《東園語錄》

North of the Yangtze River's source stands a Daoist temple, its eastern side originally an empty plot. Masters Chen Ziqing and Guo Ziming erected several pavilions there—spacious structures filled with light. Master Tao then planted fir, cypress, nanmu, and camphor trees along the walls, which flourished with lush foliage in the fertile soil. Master Rao Ze further adorned the grounds with flowers, artificial rockeries, and excavated ponds, transforming it into a place worthy of lingering admiration.

As for the distant embrace of mountains and the convergence of nearby waters—these vistas are evident from maps and need no elaboration here. I have visited often, forming bonds of scholarship with these masters, guiding them toward the supreme Dao (the Way) by rectifying biases and filling gaps in understanding. Remembering my aspiration to enlighten the people and awaken the world, I frequently offered words of admonition. The masters recorded these teachings, preserving them in book chests, and persistently urged me to compile and refine them. Thus was born The East Garden Discourses, commemorating this rare and auspicious gathering. To future visitors of East Garden: why not ponder these words deeply?

(Note: The suffix "zi" denotes respect for virtuous individuals; "supreme Dao" refers to the highest truth in Daoism; "enlightening the people and awakening the world" conveys the intent to guide and rouse society.)

Since ancient times, the scriptures left by sages and worthies have all aimed to guide people toward goodness and self-correction. Among these moral exhortations, none surpass the sincerity of expression, clarity of principle, and genuine simplicity of emotion found in the Dongyuan Yulu (Eastern Garden Discourses) composed by the revered Daoist immortal Lü Dongbin, known as Sovereign Fu You. This work prioritizes filial piety, fraternal duty, loyalty, and trustworthiness as its foremost tasks, takes everyday human relationships as practical cultivation, and regards the "refined unity and subtle vigilance" (referring to the purity and focus of refining one's nature) along with the study of heaven's principles and human destiny as the highest practice. At the same time, it sternly warns against the vices of alcohol, lust, greed, anger, deceit, theft, and depravity. Not only can scholars refine their character by reading it, but even women and children are deeply moved upon hearing it. Truly, it is a precious raft to ferry people toward goodness and a golden elixir (Jindan) to awaken the world.

In truth, the classics of moral exhortation from earlier generations are already quite comprehensive. Works like the Taishang Ganying Pian (Treatise on the Response of the Dao) encompass all things, the Wenchang Dijun Yinzhi Wen (Text on the Hidden Virtues of Sovereign Wenchang) presents principles with clarity, and the Guansheng Dijun Jueshi Jing (Soul-Awakening Scripture of Sovereign Guan) carries majestic momentum—these classics have already achieved the utmost in transforming human hearts. So why is the Dongyuan Yulu still needed? Because although these precious teachings are widespread among the people, they are often taken for granted and not deeply reflected upon. Unlike these discourses, which are solemn and dignified, capable of inspiring reverence even in the dull-witted. Moreover, over time, while many have sincerely devoted themselves to these teachings, others have become obscured in their original intentions, treating them as empty words. At such times, the Dongyuan Yulu serves to remind the world anew, pointing out the path for the lost, helping everyone understand that the sayings of the ancient sages are thought-provoking admonitions and the teachings of the ancients are classics urging goodness and punishing evil. In this way, it not only illuminates the transformative power of the Three Sages (likely referring to Laozi, Confucius, and the Buddha) but also aids in spreading their precious teachings throughout the world.

May readers appreciate the profound intentions of the author, grasp its essential meaning, and follow these supreme teachings, upholding them as life's guiding principles. Use them to cultivate oneself and to teach others; seek not only personal fulfillment but also the betterment of all. Let those who do evil reform themselves, and let virtuous households remain vigilant and self-motivated—only then will we not betray the compassionate heart of our patriarchs in saving the world. We disciples, having received their teachings and bathed in their grace for over a decade, now take the liberty of appending these words upon the completion of the woodblock printing. If anyone claims I have written well, I dare not accept such praise.

(Respectfully composed by the Recluse of Golden Immortality)

The Sayings of the Eastern Garden is a record of the teachings imparted by the Divine Lord Fu You (an honorific title for the Daoist immortal Lü Dongbin) through spiritual revelation to guide humanity, offering daily instruction to fellow seekers of the Dao. For decades, the Divine Lord has patiently instructed like a father guiding his son, an elder brother encouraging his younger sibling, or a teacher mentoring students—his words resonating like a midnight bell awakening slumbering souls, or a sudden shout startling the deluded back to awareness.

The language of this text embodies distinctive qualities: it values simplicity over ornamentation, conciseness over complexity, purity over embellishment, and natural intimacy over fragmented obscurity. It discusses everyday principles without resorting to tales of supernatural marvels, expounds orthodox teachings without venturing into heterodoxy, clarifies accessible truths without indulging in sophistry, and transmits fresh insights without clinging to outdated conventions. When speaking of benevolence and reverence, it illuminates the proper relationship between ruler and subject; when addressing kindness and filial piety, it reveals the bond between parent and child; when explaining proper order between elders and juniors, it demonstrates fraternal affection; when distinguishing integrity and trustworthiness, it elucidates the duties between spouses and friends.

The more unadorned these words appear, the more profound their meaning; the more concise their expression, the more enduring their wisdom; the purer their essence, the more precisely they strike at truth's core; the more intimately familiar their tone, the richer their lingering significance. Is this not precisely the beacon that guides the lost toward collective awakening?

In these times of declining morals and eroded human virtue, when people scoff at hearing of karmic retribution, grow angry at mentions of ethical principles, become bewildered by calls for self-reformation, and turn apathetic toward cultivating virtue and compassion—who can stem this tide of universal delusion? Fortunately, we have the Divine Lord's earnest and meticulously clear words, acting as potent medicine to rectify worldly ways and redeem human hearts. May readers of this text not only reform themselves but also guide others toward goodness, thus fulfilling the profound intent behind the Divine Lord's compassionate teachings.

Respectfully composed by Jingdingzi (Master of Tranquil Stability)

Supplementary Note: This preface embodies the Daoist tradition of "using divine teachings to educate" (shendao shejiao), where spiritual revelations guide common morality. The Divine Lord Fu You (Lü Dongbin), venerated among the Eight Immortals (Baxian) in Daoism, frequently appears as an advocate of virtue and punisher of vice. The preface's emphasis on "transforming both appearance and heart" (gemian gexin) reflects the Daoist cultivation principle of "inner refinement of mind-nature (xing) coupled with outer accumulation of merit" (neixiu xinxing, waiji gongde).

This passage speaks of Lü Dongbin (Patriarch Chunyang) emulating the spirit of Confucius and Mencius—not merely cultivating himself in isolation, but carrying the world in his heart. Confucius compiled the Spring and Autumn Annals to rectify the moral decay of his time, and Mencius stood firm amid the contention of a hundred schools to correct misguided hearts. Did they not desire a life of ease? Truly, they revered the Mandate of Heaven and pitied the suffering of the people.

The Dongyuan Yulu (Sayings of the Eastern Garden) carries forward the heart-method of the sages (referring to the core Confucian teachings) while addressing the afflictions of ordinary people. Its content encompasses both the great principles of loyalty and filial piety and practical methods for daily conduct. Like a potent medicine, it diagnoses and remedies societal ills. Later generations should study this text with deep reflection and put its teachings into practice—regarding Patriarch Lü’s instructions as guidance from a strict teacher and treating the book’s words as daily lessons. Only then will they not betray the Patriarch’s earnest intention in writing it.

The preface mentions that Lü Dongbin composed the Dongyuan Yulu out of grief over the decline of public morals and the loss of ancient virtue, hence writing to exhort people toward goodness. Yet people today shy away from discussing virtuous deeds, even mocking those who practice them—how strange this is! The classics of the sages all urge goodness: the Book of Documents says the virtuous always feel there is never enough time to do good; the Book of Changes states that families who accumulate goodness will have blessings to spare; the Daode Jing teaches that the Dao of Heaven is impartial yet constantly protects the good. The great Shun delighted in goodness, Yu the Great bowed in gratitude upon hearing virtuous words, and King Wen of Zhou practiced goodness in secret—such examples are too numerous to count.

In truth, human nature is inherently good. Filial piety and brotherly love are goodness; loyalty, sincerity, and righteousness are goodness; knowing shame and observing ritual propriety are goodness; helping others and encouraging virtuous deeds are all acts of goodness. Yet some, blinded by selfish desires, dismiss goodness as vanity, meddling, or seeking blessings. Those who speak this way are, at heart, merely stingy with wealth, hoarding it for their descendants. Why do they not consider: before their riches are fully amassed, death may come calling; even if they pile up mountains of gold and silver, wastrel heirs can squander it all in an instant. Far better to accumulate virtue through good deeds—this is the true legacy of blessings for future generations.

The Dongyuan Yulu passage conveys two main teachings:

The first addresses the philosophy of wealth. It warns that those who hoard riches without practicing generosity will inevitably face consequences—extravagant living, moral degeneration, and misfortunes. Even if such individuals escape poverty in their lifetime, their descendants will squander the family fortune due to poor stewardship. In contrast, generous benefactors who cultivate virtue (De) through charitable acts naturally maintain frugal and diligent households. When children are raised witnessing such goodness, the family prospers across generations. This reflects the immutable Daoist principle of cosmic reciprocity: evil begets calamity while virtue invites blessings. The author urges readers to awaken to this truth by practicing filial piety, loyalty, trustworthiness, and other Confucian virtues—actively benefiting others and encouraging goodness to restore humanity's innate kindness.

The second teaching employs medical allegory to introduce the concept of the "Great Physician-King." This supreme healer operates on two levels: treating nations (the higher path) and individuals (the intermediate path). Rather than using medicine, this physician heals by rectifying hearts and minds. The text notes this Great Physician-King has no fixed abode—only sincere devotion can summon them, and they dwell only in places of natural beauty like Dongyuan (East Garden). While enjoying Dongyuan's flowers and mountains brings joy, the physician immediately departs to aid those trapped in delusion. Like Confucius curing arrogance and ignorance by first addressing recklessness, temper, and deceit; or Mencius treating lust with the virtuous deeds of King Tai as his "needle," and greed with Duke Liu's stories as his "herbal remedy."

(Note: King Tai and Duke Liu were virtuous Zhou dynasty ancestors; "needle" metaphorically represents using sage exemplars to correct vices, drawn from ancient acupuncture terminology.)

The Dongyuan Yulu (Eastern Garden Discourses) serves as a potent remedy for curing the malady of aggressive competitiveness, using the virtuous governance of Kings Wen and Wu of Zhou as its prescription, with the ultimate aim of guiding people back to their original, authentic state. The author composed these wise sayings as a "medicine without medicine" (referring to moral instruction), naming it Dongyuan Yulu, much like ancient medical texts such as the Qingnang Jing (Green Bag Classic). In his preface, Gong Sansen states that even those deemed incurable may find hope for reform through this book, akin to the transformative teachings of the Great Physician-King (a title referring to sages who heal the afflictions of all beings). Here, the Great Physician-King specifically denotes the Sovereign Lord Fuyou (Lü Dongbin’s Daoist honorific title), who harmonizes primordial forces, propagates righteousness, and awakens the world through transformation.

In another preface, Zhao Xinghe reflects: During the ancient eras of the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties, the Dao of governance resided in the hands of rulers and ministers. After these three dynasties, the responsibility for moral instruction fell to Confucian scholars. Though such instruction persists today, the true essence of the teacher’s Dao has declined. People study the Four Books and Five Classics merely to pass imperial examinations, neglecting to probe their profound meanings—this is why moral instruction falters and the great Dao remains obscure. The Patriarch of Pure Yang (Lü Dongbin), moved by compassion and concern for the people, previously composed numerous works expounding the great Dao in places like Hansan and Qiyun. Now, reading Dongyuan Yulu, whether in prose or poetry, its content revolves around the principles of human relations, daily life, and self-cultivation. Its exhortations toward goodness and warnings for the world resonate deeply with the essential spirit of the Four Books and Five Classics. It is hoped that readers will embody these teachings through practice, verifying the core truths of the classics, so that the way of sages may once again shine as brightly as the sun and moon, rather than being reduced to mere tools for examination success. Viewed this way, this book’s role in aiding the understanding of the Four Books and Five Classics is far from insignificant! The Yijing (Book of Changes) speaks of "implementing instruction through the divine Dao," and this book serves as its validation. The Dao of rulers and the transformative work of Confucian scholars may well require such writings to endure through the ages.

During the Spring and Autumn period, Confucius, though burdened with concern for the world, found his Dao unfulfilled in governance. Daily, he could only discourse with his disciples...[the original text breaks off here, likely continuing to describe how Confucius disseminated his teachings through education].

Master of the Eastern Garden (referring to the master of Dongyuan) always taught his disciples according to their individual aptitudes, guiding them to refine their temperaments. His disciples compiled his teachings and dialogues into a volume titled Sayings of the Eastern Garden. Though the book contains countless words, its essence can be distilled into a single principle: the method of cultivating the mind, when expanded, becomes the way of governing the state.

More than a thousand years have passed since the time of Confucius, and society has gradually declined in virtue, with the world sinking into decay. Without sages like the Wenchang Emperor (the Daoist deity of literature and examinations) to rectify the times, moral standards would only deteriorate further. Studying Sayings of the Eastern Garden today, one finds that its collected poems, admonitions, and various writings all offer teachings tailored to different individuals and circumstances. It establishes a moral foundation through benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom, corrects the fundamentals of conduct through loyalty, filial piety, integrity, and frugality, and even provides detailed guidance on daily speech and behavior. This book, written with the compassionate intent to save the world and aid the people, illuminates the path of repentance and moral improvement, complementing Confucian teachings as two sides of the same truth.

Those who truly practice its teachings can restore their innate goodness and return society to simplicity. When one generation is well-governed, peace will endure for ten thousand ages. Viewed in this light, the Eastern Garden is the modern counterpart to the sacred Eastern Mountain (a metaphor for a center of moral transformation), and Sayings of the Eastern Garden is the present-day Analects. Confucius was a sage born of Heaven’s mandate, while the Wenchang Emperor is a saint who responds to worldly needs—both share the same essential nature.

Respectfully composed by Su Yingchuan.

When scholars study the sacred classics of sages, they must first distinguish between the two paths of good and evil. After understanding good and evil, one should not merely admire and cherish virtuous deeds but must personally practice them; towards wickedness, one should not simply detest and reject it but must eradicate it completely. Only then can all matters be guided toward supreme goodness. Yet today, people harbor little kindness and many wicked thoughts, which is why they must read several books each day that encourage virtue and condemn vice, reflecting on them constantly and applying their lessons broadly. Gradually, without realizing it, their virtuous thoughts will naturally increase while wicked impulses fade away. With persistent practice, one's words and deeds will align with the principles in these books, preserving good intentions and eliminating evil tendencies. Only then does one truly grasp the profound significance of moral texts in shaping the world and human character. This is precisely why I have published The Sayings of Dongyuan.

Scholars may understand fundamental principles and know to cultivate honesty and integrity, yet they often neglect details and fail in filial piety. A single careless word or an inconsiderate act can unsettle one's parents. What may seem like minor disobedience is, in truth, unfilial conduct. Every word and action at home must be carefully examined: rejoice when parents rejoice, grieve when they grieve; love what they love and dislike what they dislike. Never display frivolity, impatience, arrogance, or complacency before them. When parents give instructions, act immediately; even without explicit orders, discern their wishes and take initiative to assist. Children are the continuation of their parents' lifeblood—to show anger or scold in their presence is unfilial. The same applies to servants: striking or reprimanding them without just cause, especially if parents bear no ill will toward them, is also unfilial. Further, failing to treat others with courtesy, lacking self-discipline, or acting unjustly toward spouses cannot be called filial. Hoarding wealth without charitable deeds or prioritizing one's household while neglecting others' needs likewise falls short of filial duty. To presume upon one's talents...

To disregard propriety and associate with frivolous people, thereby losing one's moral character, cannot be called filial piety. While parents are alive, one should attend to them without leaving their side; after their passing, one must constantly cherish their memory. Even decades later, their faces and voices should remain as vivid as if seen before one's eyes and heard by one's ears. Only when this filial devotion never wanes can one truly fulfill the duty of a child. Let all students take this to heart!

When alive, a person's foundation lies in the heart during stillness, and the heart governs all actions. The human heart is like the sun and moon in heaven—its radiance shines unobstructed; it is also like rivers on earth—its flow never ceases. This is the very root that governs life and death, yet people often squander this innate spirituality without cherishing it. No wonder they incur transgressions, accumulate negative karma, and ultimately bring about their own downfall through various retributions—who else is to blame?

Now I shall explain the true meaning of the "heart" to the world. For all things, the heart represents both their essence (Jing) and their virtue (De). Lose the essence and one withers; corrupt the virtue and one desiccates—neither can endure. Better to return the heart to its original state: neither partial nor inverted, neither deviant nor contrary, abiding in the Middle Way—this is the method of attaining the true heart. The heart must not be selfish but impartial, not crooked but upright, not harsh but generous, not cruel but kind, not ignorant but wise, not cunning but good, not wicked but proper, not violent but gentle, not false but sincere, not sinister but candid, not arrogant but humble, not haughty but peaceful, not conceited but modest, not unrestrained but reverent, not indulgent but restrained.

Such a heart can stand before the Celestial Emperor, answer to spirits and deities, and remain blameless when examined in solitude. Pure and unbiased, luminous and unobscured—when the heart's source is this clear, its natural expression in daily interactions will remain untainted by corruption. As for hearts filled with schemes and calculations, hearts of cruelty and pettiness, hearts of treachery and deceit, hearts that harm others, hearts venomous as serpents, hearts savage as wolves and tigers, hearts of fraud and deception, hearts that bully the weak, hearts of defiance and arrogance, hearts that exploit others, hearts of debauchery and wickedness, hearts of stinginess and baseness, hearts that benefit oneself at others' expense, hearts that fatten oneself by draining others... (The original text enumerates various evil thoughts; here the translation summarizes them.) All these must be thoroughly eradicated to restore the heart's original radiance.

