was his heart-mind in then? Today's longevity blessing was actually determined by his cultivation during those trials. Without that profound awakening, present achievements would be impossible. That very agony of "truly wishing to die yet being forced to live" paradoxically ignited authentic devotion to the Dao. Such forced survival in extremity becomes precisely the opportunity for Dao cultivation.

This scripture primarily discusses the cultivation of mind and character for Dao practitioners, the importance of repentance in spiritual practice, and philosophical reflections on "longevity" (shou).

A Dao cultivator must face their inner self with sincerity. If no faults can be found in the present moment, one should examine whether past intentions were impure. Whether regretting good or evil deeds, one must ultimately confront their original heart-mind. Like being reborn, one should resolve never again to act against their true nature and commit wrongs. One must inquire of Heaven and submit to celestial decree. Though worldly people may mock such behavior, those transcending worldly concerns will understand this genuine sincerity.

Maintain a repentant and renewing mindset daily, performing morning and evening cultivation practices, reverently making offerings to sages and immortals, and moving the host of perfected beings (qunzhen). Through sincere repentance, one may repeatedly move Heaven, having their name recorded in the immortal registers. This not only redeems seven generations of ancestors but also benefits relatives and friends. Practice reverent filial piety, encourage others toward goodness, constantly worry about insufficient virtue (De), study Daoist teachings to save sentient beings, and find contentment in simple meals of coarse tea and plain rice.

For such a person: while life continues, the Dao finds its home; the work of aiding the world and delivering beings never ceases; the affinity with true immortals will eventually arrive; all virtuous deeds remain eternally luminous; relatives comprehend the great Dao; and the hearts of Heaven, Earth, and humanity interconnect. This delights all three realms and forms the foundation of our Daoist path. The matters tied to the cloud chariots (yunping) of the immortals carry supreme importance—this is indeed no falsehood. That the cloud chariots obtain longevity also manifests the enduring nature of our Daoist teachings.

On the discourse of "longevity": Human lifespan is all bestowed by Heaven. To preserve this lifespan through one's descendants is no easy matter. When Heaven grants longevity, there must be a reason; when one produces offspring, there must be a cause; when descendants preserve longevity, there must be a principle. Bestowing longevity is difficult, producing long-lived descendants is difficult, and preserving longevity is most difficult of all. The Queen Mother of the West (Xichi Sheng) once scattered flowers to confer blessings, showing that longevity requires reverent handling. If descendants are virtuous and respectful, they can comprehend this truth—once comprehended, it becomes fully understood. Thus the karmic conditions for preserving longevity align with celestial principles, making enduring life beyond doubt.

This woman named Jufangzi was originally responsible for tending flowers and fruits in the celestial court. Due to developing worldly desires, she was banished to the mortal realm and reborn as a noble lady in Minzhong (present-day Fujian region). Exceptionally intelligent and beautiful, she maintained vegetarian practices and chanted Buddhist scriptures even before marriage, eventually taking monastic vows as a nun. In those times, it was extraordinarily rare for an unmarried woman to preserve her chastity and enter monastic life.

For over thirty years, she strictly observed monastic precepts in spiritual cultivation. Later, she encountered an accomplished master who frequently visited Min region and became his disciple, learning meditation techniques to enter deep absorption (samadhi), gradually comprehending Chan (Zen) principles. Normally taciturn, she possessed dignified and steady temperament. Though enlightened in Chan, due to unresolved karmic obstacles from past lives, she ultimately failed to completely transcend worldly attachments, passing away at fifty-four—this being the karmic fruition of her accumulated merits, yet still requiring reincarnation.

Subsequently, she reunited with a noble gentleman to fulfill their predestined bond as husband and wife—this actually resolved karmic debts from past lives. That gentleman had also been a celestial official overseeing flora in his heavenly incarnation. Their reunion was divinely orchestrated. One banished to earth, one remaining in heaven—both were fated trials. Their present reunion and attainment of celestial longevity resulted precisely from cultivation merits accumulated across lifetimes.

Recall when Jufangzi dwelled in the Jasper Pool of the Queen Mother of the West (Xi Wangmu), daily drinking morning mists, brewing immortal stones, angling for moon reflections, and basking in sunlight. She often competed in poetry and chess with flower-tending celestial maidens, gathering blossoms by clear springs, laughing by stone pillows—carefree without counting years, following whims without noting dawn or dusk. Why crave mortal dust when enjoying such blissful immortal existence? Yet worldly desires arose, leading to her banishment.

After descending to earth, she became a nun who later returned to secular life to fulfill karmic ties, ultimately marrying the Jiang family's young master. Regrettable yet fortunate: lamentable her immortal roots became mortal, yet blessed she bore virtuous descendants. These offspring excelled—Confucian in demeanor yet enlightened in the Dao (Way), truly worthy of being reincarnations of the Literary Star (Wenqu). Among them flourished both literary talents and filial exemplars, particularly three outstanding descendants who upheld filial piety while cultivating—truly Jiang family's pride.