The human heart is like a field of earth—that original pure heart (beginner’s mind) is the most precious treasure. Yet people are often driven by the delusions that arise later, and once these delusions take hold, they become difficult to restrain. Not only do they harm others, but they swiftly destroy oneself. Why not guard the original heart instead of being enslaved by the clutter of later thoughts?

If the heart is fertile soil, every inch can be cultivated; if the heart is a treasure land, every patch can be sown. Do you wish to leave blessings and prosperity for your descendants? Better to return to the original heart and seek it there. If one can eliminate those unspoken thoughts, renounce the selfish desires one dares not face, preserve the original heart to align with the Dao of Heaven (Tianxin), and cleanse worldly thoughts to emulate the heart of sages (Shengxin), such a person may truly be said to possess "heart-fortune."

As for dignified bearing (weiyi), later Confucians often neglect it, believing it unnecessary to emphasize. Little do they realize that the human body is bestowed by Heaven, Earth, and one’s parents—it is of utmost importance and value. To place oneself beyond the bounds of ritual propriety is to betray the gift of Heaven, Earth, and one’s parents. Solemn self-restraint strengthens a person day by day, while reckless indulgence leads to daily decline—this is the difference between sages and madmen.

The book Xili records in detail the norms of dignified bearing: from the movements of eyes and ears to walking, standing, sitting, and reclining, each has its corresponding discipline. Restraining the body is, in truth, stabilizing one’s destiny. There are three common misconceptions in the world: the pedantic mistake rigidity for dignified bearing, the unrestrained mistake casualness for dignified bearing, and the hypocritical mistake affectation for dignified bearing. True dignified bearing is "having solemnity that inspires reverence and bearing that can be emulated"—it arises naturally, not through forced effort.

To cultivate dignified bearing, one must refine one’s disposition in daily life: harmonize the heart’s impulses, rein in indulgence, dissolve arrogance, until it becomes effortless and natural. Then every movement—advancing or retreating—will accord with ritual propriety. One’s speech and laughter will carry a gentle radiance; kneeling in reverence will reveal sincere respect; standing will be as steady as a mountain; sitting upright will be as solemn as a ritual vessel; walking will be as smooth as spreading wings, each step measured and orderly. One will face elders with solemn respect, treat juniors with kindness, meet unexpected changes with composure, remain tranquil amid hardship, and temper joy with moderation. This is true dignified bearing; this is honoring oneself. And to honor oneself is the greatest filial piety toward Heaven, Earth, and one’s parents.

This passage discusses the importance of cultivating moral character—what we call "establishing one's moral foundation"—which forms the essential cultivation of being human and should never be treated casually. Just as Confucius maintained a dignified and composed demeanor even in his daily leisure, embodying a sage's state of being that ordinary people cannot immediately attain.

Our eyes, ears, and nose receive external information, while the mouth alone is for outward expression. Speech is like a spring of water—if left unrestrained from the outset, it will overflow uncontrollably. The human body's design is fascinating in this regard: teeth serve as the fortress walls of speech, lips as the outer ramparts, and facial hair like protective groves—all layered defenses meant to strictly regulate words.

I once wrote The Treatise on Guarding Against Verbal Transgressions while in Meishan, Sichuan, which became widely circulated—you've likely read it. Beyond the obvious—lewd speech, caustic remarks, cutting retorts, slanderous words, discourse that corrupts customs, or blasphemies against sages and deities—there are many other verbal missteps to avoid.

Harsh words, insults, arrogant speech, presumptuous talk, vulgar expressions, mean-spirited comments, bizarre utterances, angry outbursts, and complaints all constitute verbal transgressions. But the list continues: speaking to parents with emotional distance, addressing siblings with coldness, talking to descendants with impropriety, conversing with wives or concubines with frivolity, engaging friends with superficiality, showing disrespect to elders, exaggerating before the young, putting on airs with neighbors, flattering the wealthy, looking down on the poor, being harsh with servants, or mocking the disabled—all these are faults of speech.

Even complaining about the weather, lamenting rain or snow, sighing at blocked rivers, or fretting over crossroads count as verbal missteps. Satirizing deities for being unresponsive, mocking officials for corruption, or ridiculing governance also qualify. Using ancient figures for riddles, plagiarizing classics for drinking games, or spreading rumors to mislead others—these too are transgressions of speech. Such faults are easily committed, requiring constant vigilance over one's words and deeds.

This passage conveys two main points:

The first discusses the dangers of careless speech. When a person speaks without restraint, violating cosmic taboos and angering spirits, it can lead to failure in career pursuits, blocked financial gains, and ultimately poverty and decline. One's descendants may become foolish, and the family lineage may deteriorate—all consequences of reckless words. Therefore, spiritual practitioners must be especially cautious, guarding their tongues, restraining their speech, and maintaining inner simplicity to avoid such transgressions.

The second part focuses on the hardships faced by chaste widows. While these women upholding moral integrity command the highest respect, they also endure the most pitiable circumstances. Clinging to heaven-and-earth's righteous Qi (vital energy), they would rather sever their hair or fingers than abandon their devotion to a single husband. After losing their spouses young, they face multiple trials: the wealthy at least have servants, while the poor must labor alone; youth brings dilemmas of remarriage, while middle age brings loneliness; those with children may hope in their offspring, while the childless bear the pain of having no heirs. More tragically, they often suffer clan persecution and neighborly coercion, frequently driven to suicide to prove their resolve. The author appeals to relatives and communities to show compassion—helping them through difficulties, even pooling resources to erect commemorative steles. This would honor their virtue, comfort the living, and bring peace to the departed.

This passage expounds on the principles of filial piety and frugality. The author criticizes those who pursue wealth and status while neglecting their parents.

When parents are alive, they anxiously await their children's return, peering out the gate after just one day apart. Yet after their passing, some bury parents dozens or even hundreds of miles away, making regular tomb-sweeping impossible for descendants. Even if they select geomantically auspicious burial sites to ensure future prosperity, these privileged descendants often become arrogant and dissipated—how could they maintain reverence for ancestral graves? Officials posted far from home, preoccupied with career advancement, rarely find time to visit family tombs. Over time, the graves fall into neglect, some even suffering vandalism.

The author argues that rather than obsessing over so-called auspicious feng shui locations, one should bury parents nearby—simply avoiding geopathic hazards—to facilitate seasonal rituals. True auspiciousness resides in human virtue, not external topography. Heaven allocates each person's blessings sparingly; only through frugality can family fortunes endure.

The text vividly portrays how extravagance ruins households: Initially, ancestors build wealth through diligence and thrift. But when descendants grow complacent, reckless spending begins—dining on rare delicacies, dressing in silks and satins, inhabiting carved-beam mansions with retinues of servants. Soon the fortune dissipates, leaving only desolate courtyards. This serves as a stern warning to uphold the virtue of frugality perpetually.

This passage discusses life's vicissitudes and principles for navigating the world, along with perspectives on longevity.

The first half observes that when a person falls into hardship, even their closest relatives may drift away. When a horse lacks fodder, friends will avoid it; when one seeks to borrow money, others claim they too are struggling; asking for help invites mockery. Even flesh-and-blood kin show little concern, while wives and children complain. Former confidants turn hostile at the first sign of trouble, and longtime servants flee when the household declines. Though some righteous old friends may offer aid, accepting their pity only deepens one's shame. The author laments that reaching such a state—when looking back brings bitter tears—stems from failing to exercise restraint and frugality. Had one remained simple and thrifty during prosperity, anticipating possible hardship, how could the family fortune have been lost? People should avoid squandering wealth on feasts and revelry, nor vie for ostentation in weddings or funerals. Understanding the fickleness of human relationships, they should uphold a cautious and generous family tradition—ensuring not only their own peaceful old age but lasting blessings for descendants. Yet in matters of filial piety toward parents and virtuous deeds, such calculations should not apply.

The latter half examines longevity. Though all desire long life, their methods—holding banquets to pray for blessings, slaughtering animals for tonics, purchasing rare medicines, or even resorting to improper sexual practices—often prove absurd and counterproductive, shortening rather than extending life. While lifespan is Heaven-determined, humans can alter it through accumulating virtue (De) and good deeds. Sadly, people obsess over longevity itself while neglecting its true foundation in moral principle. Those who truly master fate become impervious even to the Creator's designs.

Rather than pursuing unpredictable fate, it is wiser to grasp the comprehensible principles of life. When a person's virtue (De) is abundant, they naturally resonate with the heart of heaven and earth. Instead of divining elusive fortunes, one should cultivate tangible moral character. The way heaven nurtures all things and nourishes the human heart follows the same principle. If one can embody this life-giving virtue—harming no living being, harboring no greed, and coexisting harmoniously with all creatures under heaven—such benevolence itself becomes the fundamental path to longevity.

Maintaining a pure heart, reducing excessive desires, avoiding decadent sensory temptations, and refraining from depraved pleasures or ritual transgressions allow one's essence (Jing) and vital energy (Qi) to coalesce naturally, extending life. Those with abundant spirit (Shen) inevitably enjoy longevity—this is the truth behind "the benevolent live long." As for acts of kindness—relieving the distressed, aiding widows and orphans, distributing food to the hungry, supporting the elderly, nurturing parentless children, or caring for the sick—generosity in such deeds naturally prolongs life. This embodies the principle that "those of great virtue (De) are destined for longevity."

By following these principles to seek long life, one not only prolongs their own years but also extends blessings upward to parents and downward to descendants. To abandon this righteous path in pursuit of longevity invites heaven's disapproval, adding only the offense of irreverence. Consider the long-lived figures of history—the Dou, Pei, Fan, and Yuan families—none were born with inherently long lifespans. Rather, they cultivated the virtues that prolong life, mastered its principles, and ultimately transformed their ordained fate. Those who wish for longevity need only emulate these sages.

Heaven and earth resemble a vast vessel containing endless phenomena. The sun and moon traverse the skies; winds and clouds shift unpredictably; thunder and lightning clash. Moments of gloom and fury give way to clarity and tranquility. Spring and summer display the kindness of growth, while autumn and winter reveal the sternness of decline—all governed by natural law, not deliberate intent. Observe the distinctions between Mount Tai and a molehill, the ocean and a puddle, crops and weeds, the coexistence of humans and creatures, or the intermingling of fine timber and inferior wood. With quiet contemplation, one discerns stark contrasts—elevation and baseness, purity and turbidity. Crops require nurturing while weeds must be uprooted; humans retain their spiritual nature while creatures remain dull; fine wood becomes pillars while the inferior is cast aside.

This passage explores how one's breadth of mind shapes life's journey, presenting two contrasting approaches:

Those with magnanimous hearts move through the world like the vast heavens above and solid earth below, emulating the all-encompassing nature of the cosmos. They treat others with the gentle warmth of spring breezes and moonlit nights, their open hearts free from hidden schemes. In self-discipline, they maintain dignified solemnity, upholding the Confucian principles of Zhong (loyalty to one's true nature) and Shu (empathic consideration). Their innate kindness shines forth effortlessly. Such individuals master their emotions—neither pleasure nor anger showing on their faces, grief and joy kept in perfect measure. They transcend distinctions between beauty and ugliness, forget others' shortcomings, and merge seamlessly with the virtue (De) of heaven and earth. This state resembles the fathomless depth of a thousand acres of jade-green waters, yet in truth represents the foundation for self-cultivation, longevity, and blessedness.

Conversely, narrow-minded individuals drown in the "three poisons" of greed, hatred, and delusion, constantly anxious about gains and losses. They thrive only in favorable circumstances but crumble under adversity, quick to anger and slow to forgive. Their obstinate arrogance makes harmonious relationships nearly impossible. This mean-spirited disposition harms not only others but ultimately themselves, utterly failing to preserve health or extend life.

Regarding progeny, the author observes: People often assume having sons absolves them of "unfilial" reproach, but what matters is the children's virtue. If descendants cannot safeguard the family legacy, mere bloodline continuation still dishonors ancestors. True filial piety lies not in formal lineage perpetuation, but in nurturing virtuous offspring to bring honor to the family name.

(Note: "Zhong-Shu" refers to the Confucian principle of "perfecting oneself is Zhong, understanding others is Shu"; the "three poisons" are Buddhist terms for destructive mental states, here representing negative emotions)

This passage elucidates the principles for educating children. The author observes two common social phenomena: the descendants of officials (children of gentry), who ought to be as noble as phoenixes and cranes, often degenerate due to lack of proper upbringing; while the children of farmers, though looked down upon, can achieve great things through proper education. The key lies in whether they receive correct guidance.

There are two approaches to educating children: verbal instruction and leading by example. For verbal instruction, one should daily teach children filial piety, fraternal duty, loyalty, trustworthiness, propriety, righteousness, integrity, and shame—along with humility, discernment between good and evil, diligence, and frugality. When sending children to school, they must also be taught to respect teachers and revere the Dao. Leading by example is even more crucial. A father must weigh every word carefully, ensure every action is upright, and harbor no selfish thoughts even in his heart. Through such constant exposure, children will naturally emulate these virtues.

Contemporary failures in education stem from two extremes: First, excessive indulgence—speaking in overly gentle tones for fear of offending the child, and failing to correct mistakes sternly—which fosters arrogance and disrespect. Second, excessive harshness—constant scolding, beating, confinement, or even withholding meals—under the mistaken belief that strictness ensures obedience, when in fact it breeds resentment and rebellion.

The correct approach to education requires adapting methods to the child's nature: For timid and introverted children, use firmness to inspire courage; for stubborn and slow-witted children, employ gentleness to guide them. Just as in taming young colts or calves—complete neglect leads to wildness, yet mere restraint and whipping are equally ineffective. Education demands balance: discipline must be tempered with wisdom in method.

On the southern slope of Mount Ke, I encountered an old man attempting to hang himself. After rescuing him, I inquired about his reasons. The elder explained he came from a distinguished family that had once been prosperous, with two sons. The elder son was simple-minded, while the younger was unruly. He had disciplined the younger son with particular strictness, only to breed resentment in the boy, who then spent his days carousing with dissolute friends, squandering half the family fortune. The old man had initially taken comfort in his honest elder son, trusting him to preserve what remained of their estate. Yet, assuming the elder son’s dutiful nature required no guidance, he neglected his education, leaving the young man without judgment or resolve. Over a decade, the remaining wealth was likewise frittered away. Now, the younger son had vanished without a trace, while the elder idly consumed what little was left. Ashamed to face his ancestors, the old man saw no recourse but to end his life.

This tale reveals the vital importance of educating one’s children. Whether a person becomes a hero, a minister, a sage, or even an immortal hinges on their resolve. Ambition is the root of loyalty, filial piety, integrity, and righteousness—the very foundation of moral character and scholarly achievement. Confucius, stranded between Chen and Cai, never abandoned his aspiration to restore the Eastern Zhou; Mencius, mocked by critics, held fast to the path of benevolence and justice. Their aims were lofty and unwavering. Later figures like Ban Chao, who vowed to earn a noble title; Fan Zhongyan, who dedicated himself to statecraft; Zhuangzi, who sought untrammeled freedom; the Cheng brothers and Zhu Xi, who delved into Neo-Confucianism; or Yan Junping, who mastered divination—all achieved their aims through steadfast determination.

Conversely, those without resolve accomplish nothing. As the southern proverb warns, "A man without perseverance cannot even become a shaman." Confucius derided such people as "rotten wood unfit for carving," while Mencius likened them to "blighted crops worse than weeds." All these illustrate how those with scattered ambitions sink into mediocrity. In educating children, the most crucial task is to help them cultivate the right aspirations.

A man cannot live without aspiration! Observe how even common folk—women and children—when steadfast in their purpose, become impervious to the meddling of ghosts and deities, their will unshaken by heaven and earth. But lose that aspiration, and even heroes become as worthless as shattered pottery, no different from withered grass or rotten wood. Thus does a man succeed through aspiration and fail without it.

I often watch farmers tilling fields and shepherd boys tending flocks—these simple folk understand the importance of setting goals: planting mulberry and hemp for harvest, gathering ox and horse dung for future need. Though their aims may be humble, they are aspirations nonetheless. How shameful, then, are those in fine robes who lack any purpose at all! When I read lines like "The hero in twilight years still burns with undimmed zeal," I sigh: so long as breath remains, one must never slacken in purpose. Yet look at people today—drifting through life in dull mediocrity, achieving nothing.

Among Confucius’ disciples was one Fan Chi, whose ambitions dwindled until he wished only to till fields and tend vegetables. Even the Master rebuked him for such petty aims. If a man cannot hold an aspiration worthy of his parents and blameless before heaven, he scarcely qualifies as even a "petty person." From this day forth, we must urgently consider how to rectify this!

Most scholars make their living by teaching—a matter of hidden virtue (Yinde, the accumulation of unseen merit) that demands utmost care. I have known many lifelong tutors who never found fulfillment, all because they neglected their duty. Teaching students proceeds in three stages:

For young pupils, first instruct them in proper posture, neat attire, and measured speech; teach them the rituals of bowing, advancing, and withdrawing—cultivating gentleness, respect, thrift, humility, caution, and sincerity. Only then begin reading lessons, explaining with clarity to aid comprehension.

When students approach adulthood—that critical juncture deciding whether they become men or beasts—expound on moral character, the workings of good and evil, guiding them to the upright path. Studying the Five Classics and Four Books must transcend rote memorization; they must grasp the deeper meaning, guarded against heresy. Frequent contact with virtuous mentors keeps their wills disciplined and conduct untainted.

Finally, teach them the discipline of "restraining self and returning to ritual" (keji fuli), exploring the study of "heaven’s principles and human nature" (tianren xingming), and awakening to the truth of "illustrating virtue, renovating the people, and abiding in the highest good" (mingde xinmin, zhiyu zhishan). This is true learning, forming true Confucians. Alas, modern tutors fall short—children enter school wide-eyed and emerge grown, yet...

This passage conveys two main layers of meaning:

The first layer critiques contemporary educational problems. Some teachers focus solely on rote memorization for examinations without cultivating moral foundations. They only teach students to compose essays, recite classical poetry, and practice calligraphy—skills meant to pass imperial exams—while remaining utterly ignorant of the philosophical principles in the classics. Such irresponsible teaching often results in descendants becoming foolish and family fortunes declining, which represents heaven's retribution for their professional incompetence.

The second layer expounds the true meaning of "livelihood principles" (the Dao of making a living). "Livelihood" (生) resembles a tree's vibrant growth of branches and leaves, while "principles" (理) form its roots. Although merchants naturally pursue profit in business, one portion of gain might conceal ten portions of harm—thus methods must be prudent. Take rightfully earned profits but avoid ill-gotten wealth; accept naturally obtained benefits but never force undeserved gains. Better modest yet sustainable profits than sudden windfalls that quickly vanish. Since worldly wealth and status are impermanent, cherish your vital spirit (Shen). Those constantly scheming to exploit others may find their hearts withered before attaining riches. The true Dao of livelihood seeks nothing more than adequate food and clothing.

The supplementary section explains that true scholars emerge through the combined forces of cosmic creation, the Qi (vital energy) of mountains and rivers, ancestral virtue accumulation, and national needs. Genuine scholars should possess: learning grounded in sages' moral teachings (De), talents for assisting rulers, the noble bearing of precious ritual vessels (like ancient hu-lian ceremonial objects), and broad wisdom. Even when dwelling in humble thatched huts, such scholars inherently embody true worth.

When scholars capable of expressing their aspirations through poetry emerge into the world, the common people rely on them to transform their destinies—truly a weighty responsibility rests upon these learned men. From ancient times to the present, from the legendary Eight Virtuous Ones and Eight Able Ministers of Emperor Shun to the numerous worthy sons and officials of King Wen of Zhou, these were all considered golden ages of talent. Since the Spring and Autumn period, every dynasty has produced extraordinary scholars whose fame shook their era and whose achievements were passed down through generations—such examples are too numerous to count. Examining their conduct and accomplishments, most contributed to scholarship, upheld ritual teachings, served their states with merit, and benefited the people's livelihood—far removed from those who sought empty fame or indulged in superficial brilliance.

Modern scholars, however, are markedly different. Though endowed with the vital Qi (energy) of heaven and earth, the essence of mountains and rivers, and the blessings of their ancestors, they lack genuine learning to serve their country. When discussing scholarship, they boast of comprehending the cosmos; when flaunting talent, they claim to surpass even Yuan Zhen and Bai Juyi (renowned Tang poets). With mere superficial literary skills, they treat knowledge as a tool for social climbing—arrogant beyond measure, mistaking frivolity for refinement. One need not wait to see their future—such shallow pretentiousness alone betrays the expectations of heaven and earth, their ancestral heritage, and their nation.

As exemplars for the people, scholars should be genuine rather than false, that their character may be upright; sincere rather than ostentatious, that academic culture may be purified; virtuous rather than unrestrained, that scholarly temperament may be profound. Recall how Zhuge Liang, while still a commoner, warranted three visits from his future lord; or how Fan Zhongyan (posthumously titled "Cultured and Upright"), as a mere candidate, already shouldered the world's burdens—these were true paragons of scholarship. How could one aspire to be among those who deceive the world to steal fame?

The Book of Songs declares: "Numerous are the worthy men who can spread virtue," and again: "Numerous are the worthy men who bring King Wen repose." This shows how rare true scholars are, and how exceptional an era abundant with them must be. I hope contemporary scholars may awaken to the expectations of heaven and earth, their ancestral heritage, and their nation—truly bearing this responsibility—so that the Book of Songs' praises of multitudinous worthies might find renewal in our time.

As children and younger siblings: while fathers live, fulfill filial piety; while elder brothers live, observe fraternal duty. For the young, past days are few while future years stretch long—here lies the pivot of lifelong success or failure. The young must have proper occupations, for work disciplines body and mind, providing purposeful grounding. Idleness inevitably leads, through gradual unconscious drift, to dissolution. When scholars, farmers, artisans, and merchants each abide in their proper vocations, this constitutes the true Way (Dao) of fulfilling human potential.

Those who neither farm nor engage in craftsmanship or trade are idle loafers. Ancient laws strictly prohibited such indolence, mandating execution without pardon—such was the severity of its harm. While choosing a vocation is important, steadfast dedication to one's craft is even more vital. If one abandons tasks halfway or constantly shifts pursuits, they ultimately differ little from those without any profession. How could such a person sustain their livelihood or bring comfort to their parents? Young people should reflect deeply on this principle.

Human life originates from the heart. A virtuous heart ensures smooth Qi (vital energy) and blood flow, while a wicked heart leads to physical decline. Just as a tree has branches and leaves—though it requires cultivation and nourishment from rain and dew to flourish—its vitality ultimately depends on its core. Even if axes hack at it or cattle trample it, the tree will survive so long as its heart remains unharmed. But once the heart is injured, the tree withers instantly. Can the hearts of young people be carelessly damaged?

In today's deteriorating social climate, temptations abound: some are ruined by wine and lust, others by gambling, and still others by opium. Worse yet, some destroy themselves through reckless aggression, extravagance, gluttony, or unrestrained indulgence. The ways to harm one's heart are countless. More terrifying are those who harbor malice, act cruelly, wallow in arrogance, indulge without restraint, or nurture wicked intentions. Such evil thoughts are like daggers piercing one's own heart. Outwardly, the person may appear unchanged, but their Jing (essence), Qi, and Shen (spirit) have long been drained.

Only by deceiving neither heaven above, earth below, nor fellow humans in between can one maintain an open heart, balanced Qi, and clear Shen. Young people must understand: the heart's intent must be upright, and moral conduct must be even more so. Our six-foot-tall bodies inherit the refined essence of heaven and earth's Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water). To neglect upright conduct is to disgrace one's parents. Those with proper conduct avoid improper actions, unseemly expressions, and discourteous speech. They refrain from seeing, hearing, speaking, or doing anything contrary to ritual propriety, cutting off all corrupting influences.

Specifically: avoid gaudy clothing and eccentric attire; shun gossip about private matters and crooked paths; stay away from dance halls, teahouses, and taverns; associate more with dignified elders, draw near to those of virtue, distance oneself from the wicked, and keep at arm's length those skilled in flattery and deceit. This is the natural way to become an upright person. Otherwise, one's moral character will be deficient—young people, think carefully on this!

As for wealth, though it is a necessity in life, acquiring it through deceitful means...

This passage elucidates the principles of filial conduct and the cultivation of humaneness (Ren Dao).

Regarding familial ethics: Never bring disgrace upon one's parents and elders. Those who obsess over personal gain betray their family's trust—whatever temporary advantages they acquire will ultimately be lost. While youth should aspire to achievement, those intoxicated by profit will find their blessings diminished. Take heed! Emulate and amplify your elders' virtues, striving to embody them fully; redress their shortcomings, leaving no flaw uncorrected. Fulfill their rightful needs and alleviate their sorrows. As children, become those who bring joy to parents, not resentment. Whether among two brothers or five, never hoard wealth privately, never heed pillow-talk slander, never violate natural kinship bonds. Emulate the harmony of the Tian brothers (alluding to the "Tian Family's Paulownia Blossoms" parable) or the Jiang siblings sharing one quilt (referencing the "Jiang Family's Shared Quilt"典故)—this embodies true fraternal love. Practicing these ensures familial prosperity across generations. Let every child reflect deeply on these truths.

Concerning the cultivation of humaneness: Dao practitioners often discuss "humaneness" (Ren) as the root of one's innate nature and the source of all compassion. In heaven, it manifests as the transformation of all things; on earth, as the nurturing of myriad beings—everywhere it embodies Virtue (De), every moment its flow continues. Those lacking humaneness forfeit their humanity. Yet to grasp its essence, one must contemplate these twin axioms: "the Virtue of the heart" and "the principle of love." Regrettably, scholars often recite these mechanically, never probing what "Virtue of the heart" truly signifies or what "principle of love" entails, thus missing genuine understanding. Superficial interpretations only lead further astray.

Humaneness has both substance and function: "Virtue of the heart" constitutes its substance, while "principle of love" expresses its active manifestation. Without Virtue as its root, humaneness becomes hollow form; without love as its expression, it rigidifies into dead theory. Seek humaneness through "Virtue of the heart"—there it resides; explain humaneness through "principle of love"—there too it dwells. Though "Virtue of the heart" is universally comprehensible, "principle of love" has spawned endless misinterpretations. Some mistake indulgence for love, others selfish desire, still others obstinacy or unprincipled tolerance—all misreading "love" and consequently "humaneness." True humaneness is universal love, not partiality; measured compassion, not excess. To leap into a well saving others (referencing the "rescuing from wells"典故) constitutes excess—humaneness must adapt to circumstances, and extending oneself to others requires rational measure.

True compassion (ceyin) should manifest like this: when it arises, it does not deliberately distinguish between those who can be helped and those who cannot, but naturally extends to all. If compassion still picks and chooses its objects, it has not reached its highest state.

The same applies to acts of charity and generosity. Genuine giving does not discriminate based on the status of the recipient or the circumstances of the occasion. If one calculates gains and losses while giving, they have strayed from the original intent of compassion. Benevolence should flow naturally, without the slightest trace of force. If one understands this principle, their compassion will not become hypocritical, nor will it be exploited by those who feign virtue.

Cultivating sincerity (chengyi, the foundation of Daoist heart-mind practice) is both the first and the most refined discipline. Throughout history, all who sought the Dao began with sincerity. Yet whether the mind is truly sincere cannot be judged by others—only the self knows. The ancients said, "Do not deceive yourself," and sought peace of mind—this is the true work of sincerity. If one refrains from self-deception, the mind will naturally become genuine.

Some people spend their days sitting in seclusion, avoiding social interaction and shutting out external things, believing this to be the cultivation of sincerity. In truth, their thoughts are already racing like monkeys, leaping everywhere—this is clearly self-deception. Authentic sincerity lies in "vigilance in solitude" (shendu, maintaining awareness even when alone). Even in solitude, one must conduct themselves as if under the gaze of ten eyes and the pointing of ten fingers. Those who assume that sitting silently with eyes closed is sincerity, without cutting off evil at its root or guiding the heart toward goodness, are practicing superficial discipline—no different from petty people masking their hypocrisy. How can they follow in the footsteps of the sages?

Human nature is fundamentally the same, just as heaven and earth follow a single law. Virtues such as benevolence (ren), righteousness (yi), propriety (li), and wisdom (zhi) all arise from innate nature, extending naturally into qualities like loyalty, filial piety, integrity, and moral restraint. These are not imposed by external forces but are expressions of one’s inherent nature. Compassion, shame, discernment between right and wrong, and reverence—these are not cultivated later in life but are innate to all people. To claim that such goodness is absent in certain individuals is a grave mistake. Just as plants and trees require rain and dew to flourish, human virtue also needs cultivation to fully manifest—yet its root is present from birth.

This passage primarily discusses the innate goodness of human nature and the importance of moral cultivation. It begins by pointing out that people are often blinded by acquired notions of shame and right versus wrong, yet fail to examine the original, authentic state of human nature. Human nature originates from the "central harmony" (Zhonghe, balance and harmony) of heavenly mandate, which manifests in humans as "loyalty and forbearance" (Zhongshu). Losing these intrinsic qualities leads to the obscuration of selfish desires.

The author criticizes how people are frequently misled by superficial appearances—for instance, someone may initially appear kind but later turn harsh, yet this should not negate the inherent goodness in their nature. Contemporary heterodox theories distort the essence of "nature," while Mencius's statement that "no person is without goodness" suffices to refute such fallacies.

Lü Dongbin (Master Chunyang) is revered as the King of Healing because he can cure the world's ailments. The best remedy lies in skillfully applying good medicine, and the author prescribes eight moral medicines: filial piety, fraternal duty, loyalty, trustworthiness, benevolence, righteousness, integrity, and shame. Long-term adherence to these "eight ingredients" can heal diseases, and adding the potent tonic of "goodness" (Shan) enhances the effect. Yet in reality, few truly practice loyalty and filial piety or take joy in doing good. People focus only on physical illnesses while neglecting the more severe sickness of the heart.

The Dao of Heaven despises pride and favors humility, but people fail to cultivate themselves, manage households, or conduct affairs in accordance with heavenly virtue (Tian De), thus incurring heaven's wrath. Even immense wealth and high status will swiftly vanish, sometimes bringing calamity upon descendants. All misfortunes are heaven's means to eliminate excess and restore balance between nobility and humility.

Finally, the passage urges people to immediately take these eight moral medicines, realign the Five Relationships (ruler-subject, father-son, husband-wife, elder-younger siblings, and friends) and Five Constant Virtues (benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and trustworthiness), while also ingesting the medicine of "goodness" to aid the vulnerable—widows, orphans, the solitary, and the destitute.

This scripture conveys two main teachings:

The first section describes Lü Dongbin (Master Chunyang)'s deep concern upon hearing baseless rumors circulating in society. Nowadays, many mediocre individuals who lack true understanding recklessly discuss state affairs, spreading unverified claims without distinguishing truth from falsehood. They casually judge who are loyal ministers and who are traitors, which cities have fallen and which prefectures have been lost, presenting these fabrications as facts. Listeners accept these rumors without discernment, spreading them throughout streets and alleys. Initially somewhat restrained, these rumor-mongers later become completely unrestrained, creating widespread panic. Why don't these people consider: Who is our sovereign? In what era do we live? Instead of sincerely burning incense daily to pray for peace with genuine concern for the nation, why do they take pleasure in spreading such hearsay? This is utter foolishness. At such times, knowledgeable individuals must step forward to correct them, telling the rumor-spreaders: Such inauspicious words should not be spoken; such rumors that disturb public order should not be spread. When public morale becomes unsettled, social harmony is disrupted, and even your own safety cannot be guaranteed. Who are you to presume to discuss court affairs? Are you not afraid of official punishment? Then comfort them by saying: Don't worry—with favorable weather, the sun and moon moving normally, and abundant harvests, these are clear signs of our Emperor's sagely virtue and the nation's peace. What cause is there for concern? Only through such measures can rumors be quelled and public morale stabilized. This is particularly important for those who preach religious doctrines to remember.

The second section uses the analogy of caring for parents: Performing good deeds is like serving one's parents—one shouldn't wait until parents ask for food before providing meals, or request clothing before offering garments. The meaning is that virtuous actions should be proactive; one shouldn't wait until disasters occur before seeking remedies.

This scripture primarily discusses how to genuinely practice filial piety and virtuous deeds, emphasizing sincerity that stems from the heart rather than acting for personal gain or with opportunistic motives.

Regarding filial piety, true devotion involves proactively caring for one's parents—preparing food before they feel hungry and clothing before they feel cold. If one waits to be reminded before acting, such filial sentiment is already diluted; if one still fails to comply fully after being reminded, it becomes even more superficial.

The same principle applies to virtuous deeds—they should not be performed with expectations of reward or opportunistic intentions. Acts like honoring parents and respecting elders are fundamental duties that should carry no ulterior motives. Human nature is inherently good, and virtuous deeds are merely natural expressions of returning to this innate goodness—they should not feel forced or arduous. If even a trace of expectation for reward lingers while performing good deeds, the root of virtue becomes insincere and unstable.

Many people harbor opportunistic mindsets, making daily offerings to immortals and buddhas (the highest spiritual ideals in Daoist cultivation) while hoping these deities will fulfill various desires—healing illnesses, prolonging life, household peace, ancestral grave geomancy, fame, and wealth. Yet rather than beseeching deities, one should examine one's own conduct and thoughts. If one's conscience is clear, celestial guardians and divine blessings will naturally follow, accompanied by auspicious spirits.

The scripture particularly points out that some expect rewards after performing minor good deeds and grow resentful when their wishes go unfulfilled—such an attitude is misguided. True virtuous acts should flow naturally from the heart, free from any expectation of return.

This scripture conveys two main teachings: the first concerns misfortune and spiritual practice, the second concerns understanding principles and dispelling delusions.

First, it explains that diseases, legal troubles, and other misfortunes in life stem either from one's own karmic retribution or ancestral sins. To resolve such calamities, one cannot rely solely on praying to immortals and buddhas. Genuine resolution requires sincere spiritual practice, the elimination of harmful thoughts, and the accumulation of virtuous De (Virtue/Power). Some receive aid without beseeching deities because they've consistently cultivated virtue; conversely, those who pray yet receive no help—the reason is self-evident.

Secondly, it emphasizes the dangers of delusion. Even heroes and outstanding individuals can meet ruin when misled. The root cause of delusion lies in failing to discern truth, making one susceptible to others' words. Those who truly understand principles possess unshakable resolve. When sages write texts or immortals transmit scriptures, their purpose is always to enlighten people with unambiguous teachings. The author mentions transitioning from Confucianism to Daoism, yet the principles taught remain those of the sages—though often misunderstood by the world. This recalls when Confucius' disciple Zizhang asked how to recognize delusion, and the sage replied: "The wise are not deluded"—a truth shared by all enlightened beings.

The Discourses of the Eastern Garden addresses how to help people overcome confusion. The author observes that many in this world are perplexed, and the key to liberation lies in comprehending universal principles and discerning the signs of the times. When one truly understands the Dao (the Way), confusion naturally dissolves; when one grasps the currents of the age, perplexity vanishes. He advises reflecting on and measuring oneself against present realities—this is the antidote to confusion.