One grandson stood out exceptionally, comprehending Daoist principles in youth, publishing the Ledger of Merit and Demerit (Gongguo Ge) to encourage virtue, and regularly worshipping the Big Dipper Lord at Daoist temples. Managing household affairs with rigor without neglecting ancestral duties, his conduct surpassed other descendants in purity. Such family traditions ensure future prosperity.

Ultimately, from Jufangzi to her descendants, who wasn't nurtured by her influence? Like a genuine master cultivating fine disciples. If all families emphasized such upbringing, why worry about failing to nurture virtuous offspring?

This passage recounts the profound bond between Lü Dongbin (the Pure Yang Perfected Being) and his disciple Zhou Gou (Master Zhou), along with the virtuous blessings bestowed upon three generations of the Zhou family. Zhou Gou's elder brother Zhou Daoqiu was a scholarly gentleman who excelled in imperial examinations, revitalizing the family's fortunes. He spent his days expounding classics and cultivating himself through zither music, enjoying a smooth official career. Zhou Gou's descendants were likewise harmonious and virtuous—particularly notable was the exemplary filial piety displayed during his eightieth birthday celebration, an exceptionally rare longevity in ancient times, as if Heaven's blessings remained inexhaustible.

On the very day of the birthday feast, Lüzu (Patriarch Lü) paid a visit, filling the hall with joyous guests. The Zhou family's daughters and daughters-in-law diligently managed the festivities, serving their elders with such warmth that the celebration lasted through the night. Such a household of utmost filial devotion is certain to receive Heaven's abundant rewards, and relatives eagerly anticipated witnessing the Zhou family's continued prosperity.

The latter half elucidates the profound meaning of "the perfected person leaves no writings" (至人无文): those who truly attain the Dao do not deliberately compose texts, for the Great Dao transcends words. Written words with sound belong to worldly literature, while the silent mystery is the true Dao—it resides between the comprehensible and the incomprehensible. Just as the sun shines naturally without ostentation and the moon moves serenely without display, cultivators should emulate the principles of Yin-Yang: in stillness, they should be as introspective and non-contentious as the moon; in action, they should benefit all beings like the sun. The key lies in aligning the heart with Shen (primordial consciousness), achieving a state of abundant Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy) through diligent practice, where words dissolve into the ineffable mystery. This cultivation, which unites essence and function, is the true meaning worthy of repeated contemplation.

When a cultivator comprehends the complete relationship between "substance" (本体) and "function" (功用), they gain mastery over their own lifespan, no longer needing to rely on their master's verbal instructions or written scriptures. This is why truly enlightened sages have no need to compose written works.

The Tuan commentary on the Hexagram Bi (贲) in the Book of Changes states that observing celestial patterns reveals seasonal changes, while observing human patterns enlightens the world. The fifth line of Hexagram Gen (艮) emphasizes orderly speech, and the Xiang commentary on Hexagram Jiaren (家人) points out that words should have substantial content. Speech without substance cannot be orderly, and words that fail to comprehend the Dao of heaven and human affairs cannot contain true wisdom. The ancients regarded writing as a vessel for the Great Dao, insisting that composition must align with the Dao—a principle akin to "words must have substance." Yet some Confucian scholars still criticize this view, fearing it might separate literature from the Dao. In truth, the writings of sages are themselves manifestations of their nature and the Dao.

The Sovereign of Divine Assistance (吕洞宾), as an ancient sage descended to earth, integrates the teachings of Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism, using discourse on cultivation methods to universally deliver sentient beings. His four volumes of poetry were originally included in Tangyin Tongqian, but never circulated independently. Now, his disciples have compiled these works into a single volume. As I (Dai Junyuan) reverently study them, they shine like the eternal yet ever-renewing radiance of the sun and moon, nourish like clouds and rain that bring forth abundant harvests, and resound like celestial music through metal, stone, pipes, and strings. These writings encompass all phenomena and aid in transforming people, just as the primordial Qi (气) of heaven and earth nourishes the human heart. They illuminate the brilliance of creation and awaken people's wisdom, reaching the utmost perfection.

The Book of Sui states that the Dao is so subtle and pure that its substance is difficult to grasp. Sages realize their nature by embodying the Dao, maintaining a mind of clarity and stillness. They act without claiming credit, guide without dominating, and thus naturally influence others without deliberate cleverness, achieving merit without conscious effort. These writings of Patriarch Lü (吕祖) emerge from his compassionate intention to transform the world, repeatedly expounding the teachings to awaken sentient beings. As for those passages exploring profound principles and realizing the boundaries of the Dao, though I aspire to follow them, I have yet to attain such heights. Respectfully recorded by disciple Dai Junyuan.