Identifying himself as "Daoist Hui" (a practitioner of Daoist cultivation), the author describes carrying compassionate intent through countless generations of worldly wandering. Wherever he encounters people, he guides them toward goodness, hoping all may return to the virtuous path. Yet persuading others proves profoundly difficult: some hear his teachings but fail to act virtuously; others begin virtuous practices but cannot persevere. Though tempted to abandon such individuals, his compassion compels him to repeat earnest admonitions, clinging to hope that they may ultimately embrace true goodness. But many remain unmoved despite exhaustive counsel—their innate moral awareness lies dormant, leaving him powerless.

Even among those who appear virtuous, their good deeds often stem from expectation of reward. Such calculated benevolence isn't genuine virtue. True goodness resembles "deathlike steadfastness"—performing one, a hundred, or countless virtuous acts without concern for recompense, regretting only that one hasn't done enough. These rare individuals embody wholehearted devotion to goodness. The author laments their scarcity, affirming that if people could cultivate such unwavering virtue, it would validate his repeated visits and tireless efforts.

With a heart brimming with compassion, Daoist Hui instructs everyone he meets—fathers to sons, elder brothers to younger, teachers to students—exhausting himself in the process. His prolixity arises not from fondness for preaching, but from historical necessity. After the Spring and Autumn period, centuries passed until Mencius' era, followed by another long interval before Confucian revival through Zhu Xi and Cheng Yi. Though later true Confucians left teachings to save the world, moral instruction now verges on extinction. Humanity's innate De (Virtue) fades daily; society decays, its customs bereft of ancient purity.

Shouldering this compassionate mission, he inherits the aspirations of Confucius and Mencius, striving to awaken the world's eyes and ears. The effort wearies his heart-mind and depletes his words. Years ago, while leisurely riding a crane, he encountered the sincere entreaties of Tao Zifu and others. Moved by their earnestness, he lingered in this western Shu region to rescue its people. His teachings avoid fantastical claims, focusing instead on concrete virtues like loyalty and filial piety—foundations as solid as earth itself.

Have I ever failed these people? On the contrary, it is they who have failed my teachings. The deaf remain content in their deafness, the blind in their blindness. If I reproach them too harshly, I risk seeming severe; if I tolerate them too much, I risk being overly indulgent. With no other choice, I've tried every method to awaken their innate goodness and inspire the virtue of their original nature—yet these ignorant souls remain stubbornly unchanged. Alas, to what depths must this world and its people sink!

Throughout history, only I can truly be called the "Great Physician-King." For I can not only revive the dead, but also transform the obstinate into the virtuous, the deceitful into the loyal, and the false into the genuine. I dissolve violence into harmony. Whether humans, plants, hidden creatures, or beasts of the air and field—all receive my guidance and return to their true nature, fulfilling their life's purpose. How much more should this apply to those refined scholars in their fine robes?

Like an immortal crane, I wander this land to heal its customs and mend its people's hearts, restoring simplicity and purity—preserving inner conscience without losing outer propriety. This alone brings me joy. For years you've followed me, and through countless words I've sought to inspire your aspirations, awaken your kindness, and rectify your character—expanding your minds, calming your spirits, nurturing daily growth in virtue and deepening filial piety. I've treated you well and placed boundless hopes in you. Yet in an instant you forget; the aspirations you profess remain unworthy of mention. Tell me—have I failed you, or have you failed me?

Alas, my heartfelt efforts flow away like water. Alas, my hundreds of golden precepts fall on deaf ears like sermons to wooden puppets. Alas, despite all encouragement, I cannot guide you to ultimate goodness. Alas, my tears over this are but wasted spirit. Truly, my task is too hard! From now on, I intend to speak no more. Do not mistake my former compassion for present indifference.

I am both "Great Compassion" and "Great Mercy," honored as the "Heavenly Worthy Who Saves Countless Beings." Long have I cared for the people. Heaven nurtures all creatures, each following its own principle. Without sages emerging to teach, humanity's true nature would fade daily, and virtues like benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and trust would wither unnoticed. Fortunately, Confucius rang through the ages like a wooden bell [announcing edicts], transforming the world's ways. Since then, countless Confucian worthies have carried forth his teachings. Though the age declines, exceptional individuals still occasionally appear.

Since ancient times, the true essence of the Great Dao (the Way) has been transmitted for centuries, yet who can awaken the deluded masses and restore the simple, honest customs of old? Today, moral teachings decline daily, human hearts grow ever more deceitful, and the original purity of human nature gradually fades away. Scholars indulge their desires and corrupt the law, while commoners commit crimes and even perpetrate acts that violate the natural order and defy human ethics.

Living in this era, I grieve that the people refuse to repent and renew themselves, lament their unwillingness to refine their character, and mourn how they prioritize mere survival over their families and principles. Thus, I establish platforms for teaching wherever I go, exhorting all who will listen. Even if just one person turns toward goodness, it may inspire thousands to return to virtue—only then can my heart find solace.

My teachings are not empty words but concrete discussions of ethics, moral virtue (De), self-cultivation, and the law of cause and effect. These principles were thoroughly expounded by the sages of old, yet their profound language was understood only by the wise, leaving the dull-witted bewildered. Therefore, I use plain speech, sometimes composing verses or songs, so all may grasp these truths and act accordingly—fulfilling their proper duties and obligations.

For years, I have poured my heart into this work, yet the ignorant still abandon themselves, unwilling to heed even a single word. Scholars, farmers, artisans, and merchants alike, though aware of shame, turn a deaf ear. When I seek to approach them, they distance themselves; when I exhort them, they slander me; when I reach out to lift them up, they willingly sink deeper. Alas, how heartbreaking! I am like a ferryboat to salvation, a ladder to heaven, yet none will board or climb.

Yet I remind myself: the people today are the same as those of the Three Dynasties of antiquity. Heaven cherishes its children and always grants them chances to reform. Even if my efforts seem fruitless, I will persist in spreading these teachings, striving to restore pure customs and noble traditions. Let children be filial to parents, ministers loyal to rulers, younger brothers respectful to elders, and friends trustworthy to one another. Every chapter, every section, every sentence, every word I write is forged from the depths of my heart and soul.

I willingly exhaust my heart's blood not for any other purpose but to rectify those who are deceitful, wicked, and sinful—those who lack filial piety, loyalty, fraternal respect, and genuine friendship. I desire them all to heed my teachings and embrace my principles, so as not to betray my patient guidance and earnest efforts. You should understand the toil of my mind and labor. Do not dismiss loyalty and filial piety as the pedantic talk of old Confucian scholars. First examine your own conscience: Are you truly a filial child, a loyal minister, a respectful younger brother, or a trustworthy friend? The slightest deficiency will leave lifelong regret.

I hope you genuinely embody these virtues—only then can you be called a truly filial child, a truly loyal minister, a truly respectful sibling, or a truly faithful friend. Whenever I speak of filial piety, I highlight the hidden virtues of filial sons; when I discuss loyalty, I recount the exemplary deeds of loyal ministers—this is precisely why I composed the Admonitions on Loyalty and Filial Piety, just as the Book of Rites records the virtues of King Wen’s heir, or the Book of Documents preserves chapters like Yi’s Instructions and Jun Chen. Speaking of fraternal duty, I praise figures like Wang Lan and Kong Rong in recent times; regarding friendship, I often recount the wisdom of distant sages like Qu Boyu, Confucius, Guan Zhong, and Bao Shuya. These virtues may seem easy but are the hardest to practice; they appear simple yet are the most difficult to perfect—thus, they are of utmost importance.

The Dao of Heaven is clear, and retribution is certain: How can those lacking filial piety, loyalty, fraternal respect, or friendship meet a good end? How can those steeped in wickedness and devoid of virtue prosper themselves or bless their descendants? Conversely, how could those who delight in goodness and learning, who grasp the true meaning of loyalty, filial piety, fraternal duty, and friendship, fail to receive good fortune? Alas, people often lack ambition, their hearts clouded by selfish desires, failing to understand: The body is not precious—the mind is. The mind is not precious—the innate moral awareness (liangzhi) is. The flesh decays, thoughts vanish, yet that spark of luminous original nature never perishes.

If you value only the body and worldly possessions, you are as foolish as piling wealth atop an iceberg. When I speak of the cultivation method of "emptying the heart," I do not mean you should abstain from food, clothing, caring for parents, or neglecting wife and children—nor do I wholly reject fame and profit. Rather, you must discern the weight of righteousness versus worldly gains: Those who prioritize righteousness over profit will ultimately become noble exemplars of the Dao and never truly suffer want. Those who chase profit at righteousness’s expense often descend into baseness. This distinction must be clearly understood.

Moreover, consider this body of ours: It is born of our parents, nurtured by our rulers, and taught by our teachers and friends. If we do not cherish it like jade or treasure it like fragrant orchids, but instead wear it down daily for personal or familial gain—is this body not the most precious treasure between Heaven and Earth?

If a person depletes a bit of their essence (Jing) and vital energy (Qi) each day, and continues this loss year after year, they will eventually exhaust their life force, weaken their heart-mind, lose their hair, and loosen their teeth. Seeing this, parents worry, friends grieve, and spouses sigh—what meaning is there in such a living? Far better to cultivate one's Virtue (De), extend benevolence widely, leave a model for future generations, and establish a good reputation in one's community. Confucius himself worried only about the Dao not being practiced, never about poverty. Mencius said riches and honors could not corrupt his will—since ancient times, have sages ever pursued selfish gain? Consider carefully: those families whose descendants flourish for generations owe it all to accumulated Virtue. I urge you to break through delusion, find the true path of life, take joy in goodness without weariness, and set selfish desires aside. In time, virtuous fruits will ripen, and blessings will swiftly arrive. Though my repeated admonitions may seem tedious, they are in truth a potent antidote to life's poisons.

People love praise and detest criticism; they welcome encouragement but resist correction. Yet they fail to realize that sweet words they enjoy are actually poisonous, while harsh truths are the true remedy—a principle long understood by our predecessors. When I meet others, I cannot help but point out their faults, for I sincerely wish all to perfect themselves—like guiding the lost or leading the blind. Yet people often feel ashamed or even resentful when hearing my direct words—how unwise this is! Consider the carpenter shaping wood: even the finest nanmu or catalpa timber remains useless if not measured with ink lines or carved with axe and chisel. Or observe the jade craftsman: even the priceless He Shi Bi jade is but an unrefined stone without polishing and setting. Even those endowed with brilliant talent still require constant guidance from parents, elders, and teachers—how much more do ordinary people need it? To sulk when hearing criticism, to cling to one's flaws—this loosens the discipline of self-restraint. When Zilu heard reproof, he rejoiced; when Yu the Great heard good counsel, he bowed in thanks. If even sages remained so receptive, how could I claim even a ten-thousandth of their humility? If instead of self-reflection you resent admonishment, should I then only flatter and never correct, only praise and never guide? That would be easy enough—today I could simply tell you: "Your talents tower above all, your Virtue is flawless, truly admirable!" But would such empty words truly benefit you?

You may become an immortal or a Buddha. If I meet you tomorrow, I will say: "You are destined to prosper and attain high status." When we meet again after some time, I will add: "I guarantee your descendants, wives, and concubines will be virtuous and outstanding; your lifespan and fortune, I bestow upon you everlasting success." This is the way of praising without reproach, encouraging without criticism. Can you believe it? If not, then continue to heed my teaching: Wash away old habits, courageously refine yourself, and you will not miss this destined encounter with me.

In this world, only those who dislike goodness enjoy true leisure, while those who pursue virtue face the most challenges. Why? Because though virtuous people are sincere, their commitment may not yet reach perfection. Thus, Heaven seems unaware of their goodness, testing them with more hardships than before. This is Heaven’s trial, not disorder; Heaven’s tempering, not irrationality. Since ancient times, sages and heroes, bearing the will to save the people and stabilize the nation, often fell into poverty and endured unbearable suffering before achieving greatness. Let virtuous practitioners today reflect on this truth. Disciples like Chen and Hu have devoted themselves wholeheartedly, yet when faced with setbacks, they doubt the efficacy of goodness. In the stillness of night, they nearly waver in their virtuous path. Thus, I use the examples of the ancients to clarify, hoping to resolve their doubts and strengthen their resolve in virtue.

The reason people fail to progress lies partly in selfish burdens, partly in greed, and partly in arrogance and stubbornness. In truth, it all stems from an inability to follow goodness wholeheartedly—hearing admonitions but failing to correct immediately, so even the repeated guidance of sages, immortals, and Buddhas cannot solidify their faith or sustain their practice. You have cultivated the Dao not just for a day or two—have you truly followed and experienced my gentle teachings? Have you revered and upheld my stern warnings without forgetting? If you cling to selfish thoughts, imagining that immortals will frequently guide you, that your long service to them must be rewarded with wealth, blessings, filial descendants, obedient wives, and perfect karmic rewards in the next life—while lamenting the years of effort and money spent, thinking the immortals surely owe you—such notions must be abandoned.

This passage contains earnest admonitions from a Daoist cultivation master to disciples, filled with lament and exhortation. The essence is as follows:

You always think of using wealth to exchange for blessings—this is a mistaken notion. Truly wise people would never entertain such thoughts. If you could heed my teachings, I could guarantee your entry into the ranks of virtuous people. Otherwise, no matter how much wealth you spend, you will only accumulate superficial merit.

Every person carries both good and evil within them. Through my teachings, some have reduced their wicked thoughts, while others have increased their virtuous deeds. Yet there are also relapses—this is what we call the principle of "karmic accumulation." I truly grieve for you, yet I always hold hope for you. In the end, what matters most is repentance and self-renewal.

Alas! Why can your dispositions still not transform? I have been preaching here for many years, hoping you would correct your stubborn temperaments and eliminate hypocrisy, yet my hopes remain unfulfilled. I have explained the principles of the Dao (the Way) and human desires clearly, and the methods of self-cultivation and family harmony plainly. I had hoped you would recover your true nature and pacify your emotions, yet you still fail to do so.

I even used the significant juncture of the Lower Yuan Jiazi (a special period in Daoist chronology) to enlighten you—some understood, while others remained oblivious. If you cannot even master your own bodies, where then shall our true nature reside? How shall emotions find their place? Since you cannot find an anchor, you must not indulge your temperaments and hasten your own corruption. Why focus only on the present without considering the consequences?

Even birds know to seek shelter before the wind rises, and ants understand to move before the rain comes—these creatures all know to seek fortune and avoid calamity. Why then are humans so foolish? I truly pity you and ache for you. I can only use simple principles to guide you, hoping you will awaken and transform your temperaments. Yet in the end, you have not succeeded.

Scholars flaunt their talents, merchants boast of their competence, the wealthy cling to money as more precious than life itself, and the poor, facing hardship, become even more petty and calculating. I have seen these phenomena too often and verified them thoroughly. Why don’t you reflect—are these not all the results of being driven by your temperaments? If you could master your nature and emotions, why would you exhaust yourselves in such futile struggles?

Alas! When human nature reveals itself, people fail to comprehend tolerance; human hearts grow selfish and unjust. Thinking of this, I cannot hold back my tears—food loses its flavor, and neither sitting nor resting brings peace. Ah! I truly fear the day may come when you wish to draw near to me, yet find it difficult to do so.

You are fortunate to live in an age of peace and prosperity, blessed with wise fathers and elder brothers, and favorable circumstances. You ought to set aside worldly distractions and devote yourselves to study, aspiring to become learned scholars of renown—this is the true ambition of a Confucian. It is not that you do not value yourselves, but when you study with thoughts of fame and profit, your minds become scattered, and your scholarship naturally suffers. From now on, emulate Dong Zhongshu, who shut himself away to study diligently, and follow the example of Fan Zhongyan, who divided his meager porridge to sustain himself. Seek moral cultivation rather than indulgence in food and drink; pursue the great Dao rather than worldly wealth. If you apply yourselves earnestly, hardship will eventually give way to reward—this is the inevitable principle.

Having received my instruction, if you fail to broaden your knowledge and insight but instead grow complacent with worldly views, it would be a great pity. What is called "propriety" (Li) is simply appropriateness—acting in accordance with what is fitting is the essence of propriety. In sacrifices to the gods and ancestors, one should not be stingy with offerings, for this is how reverence is expressed. Yet some, in their personal frugality, go against the teachings of the ancient kings. If your parents asked you for a chicken, pig, fish, or turtle, would you refuse out of reluctance to kill? Consider how, in your spring sacrifices, you hesitate to use even a single sheep to show your aversion to killing—this resembles the ways of Emperor Wu of Liang (a devout Buddhist ruler of the Southern Dynasties). Long ago, Zigong wished to abolish the sacrificial use of sheep, but Confucius upheld the preservation of ritual tradition—this is the eternal right path. In performing rites hereafter, do not overemphasize compassion, for excessive compassion makes it impossible to properly fulfill ritual.

You follow my teachings and conduct your affairs with order, yet you lack one crucial word: "forgetting." You cling to every deed in your hearts, unable to let them pass without attachment. I say that doing good and achieving merit are important, but forgetting your good deeds and merits is even more valuable. When you perform a small kindness, you grow self-satisfied; when you achieve a little merit, you become complacent—yet you fail to understand that doing good should be seen as your duty, not something to dwell upon.

This passage expounds the fundamental principles of cultivating the Dao and conducting oneself as a person:

Though Heaven recognizes those who accumulate virtue through good deeds, becoming attached to the reputation and formalities of virtuous acts prevents one from attaining true merit. You must strive to reach the state of transcending formality and acting with natural spontaneity (Wuwei).

The movement of Heaven and Earth follows the proper path that harmonizes firmness and gentleness, while the foundation of human relations lies in basic principles like filial piety and fraternal duty. Walking the upright path brings stability, while taking crooked roads leads to confusion. The most important things in life are upholding principles and valuing emotional bonds—violating reason and sentiment constitutes the greatest delusion.

Before speaking, reflect three times: if the words would be unpleasant to others, refrain from speaking them; when dealing with narrow-minded people, be especially cautious with speech. Many conflicts arise from careless words—innocent remarks being misunderstood—leading to broken relationships. Thus the noble person places particular emphasis on careful speech and conduct.

To accomplish great matters, one must first attain inner peace. Handle affairs through consultation rather than stubborn insistence. Even when encountering unpleasant situations, practice empathy—this naturally pacifies one's vital energy (Qi), allowing major undertakings to succeed.

Regarding daily life: alcohol harms the blood and should be consumed sparingly; tobacco injures the five viscera and is best quit entirely; anger damages the liver, so learn emotional regulation; greed for wealth endangers life—maintain detachment from material possessions. Educate children with proper methods, manage households frugally, perform good deeds courageously, and cultivate virtue (De) sincerely. Only thus can one be worthy of the identity of a Dao cultivator.

Disciples traveling to teach must first embody simplicity and sincerity, then maintain dignified propriety—only with such established character will their words move others. When receiving gifts, ensure they align with righteousness (Dao), never accepting indiscriminately.

Our gathering here is rare karmic affinity—regard each other as flesh-and-blood siblings, sharing burdens in hardship and celebrating joys together.

The Dongyuan Sayings passage conveys two essential teachings: the Dao of harmonious family relations, and the key to collective success in communal endeavors.

Regarding family harmony, the text states that clan members should support one another—celebrating joys together and mourning losses collectively. Speech should be tempered with mutual consideration to maintain strong familial bonds. As people sharing the same ancestral lineage and generational standing, none should create distance ("the estrangement of Qin and Yue" refers to the historical alienation between these ancient states). Only when descendants coexist peacefully can elders rest content. Whether residing near or far, all must return to participate in the vital spring and autumn sacrificial rites, ensuring these ceremonies fulfill both name and substance.

Concerning communal achievement, the author laments how difficult it is to accomplish great undertakings. The talented often become arrogant ("those who flaunt their abilities"), while the obstinate refuse to follow directions. When each person stubbornly clings to personal views, fearful of being contradicted, capable individuals end up despising one another. Bystanders watch their conceited posturing without intervention, remaining passive observers even when matters collapse. Now that the temple (referring to the Daoist monastery) has just been established, with much work remaining to benefit sentient beings, this is precisely when unified effort is needed. Matters should be approached through consultation—this is how to achieve success while minimizing errors.

Historical examples are cited: King Zhou of Shang fell because his ministers became divided, while King Wu of Zhou flourished through the united virtue of his ten sage ministers (the "Ten Architects of Order"). As with governing a state, so too with cultivating the Dao and building temples. Establishing this monastery represents rare karmic merit—the fear is that after beginning with concerted effort, people might later act independently while blaming others, ruining this noble enterprise through willful autocracy. The Yijing states: "When two people are of one mind, their sharpness can cut through metal"—all should remember this, lest they become laughingstocks to outsiders.

The final section shares the author's personal cultivation methods. He enjoys spring excursions to absorb the harmonious Qi (vital energy) between heaven and earth, and autumn journeys to disperse stagnant Qi accumulated within. Last year he visited Wudang Mountain, Emei Mountain and other sacred sites; this spring he traveled to Jiangling. Now as autumn wanes, he wishes to lead disciples to Wuzhu Rock on Qingcheng Mountain—those willing to join may choose an auspicious day to depart and share in this fleeting joy.

(Note: "Ancestral Hall" refers to the clan shrine; "Ten Architects of Order" denotes the ten wise ministers who assisted King Wu of Zhou; "Wudang," "Emei" and "Qingcheng" are all sacred Daoist mountains)

The examination period during the Shangyuan Festival (a major Daoist holiday) was exceptionally rigorous. After over a month of continuous duty overseeing security matters, spring arrived almost unnoticed. Now witnessing mountain flowers in full bloom and hearing birds singing freely, my lively and unconstrained heart was awakened, filling me with extraordinary joy—such precious moments are truly rare.

My mind stands firm as mountains and rests calm as water. Mountain-like steadiness cannot be shaken; water-like tranquility knows no ripples. Though external objects and I both possess physical forms, no distinction remains between self and other. Gratitude and grudges are all forgotten; intimacy and distance completely dissolved—I simply return to that originally pure and unstained heavenly nature. As for worldly biases, right and wrong, gain and loss, sorrow and joy—how could these possibly affect me? This is why one may be called a "leisurely Daoist" (a cultivator transcending worldly concerns). Understanding this principle is itself a method for refining one's nature and establishing one's life foundation.

Some grieve over losing farmland while others rejoice at acquiring it. When people trade properties using underweight silver, that pitiable state of loss actually becomes the critical moment for accumulating profound virtue (De). If silver falls short of 90-95% purity (ancient standards), even the slightest deficiency constitutes fault, for Heaven most despises petty-mindedness.

Once I presented a question to the fictional sage Mo Shiweng using people and objects: "Which is more valuable—people or objects? Which is inferior—people or objects?" Suddenly changing expression, Mo Shiweng replied: "How can you compare people with objects? Humans consume grains, wear cloth, dwell in houses, attain honor through imperial examinations, and possess storerooms of wealth. How can those fur-covered, horn-bearing beasts be mentioned alongside humans?"

I asked: "From your words, are people valuable while objects worthless? Objects inferior while people noble?" He answered: "Precisely—people are truly valuable, objects truly inferior." I responded: "Since you value humans, I'll temporarily set aside that discussion. But regarding your claim about objects' inferiority, I must debate this matter—"

"Have you not observed honeybees? They devote their entire lives serving a single queen, accompanying her in every movement, migrating together—clearly understanding the righteousness between ruler and subject. Have you not seen crows? They remember nurturing kindness and exhaust themselves in feeding their parents—manifesting filial piety. Have you not witnessed yellow swans? After losing mates, they remain solitary for seven years, roosting alone at night without joining flocks—demonstrating marital fidelity. Have you not beheld egrets? Contentedly wandering sandbars..."

Finding food on the sandbar and eating it without greed—this too knows the integrity of natural restraint. As for the parental love of the potter wasp carrying its young, the righteous reciprocity of ants sharing food, the orderly formations of migrating geese displaying ritual propriety, the wisdom of birds sensing wind patterns to build nests, or the reliability of cuckoos heralding the farming season—these creatures all manifest virtues like loyalty, filial piety, moral integrity, benevolence, righteousness, ritual decorum, wisdom, and trustworthiness, verifiable in every detail. Though they wear animal forms, their hearts mirror human virtues. By what measure, then, can you claim human superiority over creatures?

Examine your conscience: have you fulfilled life’s essential duties? Even if achieved, these are merely baseline obligations—no grounds for pride over animals. If left undone, humans become inferior to them. Should you seek equality with creatures, they would mock your incongruity and rebuke you sternly. Could you still declare human nobility then? Hearing this, the old man fell silent, retreating in shame and remorse.

On the 26th day of the eighth lunar month in the Jiayin year, under crisp autumn skies with sunset gilding the mountains, I strolled along Green Bamboo Creek. There I met an aged fisherman—unkempt, barefoot, and gaunt—hauling a torn net toward dense woods on the right bank. A crumbling thatched hut, scarcely weathering storms, stood there. An old woman emerged, their murmured exchange soon erupting into her tearful scolding as he sighed skyward.

Curious, I inquired. The fisherman explained: "My family has lived here for generations, sustained by fishing. Once we had enough, but my luck turned—now we barely scrape by. Four marriages bore five children, all lost in infancy, leaving just us two. Every dawn I cast nets, yet competitors multiply. Even finger-length fish vanish from miles of stream, selling for nothing. Today I worked fasting till sunset—empty-handed. Hence my wife’s lament."

I reflected: "Heaven nurtures all things, never denying the poor sustenance, yet harvests must follow seasons, allowing life to renew. Spare the young when taking mature fish, and stocks endure. But netting even fry? This mimics Heaven creating life only for man to annihilate it."

The Dongyuan Yulu (Discourses from the Eastern Garden) reveals the principles of karmic retribution and the moral decline of society through several illustrative stories.

The first section recounts the tale of an old fisherman. The Dao (Way) abhors the destruction of living creatures—while one person's hunting may leave some survivors, when everyone joins in the slaughter, no creature can escape. This fisherman came from generations who made their living through fishing, accumulating immeasurable bloodshed. Consequently, he outlived four wives and saw five children die young, often going hungry without rice in his pot. Such was the karmic retribution for his killing. Had he changed his livelihood, his fate might have been different. This teaches us to choose occupations prudently, avoiding professions that involve taking life.

In the second part, the author encounters a white-haired old man by the roadside in Linqiong. Bent under a load of grain he was carrying to market, the elder lamented that though he had three sons, each pursued his own affairs, leaving none willing to help. The author reflects sorrowfully: According to ancient rites, those with frost-white hair should enjoy peaceful twilight years, yet now elders must toil alone—a clear sign of societal degeneration that makes one yearn for the virtuous ways of the Three Dynasties of antiquity.

The third narrative concerns an arrogant scholar surnamed Bai, who boastfully proclaimed his plans to build towers, maintain concubines, wear lavish robes, and spend his days gambling in pleasure. The author responds with pointed irony: While life's joys, fine attire, and occasional amusement are harmless, excessive pursuit of these becomes sheer self-indulgence. This dialogue exposes the hedonistic mindset prevalent among some contemporaries.

These stories collectively admonish humanity: Revere life, honor parents, and restrain desires—lest bitter consequences follow. Through concrete examples, the author expresses profound concern over ethical decay and a heartfelt longing for the simple virtues of ancient times.

The Eastern Garden Discourse addresses two incidents:

The first concerns Master Bai's story. Some criticized me (the author), saying: "You often speak of karmic retribution and enjoy admonishing others. Why then did you not dissuade Bai when he spoke of hunting beasts and fishing for delicacies, but instead agreed with him?" I explained: This is like using a knife or awl to chisel hard metal or stone - the more force applied, the more the tool will be damaged. Bai at that moment was full of arrogant energy, completely unreceptive to counsel, like speaking to a pig in vain. Moreover, I've heard that when a person commits wrongs without remorse and even takes pride in them, Heaven naturally withdraws his spirit (Shen) to punish him. Indeed, within a few years, Bai died from his own hubris. Only then did people understand that those I didn't admonish were beyond redemption.

The second incident tells of Scholar Qingbai's quest for the Dao. This scholar traveled through mountains and rivers for years seeking an enlightened master. One day at a wilderness pavilion, he met an elder wearing a black headscarf and blue robe. The elder waved his horsetail whisk (a common Daoist ritual implement) while uttering six "miao" (wondrous) and three "qiao" (key) characters, then prepared to leave. The scholar urgently grasped his sleeve and knelt, begging for instruction. The elder said: "Even a thousand pieces of gold cannot buy the true Dao - how could it be transmitted casually by the roadside? If you truly seek the Way, allow me to visit your home later." The scholar waited months at home until finally, while watching his summer crops, he saw the elder arrive as if floating on air.

(Note: The terms "miao qiao" are Daoist technical terms referring to the crucial mysteries of cultivation; "dust-tail" refers to the horsetail whisk, a standard Daoist ritual implement)

There was a man named Yanzhi who earnestly sought to study the Dao, reverently offering wine and food morning and evening while serving an elder (a Daoist adept) with utmost sincerity. The elder only responded by saying: "Follow the ordinary way to remain human; go against it to become immortal. To cultivate immortality, you must invert heaven and earth." Beyond this, he spoke not another word.

Later, when Yanzhi presented silver as a pledge of devotion, the elder finally taught him the "gathering and transporting" methods of cultivation. But this was already leading him astray—without even teaching the most fundamental preparatory practices, the elder directly spoke of "refining" and "firing times" (Neidan terminology referring to critical stages in cultivation). As a result, the "infant" (original spirit, Yuanshen) and the "charming maiden" (original Qi, Yuanqi) became separated, and the "yellow matchmaker" (the mediator harmonizing Yin and Yang) could no longer function. The cultivation went awry—water and fire failed to interact (Yin and Yang became imbalanced), and Qi became blocked in the central palace (the Dantian region). This left Yanzhi dizzy, bloated, unable to eat, mentally disoriented, and eventually bedridden. Meanwhile, the elder had long since vanished without a trace.

This makes me sigh deeply: Such misguided teachers bring immense harm! The number of Daoist cultivators deceived by these "blind masters" in this world is as countless as the hairs on one's head—truly lamentable.

The Dongyuan Sayings records the teachings of Zhenru Lay Practitioner of Pingyun Hall to his disciples, presented in four sections:

The first section admonishes Chen Zigang: When a person reaches around seventy years of age, with vital essence (Jing) and energy (Qi) declining, one should reduce desires and calm the spirit (Shen). There's no need to overly concern oneself with household affairs or descendants' futures. Confucius said "in old age, guard against acquisitiveness" — seeking fame only harms both body and mind. The wise understand releasing worldly burdens to cultivate tranquility, rather than being perpetually troubled by trivial matters.

The second section instructs all disciples: Scholars should treasure their virtue (De) as precious gold and jade. After years of study, your speech and conduct remain rash and coarse, lacking refinement. While this may go unnoticed among ordinary people, it appears vulgar when interacting with refined individuals. Thus I say you've failed to value self-cultivation as one would treasure gold and jade.

The third section encourages Gong Zisan: Perfecting oneself alone cannot compare to perfecting together with others. Among villagers, one should advise where advice is due and admonish where admonishment is needed. Such guidance constitutes the practice of improving both self and others. To consider matters unrelated to oneself reflects improper mentality. Living in this world, one should benefit others — even transforming women and children through moral influence creates immeasurable merit.

The fourth section cautions Liang Ziyan: Neither regard yourself too highly nor too lightly. Excessive self-regard indicates frivolity that diminishes blessings; excessive self-deprecation reveals narrow-mindedness that hinders great deeds. Treat others with humility, and they will respect you in return; cultivate virtue (De) by striving for goodness, and others will naturally admire you. These two attitudes should be applied with flexibility.

(Note: "Zhenru Lay Practitioner" refers to a householder practicing Buddhist-Daoist cultivation; "Chongde Hall" was a philanthropic society funding scripture publications; "instruction" indicates elder-to-junior guidance terminology)

If you wish to learn how to be a loyal subject, study the Classic of Loyalty; if you wish to cultivate filial piety, read the Classic of Filial Piety. The same principle applies to all other virtues. When your mind is troubled, the best practice is to rise at midnight or dawn, sweep your chamber, burn incense, sit in stillness, adjust your attire, and recite classics like the Nanhua Jing (the Zhuangzi) or chant ancient poetry. This will naturally clarify your heart-mind, freeing it from external attachments and selfish desires. Persist in this practice, and you will eventually experience a state of liberation, like fish leaping from water or eagles soaring through the skies. Once you reach this stage, I will guide you further. (Instruction to disciple Chen Qing)

What scholars most need is a magnanimous heart and an indomitable, striving spirit. With such a spirit, what in this world could you not accomplish? Yet this is precisely what you lack—and it will hold you back your entire life. Without this drive, your will weakens; when your will weakens, you neglect what should be done and abandon what should not be forsaken. True courage lies in acting upon hearing the Dao. (Instruction to disciple Liu Fu)

In life, there are fundamental and secondary matters—roots come first, branches follow. Though they differ in sequence, neither is more important than the other. Only after turning forty did I grasp the primacy of fundamentals, and thus I seized what truly matters. Yet in daily details, I remain negligent. From now on, while holding to the root, I must refine the particulars, lest small failures lead to great losses. (Admonition to disciple Liu Pin)

The value of a person lies not in whether they read books, but in whether their heart is luminous. Compassion, fortitude, unyieldingness, and integrity—all arise from this original heart. What is compassion? It is the innate love of filial piety and fraternal devotion. What is fortitude? It is the ambition to never fall behind and to strive for excellence. What is unyieldingness? It is the backbone of knowing shame and aversion. What is integrity? It is maintaining noble pride, neither fawning nor groveling. If you stand firm in these, fulfilling your inner duties and upholding outer dignity, then even if others do not value you, you will value yourself; even if others do not respect you, you will respect yourself. (Instruction to disciple Xiao Gui)

Today, social customs are corrupt, and the world is treacherous—it falls upon you scholars to uphold moral transformation. Even if mocked as pedantic, persist in teaching the ancient ways of the Three Dynasties, so that the cunning, the deceitful, the stubborn, the ignorant, the tyrannical, and the cowardly may restrain their selfishness and reform their wickedness. (Collective teaching to disciples)

The Sayings of the Eastern Garden primarily uses examples of several disciples to expound principles for both worldly conduct and Daoist cultivation.

To Peng Zijie, it says: Like the ancient wooden bell that warned the masses, one must not shirk responsibilities that ought to be borne.

To Tao Zifu, it advises: Your natural talents are excellent, and filial piety comes to you as innate virtue. When I discuss the Dao and human nature with you, it's like laying steps to ascend the heavens—I hope you'll climb steadily higher. Your life has no other troubles except constant worry over poverty. Remember that wealth and poverty are matters of heavenly mandate; poverty isn’t necessarily bad, as it can actually aid pure cultivation. If you remain burdened by anxiety, it will only hinder your progress. After this reminder, don’t imitate Han Xuanzi (a Spring and Autumn period statesman notorious for fretting over poverty) by dwelling in perpetual gloom.

To Zhao Zihui, it teaches: Human destiny isn’t fixed—sometimes it can be changed, depending entirely on one’s own actions. Historical figures like Pei Du (a Tang dynasty chancellor) and Yuan Liaofan (a Ming dynasty philosopher) originally faced terrible fates, but by refusing resignation and diligently fulfilling their human duties, they ultimately transformed their destinies. Each day, during meals and rest, ask yourself: Have I done all I ought to? If not, press forward courageously; if so, persist with redoubled effort. This is how destiny is altered. Without such commitment, one has no right to blame heaven or others.

To Xiao Zijian, it explains: In this life, though one may not achieve great deeds alone, facilitating momentous undertakings still makes existence worthwhile. Avoid squandering energy on useless matters; devote yourself wholeheartedly to meaningful work. Such achievements will be remembered through generations. Moreover, accomplishments of this caliber have always been rare—they deserve earnest support. As the saying goes: Ten thousand taels of gold cannot be relied upon, only virtue and merit bring honor to descendants. Reflect deeply on this truth.

To Peng Zitong, it reveals: The human heart-mind should be receptive, nimble, lively, and adaptable. The mind isn’t empty, yet it mustn’t cling to external things; it isn’t inactive, yet must transcend worldly entanglements. Maintain mental clarity, and distracting thoughts will naturally dissolve—like a mirror suspended on high or a crystal-clear ice vessel (metaphors for purity of mind). Thus, demonic obstructions (hindrances in cultivation) will vanish of their own accord.

The final passage observes: Even in youth, one should cultivate mature virtue to honor the springtime of life. Draw close to beneficial companions, distance yourself from harmful ones. Amid the clamor of worldly dust, where most sights and sounds cater to pleasure, it’s especially vital to preserve lucid wisdom—remembering how joy at its peak begets sorrow.

Throughout the ages, truly wise individuals have always followed this path: they distance themselves from those with unwholesome intentions, abandon crooked methods, and devote their days to studying sacred texts behind closed doors, seeking the true wisdom of sages without chasing empty fame. When encountering those deserving compassion, they extend help; when facing matters requiring action, they act immediately. Like ascending a height—step by step they climb upward until suddenly they find themselves soaring among clouds, looking down to see an immeasurable gap below. This is true joy.

As for parents being the root of our existence, only by fulfilling filial piety can children receive heaven's protection. Repaying parents doesn't lie in fine wines and delicacies, but in upholding family virtues—acting with such integrity that every deed can face parental scrutiny, every word can be truthfully shared with them. When parents' hearts are at peace, filial duty is fulfilled—this is true repayment of kindness. (Instruction to disciple Yin Zirong)

Regarding the propagation of teachings, the worst tendency nowadays is favoring bizarre tales and sensational cases while chanting fashionable ditties, causing common folk to seek mere entertainment without genuine transformation. Henceforth, abandon novelty and return to orthodoxy—present authentic accounts of ancient exemplars demonstrating loyalty, filial piety, integrity, and moral discipline, making virtues from millennia ago shine as brightly today. Only thus can we truly enlighten the ignorant and transform the stubborn. (Instruction to disciple Gao Ziting)

When spreading teachings in western Shu (modern western Sichuan), my vision extended beyond a single prefecture—I hoped gradual expansion would help multitudes reform. Yet too many remain hesitant observers—how could I force them to receive guidance? Alas, they miss this precious opportunity, straying ever further: scholars flaunt literary flair without virtue, merchants boast business acumen without steadiness, and people of all sorts indulge in delusions instead of returning to authenticity. This explains our era's moral decline. That you, born in these decadent times, still possess repentant hearts moves me to guide you toward righteousness. If you can cleanse your hearts, uphold loyalty and filial piety, benefit others, cultivate goodness widely, and regard worldly vanities as passing clouds—you shall become true heroes. (Instruction to disciples in Pi County)

Ten virtuous deeds to implement in Daoist temples: revering written characters (by properly disposing of paper with writing), supporting chaste widows, establishing charity schools, providing coffins for the poor, donating burial land...

The Dongyuan Yulu passage expounds on the principles of accumulating virtue (De) through good deeds. The text unfolds in several interconnected sections:

It first details practical forms of benevolence: distributing straw garments, offering medical aid, liberating captive animals, and printing virtuous texts—all to be performed spontaneously as opportunities arise. While several hundred acres of paddy fields now partially fund these charitable works, greater participation from kindhearted donors remains essential. These teachings, however, are meant only for those inclined toward goodness, not for indiscriminate dissemination.

To Pan Zixu comes specific guidance: uphold your family's legacy of integrity while exercising great wisdom in benefiting others—regardless of time or place. Such conduct preserves oneself, fulfills filial duties, and safeguards the clan from misfortune.

The Luojiang Xie family receives nuanced counsel: their rare familial harmony is commendable, yet even virtuous actions may harbor hidden pitfalls. Where local customs lack refinement, prioritize the Confucian foundations of filial piety and fraternal respect. The text critiques excessive reliance on sutra recitations for the dead as potentially counterproductive, even ominous, particularly warning against heretical gatherings that employ unorthodox methods—such assemblies must be strictly avoided.

A core Daoist principle emerges: true virtue resonates like a ringing in the ears—known only to oneself, never paraded before others. Authentic goodness requires consistent practice without expectation of immediate gain or future reward. Every act, whether small or great, difficult or simple, becomes meaningful when performed with this purity of intention.

Finally, the disciples of Mianyi receive pointed instruction: exemplary figures like Master Yin, known for lifelong charity, should lead by example when the state requires emergency taxes. The passage elevates loyalty and righteousness as life's highest values—with national coffers depleted, citizens must empathize with the realm's difficulties. Considering ancestors, parents, and oneself, all share this collective responsibility.

This passage elucidates fundamental principles for human conduct and social interaction, encompassing several key aspects:

Regarding loyalty and filial piety, it states that descendants dwell upon lands inherited from ancestors, nurtured by their teachings, living peacefully without oppressing others. A ruler's virtue (De) is no less significant than parental kindness—just as children should fulfill their parents' wishes, how can imperial decrees be ignored? Whether through personal example or verbal instruction, these principles should be made clear to all people, urban and rural alike.

In educating the masses, it emphasizes imparting truths with sincere dedication, guiding others through patient persuasion. Speech should be grounded in facts, avoiding deliberate mockery or intimidation. When exhorting others toward goodness with utmost sincerity, one naturally moves human hearts.

Concerning criteria for accepting disciples, the text praises individuals like Monk Xinghe whose inherently benevolent nature makes them ideal candidates. Discipleship isn't solely for transmitting the Dao or alchemical practices (Neidan)—any person with redeemable qualities, even a single virtue, deserves acceptance as an expression of valuing talent.

On neighborhood relations, it warns against arrogance stemming from wealth or status, and forbids bullying the weak. One should assist widows and the elderly while protecting the young, accumulating virtuous deeds.

Addressing filial piety, it observes how modern people pilgrimage to sacred mountains seeking children or wealth from Buddhas, when the true "living Buddha" resides at home. Fulfilling filial duties naturally invites divine protection.

Finally, it discusses dining etiquette, noting that from emperors to commoners, all have proprieties to observe. Even the wealthy must practice moderation, avoiding extravagance. When a single meal costs what sustains the poor for months, even Heaven disapproves—thus one should cherish blessings when dining.

Many in this world cannot even afford a meal—such circumstances naturally curb extravagant waste, which in itself is a method of spiritual cultivation that cherishes one's blessings. (Instruction to Zhao Zi'en)

Seeking comfort is no way to nurture the body; instead, it breeds laziness. Once the body grows lazy, the will and mind follow in slackness. Thus, the famed Eastern Jin general Tao Kan moved bricks daily in his study for exercise, while Liu Kun rose at the rooster’s crow to practice martial arts. Their stories of self-discipline have been celebrated through the ages as exemplary. (Instruction to Zhang Ziyang)

"Never deceive" is the foundation of being human. Anything one cannot speak openly of, anything the heart dares not face before Heaven—these are all forms of deception. Only a filial child does not deceive their parents, a loyal minister does not deceive their ruler, a true friend does not deceive their companion, a pure-hearted person does not deceive Heaven and Earth, and an upright person does not deceive the spirits. This is the fundamental virtue of sages and worthies—never underestimate its importance. (Instruction to Zhang Zipei)

In all actions, one must not consider only oneself. Acting solely by personal preference inevitably neglects others. Learn to empathize, to align self and others as one. What you would not wish for yourself, do not impose on others. To think only of oneself and force others to comply is like demanding an ox to possess the nature of a horse—this is the height of inhumanity, called selfishness, called perversity. (Instruction to Zang Zifeng)

Though the human body stands but six feet tall, it ranks alongside Heaven and Earth as one of the Three Powers (San Cai). Maintain reverence at all times; approach every matter with awe. The deeper this awe, the lesser one’s indulgence. Only when one dares not engage in anything that would disgrace their standing or degrade their character can they be said to guard their person—only then can they be called a filial child. (Instruction to Wu Zirong)

Righteousness (Yi) means acting with propriety. Failing to do what should be done is cowardice; doing what should not be done is error. The discernment to distinguish righteousness comes from long cultivation, yet also reveals itself in action. If, when faced with a matter, one lacks conviction and wavers between advancing and retreating, people will say this person has neither courage nor wisdom—but those with insight will say they lack understanding of righteousness. (Instruction to Zang Zishu)

People often delight in being understood by others, yet resent being misunderstood. This is the sickness of craving empty reputation and fixating on appearances. Consider: What benefit is there in others understanding me? What loss is there in their misunderstanding? Confucius said, "Do not worry that others do not understand you," while Laozi said, "Those who know me are few—that is my honor." Thus, the sages wore coarse cloth yet held jade within—proof that being known or unknown lies with others, but remaining true to oneself lies within. (Instruction to Zuo Zicheng)

These passages from Dongyuan Yulu illuminate principles of conduct through vivid analogies:

Before rain falls, the shangyang bird dances; before wind rises, swallows fly low—all things have their omens. Acting too soon risks exposing one’s intentions, while delay may mean missing the moment. By aligning with the natural timing and practicing Wuwei (non-action), one avoids unnecessary speculation and distress. (Advice to Liu Ziren)

The character for "wealth" (钱) bears a "dagger" (戈), and "profit" (利) hides a "blade" (刀). People assume money sustains life, yet I see it as a weapon that harms. A noble mind worries only about insufficient De (Virtue), never contests over material gains. (Advice to Hu Zizhong)

To fear darkness on night paths or thorns on narrow trails is human nature. Yet the obscurity within one’s own heart goes unnoticed, and personal flaws remain unaddressed. Those who neglect vigilance are, in truth, neglecting their own resolve. (Advice to Duan Zichang)

A broken fence prompts repair; rising floodwaters demand dikes—such is the fear of harm. But when one neither guards against nor mends their own faults, it’s like welcoming thieves with open doors, inviting greater peril. (Advice to Wu Zirong)

A steed that travels a thousand miles a day is prized a hundredfold, yet such horses are not rare among herds. Confucius said a fine horse’s worth lies not in strength but in virtue—a lesson humanity ought to grasp. (Advice to Danxiang)

A skilled charioteer handles the reins with ease, unshaken even over vast distances; a wise leader discerns hearts, embraces magnanimity, and subtly transforms even the deceitful. (Advice to Guo Fu’an)

Swallows under eaves forget their nests may crumble; dragonflies in gardens ignore the spread nets. Though circumstances favor you, nurture foresight—thus the noble mind dwells in peace yet prepares for peril. (Advice to Liu Zixia)

Gentle rains nurture all life; thunder and winds stir growth. Humans inherit the Qi (vital energy) of Yin-Yang—yet instead of cultivating themselves, some self-destruct. Do they not betray heaven and earth’s gift? Hence the mediocre stay bound, while the transcendent roam free. (Advice to Dingchen)

When the sun reaches fullness, it begins to wane; when the moon becomes full, it starts to diminish; mountains overfilled with earth collapse, and waters overflowing their banks spread beyond. The concept of "fullness" appears beautiful yet conceals hidden dangers. For humans seeking sustained fulfillment, cultivating humility proves wiser. The Book of Changes states: The Dao of Heaven diminishes the arrogant and benefits the humble; the Dao of Earth transforms the overflowing and favors the modest; human hearts despise the proud but cherish the gentle; spirits and deities bring misfortune to the profligate yet bless the humble. The truly humble shine brighter in high positions and remain unsurpassed in lowly stations—this embodies the noble person's highest attainment. (Instruction for Zuo Zilong)

Elephants are hunted for their precious tusks, jade invites calamity through covetous eyes, and Shi Chong's immeasurable wealth couldn't preserve his life during the Western Jin dynasty, while Xuanzi of Spring and Autumn period maintained safety through heeding admonitions despite poverty. These examples reveal that improper stewardship of wealth not only breeds resentment and tarnishes reputations but may invite mortal peril. Only by avoiding ostentation, maintaining contentment, and treating riches with detachment can one prevent catastrophic losses from excessive accumulation. (Instruction for disciples)

Seeing drawn bows, people dodge; witnessing raised swords, they flee—such fear of physical harm is natural. Yet few recognize that jealous malice cuts deeper than blades, and cruel words spark conflicts more readily than weapons. All self-serving actions harming others become instruments of self-destruction, just as practices corrupting social morals form roots of personal ruin. Only the noble person moves through the world with serene openness and cautious diligence, free from daytime fears of violent death or nighttime terrors of haunting dreams. (Instruction for Deng Zigao)

Roosters heralding dawn and dogs barking at intrangers fulfill their inherent roles. If they fail to sound alarms when needed, humans slaughter them for food—such is the penalty for broken trust. Humans stand between heaven and earth bearing solemn responsibilities. Without trustworthiness, one becomes like a body without a spine; without this central pillar, nothing can be accomplished. Confucius said: "How can large chariots advance without the pin connecting yoke to crossbar, or small carriages move without the pivot joining shaft to pole?" (Instruction for Fan Qing)

The Fan family (Fan Gu'an) cultivated virtue across generations, maintaining rigorous discipline throughout life. Filial and fraternal in caring for kin, abstaining from killing while liberating creatures, upright in conduct and impartial in judgment, exemplary in educating offspring—truly they represent transcendent models in this turbid world. With whom else should I associate, if not such people? (In praise of Fan Gu'an)

Each person should reflect: This body comes from my parents. If I cannot bring them honor, I fail as their child. Glorifying ancestors needn't mean passing imperial exams or commanding retinues. If I practice filial piety and brotherly love, I honor them through family virtue; if I embody loyalty and trustworthiness, I exalt them through moral integrity. Every good deed I perform becomes radiance added to my parents' name. (Teaching on filial piety)

The Dongyuan Sayings conveys three essential life principles through its passages:

The first section addresses Liu Zizhen: Good and evil are the consequences of one's own actions, and reputation naturally follows. Just as good deeds earn virtuous repute, wrongdoing invites infamy. As filial children, we must act with prudence.

To Yang Ziquan, it teaches: People often chase after pleasures, yet true joy isn't found in indulgence but rather through restraint. Revelry in wine, lust, and song is as fleeting as morning dew. Lasting happiness comes from cultivating disciplined habits—prudence and diligence. When enjoying personal contentment, one should extend benevolent thoughts to share joy with others. Accumulating such virtuous deeds brings blessings that prosper descendants. This embodies the Daoist principle: "A family storing virtue will have overflowing blessings."

For Mou Ziren, the text observes: Middle age often finds people occupied with trivial pursuits. Without discernment in priorities, needless troubles arise—some even gray their hair with worry. Wasting youth, then failing to make amends at forty or fifty while chasing blindly onward, ultimately harms both body and mind. In truth, serene poverty surpasses gilded wealth. The essence of nurturing life (yangsheng) lies in nurturing the heart-mind (yangxin), as Mencius taught: "To nourish the heart, nothing surpasses reducing desires."

A final insight adds: The joy from virtuous acts differs entirely from chasing fame and profit. Virtuous practice has no endpoint—only by letting each thing fulfill its proper place can inner peace arise. Whether interacting with others or building bridges and roads, acting within one's capacity holds far greater meaning than squandering resources on fleeting luxuries.

In social dealings, wealth can gather or disperse in very different ways. Wealth naturally comes together and spreads out. If it only accumulates and is never shared, calamity will follow; but giving it away without good judgment can also bring disaster. After setting aside savings, calculate your annual expenses first, then distribute what remains among the poor and needy in your community, such as elderly people without family and people with disabilities. Though this may seem like giving wealth away, Heaven will instead allow it to gather and endure. (Guidance for Zhao Zihui and Cao Ziwei)

Our country is now in need of funds, and it needs people willing to serve with loyalty and generosity. When you meet others, encourage them to cherish loyalty to the ruler and love of country, and to act from a spirit of public duty and generosity. Once someone takes the lead in doing what is right, millions will follow and respond. In this way, the country’s financial difficulties can be eased. (Guidance for Ye Ziling)

The Su brothers enjoy food and clothing today through the blessings of their ancestors. They should understand that their present comfort has not come easily. They must quickly atone for past wrongs and cultivate good deeds for the future. Know that only through virtue can wealth, honor, and blessings be sustained over time. If you persist in doing good, you can dispel many offenses, deliver your ancestors, bring blessings to your parents, prolong their lives, and bring prosperity to your descendants. This is the most beneficial, most beautiful, and most joyful thing of all. Do not let this opportunity pass you by. (Guidance for the Su family)

Accumulating merit does not necessarily depend on money. You need only become a model for the people of your village, and an example for the people of your county. Let good intentions grow day by day and good deeds become increasingly evident; help the stubborn grow gentle and the deceitful turn toward goodness. Through such small, steady efforts, even level ground can rise into a towering mountain. (Guidance for Wang Zichuan)

Those who study should first set their minds on a firm purpose: if they enter public service, they should become pillars of the state and compassionate teachers of the people. This is true learning. Do not study merely to pursue fine clothes and rich food. Even if circumstances turn against you, holding fast to this purpose can make you a worthy person like Fan Zhongyan. (Guidance for Rao Zizhen)

Founding an undertaking is admirable, but seeing it through to the end is harder; establishing a great achievement is good, but passing it on is more important. Work on this temple is now halfway complete. Your father has given money and effort and done good in many ways, truly putting our teachings into practice and moving Heaven.

The Dongyuan Yulu primarily contains admonitions and teachings for disciples. The first passage cautions Chen Shaowu that to ensure the enduring transmission of this merit (De), multiple inheritors' names should be recorded on the land deed to prevent unworthy descendants from undermining it. By earnestly adhering to the nine precepts without treating them as empty words, virtuous deeds may be preserved.

The second passage reproves Xiao Pengzhong and others for failing to understand current affairs, noting that merely practicing vegetarianism has invited criticism instead of cultivating virtue. True cultivation, it explains, must begin with establishing moral character (De) and meritorious service, without rigid attachment to minor formalities. It further warns them to beware of charlatans who deceive people with heterodox methods (xie men wai dao), as negligence in this regard may bring calamity.

The third passage advises Liu Zipin that loyalty and righteousness reside in every heart—one need not hold office to fulfill these virtues. Organizing local militia (tuanlian) now presents an excellent opportunity to demonstrate loyalty. While the imperial baojia system cannot repel major invaders, its diligent implementation can deter local ruffians and maintain stability. Such efforts, it stresses, are worth the additional expenditure.

The fourth passage instructs younger disciples that virtuous conduct is both life's fundamental duty and a matter of dignity. Performing good deeds brings lightness and joy to the heart, unlike the mental strain of pretense. Those who come to receive teachings must internalize these principles and transmit them to future generations.

The final passage describes how ancient self-cultivation methods were rigorous—beyond sages' maxims, cautionary verses like Cheng Yi's "Four Admonitions" were engraved on daily utensils. It recommends copying such mottos onto doors and windows as reminders, particularly praising the Zuoyou Ming for its piercing clarity: "Greed for wealth is a body-destroying snare; jealousy a murderous blade; licentiousness an heir-extinguishing abyss; craving a life-devouring pit"—each phrase exposes these truths with crystalline precision.

These passages from Dongyuan Yulu discuss principles for conducting oneself in society, offering particularly valuable reflections for modern readers.

Regarding extravagance and waste, the text warns that wealth is unreliable while frugality forms the foundation. Whether in clothing, dining, or social gatherings, every act of excess that violates propriety diminishes one's blessings. As the ancients said, "A single cluster of deep-hued flowers could equal the wealth of a thousand households" — ornamental luxuries as fleeting as two clouds might match the tax revenue of several villages. Though this originally criticized government extravagance, ordinary families should take it as a cautionary lesson.

In interpersonal conduct, the more arrogant one becomes, the more others distance themselves, while humility naturally draws people closer. As the Daode Jing (Classic of the Way and Virtue) states: Rivers and seas become kings of all streams precisely because they occupy the lowest position. One should cultivate such oceanic magnanimity.

Concerning good and evil deeds, never neglect small acts of kindness or dismiss minor wrongdoings as inconsequential. Zhuangzi's analogies illustrate this: Children can steer an intact carriage, but once it plunges off a cliff, a thousand men cannot retrieve it; a tiny bird's egg shatters at a touch, yet when the giant Peng bird soars, no net can capture it. Thus minor virtues accumulate into fortune, while trivial faults may lead to ruin.

When others speak erroneously, respond with equanimity and revisit the discussion later rather than embarrassing them with immediate correction. Like taming a foal — constant whipping only makes it wilder, while patient feeding and grooming gradually gentle its nature.

Finally, regarding self-cultivation, the paramount task is severing excessive desires. Carnal attachments poison the heart-mind; once obsession takes root, especially toward spouses and children, it becomes an inescapable snare. Recognize that familial affections ultimately chain body and spirit. We who inherit the sages' legacy — if we fail to cultivate virtue as they did, instead entangled in shameful selfishness — would not only incur their disdain...

The resources between heaven and earth are finite, and human usage should be measured. If one exhausts several days' worth in a single day, or depletes months of savings in a month, even heaven and earth would have no surplus to meet our demands. If people can practice moderation and cherish their blessings, their descendants will naturally prosper. For what is saved in abundance is spent slowly. Yet frugality is not the same as stinginess—if one mistakes miserliness for thrift, heaven will despise such pettiness and will surely not allow the family to remain wealthy for generations.

Human likes and dislikes are natural inclinations. What I favor cannot be forced upon others, nor can what I detest be imposed as something others must also despise. The key lies in liking what ought to be liked and disliking what ought to be disliked—this is true discernment. One who can judge likes and dislikes rightly may be called a person of virtue (Ren). But if one likes what others dislike and dislikes what others like, this is a biased preference that violates human nature. Once preferences become skewed, right and wrong are overturned, public and private interests are confused, and nothing corrupts customs and morals more severely. This is why Confucius and Mencius vehemently rejected heterodox teachings.

When fierce winds arrive, people know to close their windows; when sudden rain pours, they understand to raise their umbrellas—all to shelter from the storm. Yet when faced with things far more damaging to human dignity than wind and rain, people not only fail to avoid them but willingly indulge in them. I secretly laugh at such people, who refuse to learn what is good but instead imitate moths drawn to flame.

Even a single inch of rain can nourish all things, and a single spark can reduce a mountain forest to ashes. When goodness is cultivated to its fullest, anyone can become a sage like Yao or Shun; when wickedness is indulged, anyone may descend to the depravity of a robber like Zhi. Thus, the noble person (Junzi) discerns right and wrong in the subtlest details and acts with caution at the very beginning.

Only by never being self-satisfied can one deepen their inner substance; only by never belittling themselves can they achieve great deeds. To claim one has entered the hall of wisdom without even glimpsing the gate of the sages' learning deceives no one but oneself. In matters of career and reputation, to resign oneself to inadequacy and cease striving is not an obstacle imposed by others but a self-imposed limitation. Only by humbly seeking the origins of sacred wisdom and applying great discernment to worldly affairs can one attain fulfillment in both.

Youth is like spring blossoms in full bloom—vibrant with vitality, upright and beautiful. Yet if not watered and nurtured in time, the plant's nourishment may soon be exhausted, and its flourishing may not return the following year. Observing the growth of flowers thus teaches us the principles of self-cultivation (instruction to disciple Ru Jun).

In human interactions, amiability is important, but what matters more is genuine goodwill in the heart. If one merely wears a smiling face without true inner cultivation to support it, such hypocrisy is unworthy of emulation by disciples. The human heart should mirror the heart of Heaven and Earth—impartial and selfless. In the eyes of Heaven and Earth, one person is as significant as ten thousand; all living beings receive equal care. If in daily life one only thinks of personal wealth and comfort while remaining indifferent to the poor, disabled, orphaned, and helpless, this violates the great impartiality of Heaven and Earth and severs the principle of vital growth. How can this be called true wisdom? (Instruction to disciple Wang Ziyu).

Some appear honest outwardly yet harbor cunning within. Without careful observation to verify a person's words, actions, and motives—trusting them based solely on first impressions, growing fond without probing their true nature, and failing to witness their conduct in solitude—this is called failing to recognize character and misplacing genuine affection (Instruction to disciple Che Zishi).

Rashness ruins affairs, but indecisiveness does equal harm. In conduct, one must take Dao and righteousness as the measure. When facing matters aligned with Dao, one should shoulder responsibility even through fire and water—such commitment is grounded in truth, righteousness, and principle. If one begins with fervor, wavers in hesitation, and ends in neglect, this irresolute temperament not only prevents great achievements in life but also causes missed opportunities for good deeds (Instruction to disciple Peng Ziji).

Overcoming selfishness is truly difficult. There was once a man who rose multiple times at night to check on his nephew's illness, yet when his own son fell sick—though he didn't rise—he spent the night in restless worry. These two responses seem different but both stem from selfish attachment. Only by overcoming such selfishness can one attain true magnanimity of heart.

When facing the celestial and earthly spirits, maintain a heart as bright and unburdened as the open sky (this teaching was given to disciple Su Zilan). All beings between heaven and earth have their purpose, just as birds sing in spring and insects chirp in autumn. Without birdsong in spring, the vibrant energy of renewal would be diminished; without insect sounds in autumn, the solemn atmosphere of contraction would lack resonance. If even birds and insects fulfill their roles, how much more should humans realize their worth? Even if one cannot establish cosmic principles or guide all creation, any endeavor that benefits society or serves others should be embraced without hesitation—to do otherwise is to descend into selfish mediocrity (this teaching was given to disciple Liu Zifu).

Superficial truths are easily grasped, but comprehending the essence of cosmic principles requires progressive deepening. Consider how the earth's movements correspond with celestial phenomena while simultaneously influencing human destiny—such profound connections cannot be penetrated by shallow understanding. Those who rigidly cling to tradition without grasping its essence end up misleading others. A genuine master of earth patterns (fengshui) must first observe celestial movements, then examine human affairs, ultimately unifying the relationships between heaven and humanity. Only by understanding the connection between stellar cycles and vital breath (Qi) can one truly comprehend earth patterns (this teaching was given to disciple Xu Zixin).

Most people chase power while resenting excellence. When others perceive your superiority in status or ability, they will exhaust all means to undermine you, never resting until you're brought low. Such struggles resemble walking cliff edges—a single misstep brings disaster. The wise understand how to avoid calamity, with humility being the essential safeguard (this teaching was given to disciple Rao Zize).

Who doesn't desire smooth fortune? Yet few maintain lasting prosperity. If heaven withholds its favor, how can we demand it? Only through daily cultivation of luminous intent, upright conduct, and accumulated virtue (De)—until our hearts withstand celestial scrutiny—can we naturally walk open roads, enjoying unbroken auspiciousness from youth to old age (this teaching was given to disciple Chang Heng).

Peasant children labor year-round; though securing basic sustenance, mere farming sustains families without creating wealth. Beyond plowing fields, they should devote themselves to study, nurture moral character, and practice benevolence and righteousness—these form the true foundation of life (this passage, though unattributed, continues the instructional theme).

On the Dao of Governing the Household (Instructions to Ximing)

True filial piety lies in carrying forward one's father's aspirations and undertakings. If one believes there is no need to inherit a father's ambitions or continue his work, then the spirit of previous generations will fade into obscurity. Just as a son who cannot carry the firewood his father has chopped can hardly be called filial.

(Instructions to Chonggong)

Fine timber grows in the forest, yet one cannot expect all other trees to cease growing. The phoenix dwells in the wilds, yet one cannot demand that hawks and eagles vanish. Where the qilin roams the mountains, wolves and jackals still roam alongside. Where the tortoise-dragon dwells in the deep pools, toads and frogs still multiply. The world has always been a mix of the wise and the foolish. To rigidly demand purity, treating those unlike oneself as enemies and isolating oneself—this is excessive harshness. Lacking a heart of tolerance violates the De (Virtue) of Heaven and Earth, which embraces all things. To act solely on personal emotions is no proper way to conduct oneself in the world.

(Instructions to Zhou Ziliu)

Buddhists call the mortal world a "sea of suffering" or a "pit of fire," for they see life's joys and sorrows as mere theater, and the pains of birth, aging, sickness, and death as fleeting as mayflies. Yet people mistake suffering for joy and danger for security—how lamentable! Though none can escape the eight sufferings of life, one should restrain excessive pursuit of wealth and descendants, avoiding obsession with illusions and instead nurturing true goodness. Accumulate merit through virtuous deeds, so that when the time comes to depart this world, you may face your ancestors without shame.

(Instructions to Liu Zilan)

"Lay down the butcher's knife, and attain Buddhahood on the spot"—even the gravest sins can be absolved through sincere repentance, proving that Heaven always grants a chance for renewal. True joy in this world is found only in upholding righteousness and moral principles. Those who do good enjoy peace of body and mind—how clear it is which path is superior to selfish pleasures that harm others without benefiting oneself. The most precious thing in life is to honor the De (Virtue) of one's ancestors while setting an example for descendants. If one drifts through life without achieving anything, how is that any different from plants or beasts?

(Instructions to Zongshen)

Uncut jade hidden in the mountains is indeed precious, yet forcibly carving it may ruin it. The same is true of the human body—preserving one's natural essence is of greatest value.

This passage from Dongyuan Yulu discusses principles of self-cultivation and proper conduct in life, which can be understood in modern terms as follows:

On cherishing one's body and accumulating virtue (De), the original text states that those who dare not harm even their own bodies naturally understand the importance of accumulating "hidden virtue" (good deeds done without seeking recognition). Such individuals inherently possess upright character, and blessings will follow accordingly. Thus, a noble person should care for their body and mind as if treasuring fine jade.

Regarding kindness versus meanness, only those with thick virtue (De) can bear blessings—honesty and sincerity are the foundation of life. The opposite of "thick" is "thin"; mean-spirited people tend to be frivolous, cunning, and slick. Treating oneself this way violates the Dao of loyalty and forgiveness, while treating others this way loses sincerity. Such people will see their blessings and prosperity diminished throughout life, a pitfall the young should especially guard against.

On the pursuit of learning: it is like walking a path—each step forward reveals a new stretch of road. Even a journey of ten thousand miles must be completed step by step. Giving up halfway is unacceptable, and stopping when most of the way is done, leaving only a small portion unfinished, is equally wrong. Those who steadfastly walk the entire path will find enlightenment even if they were dull, and strength even if they were weak. Perseverance is key.

On being open to instruction: those willing to humbly accept advice will take others' admonitions to heart and earnestly reform. Even without parents, elders, or teachers physically present, they maintain an inner discipline as if these figures were watching over them. Avoiding duplicity, such individuals demonstrate genuine sincerity in learning and are certain to achieve success.

On household management: the Wenchang Yinzhi Wen (a text promoting virtuous deeds) is a family heirloom, while the Taishang Ganying Pian (a Daoist classic on moral retribution) serves as a life-protecting talisman (Fulu). Study and remember them often, following their principles dutifully. To establish merit, adhere to the teachings of sages—honor parents, cherish siblings, abstain from killing, protect life, respect written words, avoid the wicked, and befriend the virtuous. Only then can a household thrive enduringly.

On valuing time: the Great Yu treasured every moment, while Tao Kan (a famed Eastern Jin statesman) cherished every minute. Sages understood that life is as fleeting as a flash of lightning. Wasting a day means losing a day for cultivating virtue (De) and advancing one's work. The ancients made use of the "three spare moments" (winter as the year's spare time, night as the day's spare time, and rainy days as the season's spare time) for study, never idling away their hours. Even without reading, one should seize every moment for meaningful work. Those who squander their youth will regret it in old age—when it is too late.

Finally, the text observes that the world has few rich but many poor—years of plenty barely suffice, while lean years bring hardship. This serves as a reminder to cherish blessings and practice frugality.

This passage contains several segments of life wisdom:

The first segment discusses famine relief methods. When grain prices skyrocket and merchants hoard supplies, common people can only endure hunger. The elderly and children suffer particularly. Rather than opening granaries and causing chaos, or donating money that's difficult to distribute evenly, establishing congee kitchens proves the most practical and effective relief measure. Those with means should pool resources—many small contributions combine to make substantial aid for the poor.

The second segment warns against blind envy. There will always be someone with greater fame and wealth—if you constantly compare yourself to others, you'll never find contentment. What's truly worth pursuing is cultivating virtue (De), aspiring to the standards of sages. This constitutes a noble life purpose.

The third segment emphasizes that accumulating virtue through good deeds forms the foundation for receiving blessings. Heaven favors only the virtuous—to attain good fortune, one must first cultivate character and perform kind acts. Historically, those enjoying prolonged blessings achieved them through sustained virtue accumulation. Persist in virtuous conduct, and Heaven will naturally bestow its favor.

The fourth segment examines frugality. Though feet often gather dust and seem less clean than other body parts, ancient people wore fine shoes only on formal occasions, preferring simple footwear daily. Contemporary extravagance and wastefulness prove difficult to change—only sincere, unpretentious individuals maintain their authentic nature.

The final segment explores monastic life's deeper meaning. Outwardly, leaving parents and siblings may appear unfilial, yet spiritual practice can actually elevate ancestors' souls. Changing one's attire also repays familial kindness. Diligently maintaining temples and cultivating the Dao (the Way) serves both as personal advancement and family honor. Governing a household requires eliminating selfishness, but mere fairness isn't enough—one must also treat family members with harmonious warmth.

Being overly strict and harsh with family members will only breed suspicion and estrangement among brothers, uncles, and relatives. This is no way to maintain family harmony. Only by harboring no selfish motives to demonstrate openness, and maintaining a gentle demeanor to show affection, can the whole family live in harmony and pass down virtuous family traditions through generations. (This was taught to Hong Ziyang)

When a fledgling swallow's feathers first grow, it can soar through clouds; when a duckling hatches, it can play in water—if a child in their early years demonstrates remarkable actions or extraordinary speech, like historical figures Cao Zhi (Zijian), Zhou Yu (Gongjin), or Lu Ji, they become exemplars. And there are countless examples of those who achieve self-reliance as adults. If one truly strives with determination, why wait for constant admonishment from parents or elders? Confucius said: "While a father lives, observe his child's aspirations; after the father's passing, observe the child's conduct. If they do not depart from their father's righteous path for three years, they will never change it in their lifetime." Indeed, maintaining it for three years means upholding it forever. (This was taught to Ding Yuan)

Once, an ascetic monk (a tou tuo) spent his days grinding a stubborn stone outside Mazu's hermitage. Master Mazu asked, "Why grind the stone?" The monk replied, "To polish it into a mirror." Mazu said, "How can a stubborn stone become a mirror?" The monk countered, "Can sitting in meditation alone make one a Buddha?" Hearing this, Mazu attained enlightenment. This shows that the path to awakening has no fixed method—there is no single prescribed way, nor is time a constraint. With perseverance, even a stubborn stone can be polished into a clear mirror. (This was taught to Yin Ziheng)

The purpose of study is to become a sage. Yet some say, "What kind of person is a sage? How could I ever become one?" This is self-deprecation—how can one achieve anything with such an attitude? Have they not considered that even Confucius, the supreme sage, said, "I am never weary of learning," and Yan Hui, the great worthy, declared, "I wish to practice my teacher's teachings"? Sages and worthies are made through learning. If we do not study what they studied, what then should we study? Even if we emulate them, we may still fall short—how much further would we stray if we did not study them at all? Our innate gifts may not match theirs, but through diligent learning, we too can reach the great Dao. If the way of sages is not for us to learn, then for whom? Cheng Hao, Cheng Yi, and Zhou Dunyi all followed this path—if we do not learn from sages, do we even wish to emulate these predecessors? Without such models, how could we ever become sages? Those truly committed to genuine learning must reflect deeply on this principle and ponder it repeatedly. (This was taught to Zixiang)

A family that accumulates virtue (De) and performs good deeds will surely enjoy lasting blessings—this is the teaching of the sages. Yet today, people often latch onto the phrase "surplus blessings" to justify their complacency, and when things don’t go their way, they blame the ancients for lying. Little do they realize that "surely" refers to the principle of the Dao, while cases where good deeds go unrewarded are simply the inscrutable workings of heavenly principle. Otherwise, Confucius should not have been stranded between Chen and Cai, nor should the Duke of Zhou have faced slander. If even sages like Confucius and the Duke of Zhou could not escape misunderstanding by the world, how much more so for ordinary people? The key lies in this: accumulating goodness is within our power, but the bestowal of blessings rests with heaven. Do not let this discourage you—the work of accumulating good deeds must never cease. (This is an instruction to Master Yin Dao.)

Regarding the cultivation of "reverence," it must extend from the inner heart to outward conduct, beginning with not deceiving oneself. To indulge even slightly in private, where no one sees, is to deceive one’s own heart in the dark chamber—such a person cannot face the public, much less heaven. From self-deception, one progresses to recklessness; from reckless actions, to outright dissipation, until there is no bottom line. One must deeply internalize the character "reverence," maintaining it in stillness as if receiving an honored guest and in movement as if performing a grand sacrifice. Treat private spaces as if under public scrutiny, and solitude as if under the gaze of the Heavenly Emperor. With such reverence, one naturally becomes dignified and upright, achieving refinement without deliberate effort. Inner cultivation inevitably manifests outwardly—thus, one adjusts their attire, maintains dignified posture, speaks and acts with care, and remains reverent in all things at all times, even in moments of haste or hardship. This cultivation, applied to oneself, perfects character; applied to interactions, it transforms others. It not only nurtures the harmonious Qi (vital energy) but also expands the way of loyalty and reciprocity. This is where the sages focused their efforts, yet later scholars often lack this disciplined mindset, becoming restless and superficial—precisely why those who aspire to sincerity and steadfastness must strive diligently. (This is an instruction to Master Deng San.)

This "Qi" fills heaven and earth, revealing its power in unseen ways. Yet when ordinary people’s blood-Qi becomes imbalanced, they are driven by it. We see those who appear strong outside but weak within, outwardly assertive yet inwardly retreating, seemingly fierce yet hollow at the core—all because they lack the upright cultivation that allows the vast, righteous Qi to flourish within them.

The Dongyuan Yulu passage elucidates three essential principles of Daoist cultivation:

The first section discusses the proper nourishment of Qi (vital energy). A truly cultivated person doesn't rely on brute force, but guides their Qi through righteousness (moral principles) and the Dao (natural law). They become firm when circumstances demand firmness, and withdraw effortlessly when withdrawal is appropriate. This approach avoids both suppression and indulgence, allowing Qi to flow in harmony with cosmic patterns. Such individuals move through life with perfect timing—free from anxious grasping or violent action. Observers witness only their Dao-aligned conduct, unaware of any deliberate Qi manipulation, representing the highest attainment in energy cultivation.

The second section illustrates perseverance through the story of a Song dynasty devotee named Nie. Hearing of a Buddha in the Western Regions who transcended life and death, Nie shouldered his pack and journeyed on foot. Despite years of hardship and countless warnings about the impossible distance, he remained undeterred. When he finally met the Buddha, the enlightened one declared: "With such unwavering resolve, you've already attained Buddhahood." The text extends this lesson: with Nie-like determination, no endeavor remains impossible—echoing the legendary Foolish Old Man moving mountains and Jingwei filling the sea through persistent effort.

The third segment extols humility's benefits. The Book of Documents states "humility brings gain," while the I Ching describes it as "smooth progress." True humility means maintaining awareness of one's limitations, thereby interacting with others without aggression. All human achievements—scholarship, virtue, career success—require humility as their foundation. Even prosperity and blessings spring from this virtue. Consider how Zhang Liang (styled Zifang) felt no shame retrieving an elder's shoe, or how the general Lian Po bore no embarrassment when carrying brambles to apologize to Lin Xiangru. These exemplars understood that genuine strength manifests through humility.

(Note: "Zifang" refers to the courtesy name of Han dynasty strategist Zhang Liang; "bearing brambles" alludes to the Warring States period general Lian Po's famous act of contrition toward Lin Xiangru.)

The Dongyuan Sayings conveys teachings in three key aspects:

The first passage emphasizes the importance of restraining desires. Indulging in desires harms the mind, corrupts virtue, and turns all thoughts toward selfish gain—this is perilous. To avoid danger and attain peace, one must control desires and follow heavenly principle (Tianli). Confucius said the noble person (junzi) is open-hearted while the petty person (xiaoren) is constantly troubled—precisely because the noble follows principle while the petty indulges desires. We should take warning from petty behavior and strive toward noble conduct. (This teaching was given to Lü Zixing.)

The second passage stresses acting in accordance with reason and human sentiment. While social customs vary slightly, heavenly principle remains constant—we cannot arbitrarily judge right and wrong. Some scholars, relying on their intelligence and talent, act arrogantly, stubbornly insisting on their own views in interactions, often behaving unreasonably. Understand that across all ages there has only ever been one "human sentiment" (qing) and one "principle" (li)—we must consider everything by putting ourselves in others' positions. If even we ourselves find something unreasonable, how can we expect others to accept it? Violating fairness loses people's trust. When serving in government later, pay special attention to "sentiment and principle"—the slightest violation may lead to unjust rulings. Recall the story of Zeng Shen's mother: when told "Zeng Shen killed someone," she initially refused to believe it because she knew her son's character. This exemplifies judging matters through sentiment and principle. (This teaching was given to Rao Zizhen.)

The third passage explains the proper way to honor parents. Common practice involves lavish birthday feasts with slaughtered animals—ignoring how chickens, ducks, fish and turtles all cling to life. Killing creatures to celebrate parents' birthdays actually diminishes their blessings. The correct approach is to purchase animals for release on that day, and reverently burn written papers (as Daoism considers written characters sacred). This constitutes true celebration. More importantly, maintain good thoughts, speak kindly, perform virtuous deeds, and be virtuous—treating every good act as accumulating merit for one's parents. Without extravagant banquets, parents will naturally enjoy longevity, and may ultimately attain rebirth in blissful realms. (This teaching was given to Cai Zixi.)

The conclusion mentions how Buddhists achieve enlightenment by "emptying the five aggregates" (form, sensation, perception, mental formations, consciousness) and "eliminating the four thieves" (referring to four types of afflictions) to reveal their true nature and dispel delusion.

The Dongyuan Sayings primarily expounds three essential life principles:

The first passage emphasizes the importance of relinquishing attachments. All modern human suffering stems from craving external things—the deeper the attachment, the greater the pain. The endless cycle of gaining and losing, joy and sorrow knows no bounds. Observe how youthful beauty fades in an instant, how silver strands swiftly crown one's head. Truly carefree moments in life are pitifully few, while hardships arrive in relentless succession. Only by severing emotional entanglements with the sword of wisdom can one attain inner peace. Even when compelled to toil for livelihood, understanding moderation is vital for spiritual progress. Maintaining focused awareness indeed leads to Buddhist-Daoist realms—this is no empty saying.

The second passage discusses inheriting paternal legacy. A father builds a house hoping his son will sustain the household; he clears farmland expecting his son to continue cultivation. What's most precious isn't merely maintaining family property, but perpetuating the parental spirit. The reason Yao and Shun's sons were deemed unworthy wasn't due to poor character, but their failure to carry forward their fathers' aspirations. If your father witnesses no ambition during his lifetime and sees no achievement after his passing, not only will you feel ashamed, but others will reproach you too.

The third passage illustrates life principles through two parables. First, governance ethics: even minor officials must fulfill duties conscientiously. When Confucius managed granaries, he ensured clear accounts; overseeing livestock, he kept animals well-fed—this exemplifies responsibility. Those who only flaunt carriages when abroad and order servants at home while neglecting their duties—how can they avoid nightly pangs of conscience?

Finally, the story of virtuous Wang Pu: after his death, his two sons quarreled over inheritance, except youngest son Wang Zi who claimed nothing. Wang Zi said: "My father's accumulated blessings are already abundant—diligent farming will provide more than enough, why compete?" Later, Wang Zi upheld his father's teachings, amassing hidden virtue (Yin De) throughout life without ever suffering want. This shows: a virtuous father bequeaths endless blessings to descendants, far surpassing the value of gold and silver.

The Dongyuan Yulu passage conveys three key teachings:

The first section explains that one should not forget the spiritual legacy left by a father simply because no material wealth was inherited. The phrase "yin you suo yi" (阴有所遗) refers to intangible moral teachings and spiritual treasures passed down.

The second part discusses the Dao of friendship. Half of life's benefits come from teachers, half from friends. True friends correct our faults and guide us toward goodness. But we must consciously choose: befriend those who uplift us, avoid those who harm. Confucius illustrated this with his disciples - Zixia (Shang) progressed daily because he sought the company of his betters, while Zigong (Ci) regressed by associating with inferiors.

The third section admonishes Gao Zifu: While lofty aspirations are commendable, time flows like water - one must act diligently, not indulge in empty dreams. Procrastination and laziness ultimately make no difference from having no aspirations at all, which would be truly regrettable.

The concluding passage expounds on the importance of "liangzhi" (良知, innate moral knowledge). This "liang" (良) represents humanity's inborn goodness, the source of virtues like loyalty, filial piety and righteousness. If all nurtured this innate knowledge, the world would be free of treachery and rebellion; its absence fills society with evil. The author laments: How many maintain their liangzhi from youth to old age? How many lose it? Though humans instinctively know to love parents and respect elders, growing desires gradually erode this nature. Some become disloyal, unfilial, shameless. Yet even those ignorant of sages' teachings retain traces of goodness - shame, compassion. When reminded: "These virtuous thoughts are your original liangzhi, needing no external search," awakening becomes possible.

This passage primarily discusses how to cultivate and preserve humanity's "innate conscience and natural ability" (the inherent goodness of human nature). It explains that people are born with a benevolent nature, which must be continually awakened, restored, and expanded through daily actions. For instance, when teaching children, one should begin with concrete behaviors such as filial piety toward parents, respect for elders, honesty, and trustworthiness—helping them understand that sparing ants demonstrates compassion, resisting greed reflects a sense of shame, avoiding indulgence embodies reverence, and abstaining from lies reveals an awareness of right and wrong. Through such gradual accumulation, one can naturally maintain the radiance of their original nature.

The author particularly emphasizes abandoning utilitarian motives and focusing wholeheartedly on goodness. The character "良" (liang, meaning "good" or "innate") is composed of "艮" (Gen, one of the Eight Trigrams (Bagua), representing stillness), signifying steadfastness in holding to one's true heart without wavering; and "退" (tui, meaning "retreat"), symbolizing humility and freedom from arrogance. Initially, nurturing innate conscience requires deliberate effort, but in time it will flow forth spontaneously without conscious thought, allowing the Heavenly Principle (the cosmic order) to operate continuously.

The text also outlines key points for cultivating the heart and refining one's character: the heart must remain tranquil, and conduct must be upright. In forming friendships, one must exercise caution, avoiding those who curry favor with the powerful or indulge in frivolity. Speech and demeanor should be dignified, and clothing simple and unadorned. One's character should resemble flawless jade, free from blemish, or a lotus unstained by the mud in which it grows. Such a person becomes a virtuous family member, an upright citizen, and a solid foundation for the pursuit of Daoist immortality or Buddhist enlightenment.

Finally, the passage recommends using a "ledger of merits and faults" (a cultivation method recording daily good and bad deeds) for self-reflection: merits should be noted, but faults even more so. Through this practice, one can continuously refine their character and nurture their nature.

When cultivating practice, if one can immediately become aware of and correct faults, maintain reverence toward heaven, earth, and the divine, and hold constant vigilance toward parents and teachers, over time one will attain what Confucianism calls maintaining reverence and preserving sincerity, what Buddhism calls the non-duality of true suchness, and what Daoism calls refining the heart-mind and transforming innate nature. Listen to this verse of mine: Even when alone in a dark room, do not deceive your heart. Eradicate evil as promptly as weeding. Correct past and present faults, and misfortune will naturally stay far away.

Accumulating virtue through good deeds is like sowing seeds that bear fruit. Secret acts of kindness (yin gong) bring greater benefit to oneself and descendants. For example, aiding the elderly, weak, orphaned, or impoverished, or purchasing captive birds, fish, and turtles to release them—such single acts of compassion carry five times the merit of ordinary good deeds. You should actively perform virtuous deeds to atone for ancestral transgressions, continue the family lineage, and attract blessings with abundant offspring. Why worry about household prosperity not flourishing?

When encountering broken paths, repair them; when finding dangerous bridges, mend them—such acts of kindness should be performed constantly. Just as planting melons in the eastern garden yields melons and sowing hemp in the western plot produces hemp, cause and effect never err. Another verse: In life, guard against wavering intentions. The great Dao lies open before you. But a single misstep among flowers and willows brings regrets too late to mend. (This teaching was given to disciple Duan Zichang.)

Since ancient times, sages, immortals, and buddhas may appear different but share the same essence. In this record of sayings, I mention only sages and not immortals or buddhas because the world knows no disloyal, unfilial, unkind, or unjust immortals or buddhas—just as there are no disloyal or unfilial sages. So long as one's virtue remains flawless and human relations intact, today one may be heaven-and-earth's worthy child, tomorrow a grotto-heaven transcendent or lotus-throne bodhisattva.

Indeed, Confucianism's "soundless and scentless" is Daoism's "constant clarity and stillness"; Confucianism's "unseen and unheard" is Buddhism's "neither emptiness nor form"; Confucianism's "refined unity" and "loyalty/reciprocity" are the Daoist and Buddhist "mysterious subtlety" and "compassion." Extending this: Is not Confucian self-restraint and ritual return equivalent to the Daoist neidan (internal alchemy) technique of "taking kan to fill li" (balancing yin-yang)? Is not fulfilling nature and embodying form equivalent to refining the self and establishing foundations (basic neidan practice)? When selfish desires are purified and heavenly principle flows freely, is this not the state of releasing all attachments and maintaining single-minded focus?

The Dongyuan Yulu passage primarily expounds on the principles of Daoist cultivation for attaining immortality, interspersed with poetic depictions of natural scenery and contemplations.

The cultivation section states: In nature, fish swimming, birds flying, and rivers flowing all manifest the profound mystery of "three blossoms gathering at the crown (sanhua juding) and five qi returning to the origin (wuqi chaoyuan)"—Daoist terms describing the meditative state where essence (jing), vital energy (qi), and spirit (shen) converge while the energies of the Five Phases (wuxing) return to their source. True practitioners need only ask themselves whether they can attain the realm of sages—there are none who cannot achieve buddhahood or immortality. Why abandon simple methods to pursue difficult ones? Reflecting on this, one might call my sayings a guide to sagehood or a ladder to immortality with equal validity.

The appended poems include:

"Swollen Gully" depicts mountain streams surging after rain, their cascades roaring—without human-built bridges for crossing, these waters would block travelers.

"Hearing Book Chanting" portrays lush summer foliage and pristine landscapes, with scholarly recitations drifting from neighboring homes.

"Revealing the Dao" explains how the great Dao (da) possesses its true essence; as heaven and earth operate spontaneously, cultivation methods lie in calming the mind to seek the dantian (the vital energy center in Daoist practice).

Other poems revisit old haunts while lamenting spring's departure and autumn's arrival, describe the coolness of autumn nights with adepts practicing nocturnal cultivation, or observe natural phenomena like yin-yang transformation and plum blossoms heralding spring.

The ancient five-character poem "Occasional Verses on Aspirations" expresses the author's concern for the world and desire to aid the people—though mocked as anachronistic, he maintains his ambition to alter fate and save the masses. "Words for Tao Zifu" encourages a friend enduring hardship that diligent cultivation of virtue (de) will ultimately bring spiritual fulfillment and eternal renown.

The regulated five-character poem "Early Summer" (text not fully recorded) presumably depicts seasonal scenery based on its title.

The Dongyuan Yulu (Discourses from the Eastern Garden) paints a series of poetic scenes and states of mind.

An immortal rides a crane into the distance under the clear moonlight, as the village rests in tranquility. Mist from cooking fires lingers over the water, while beyond the mountains, trees intertwine. The chirping of cicadas clings to fresh leaves, and faint cloud shadows ripple across the glimmering waves. Strolling through this landscape, every step brings delight, and the songs of woodcutters can be heard everywhere.

The oleander, with its enchanting beauty, stirs admiration—so much so that one wishes to plant more for contemplation, and words are penned to express this fondness. The Eastern Garden and Western Grove are filled with oleanders, flourishing in both spring and summer, exuding elegance and delicate charm. On a whim, encountering a few virtuous scholars, we smile in the breeze and share joy in each other’s company, hearts light and carefree.

For Master Le (with preface): Master Le excels in painting, his brushwork refined and noble. Previously, he created dozens of paintings depicting miraculous events, rarely tainted by vulgarity. Now, he presents the Eastern Garden Scroll, which has been engraved at the beginning of this discourse. Thus, I offer these words: Such rare beauty unfolds before the eyes—dark ink like spring rain in the third month, light washes like the chill of autumn rivers. Distant mountains faintly reveal temples, while pavilions by the water stand clear. A thousand plum trees bloom like snow—no need for lifetimes of cultivation to witness such splendor.

Climbing Jun Mountain again on the Double Ninth Festival, emotions surge. Autumn wind scatters fallen leaves, and mist drifts over the lake. Drunk with wine, I lament the times, plucking the zither to chant Fake (a poem from the Classic of Poetry). Gazing skyward, I scratch my head and ask Heaven: When will an era of peace arrive?

On a night at Pingyun Hall, the bright moon hangs high, casting its pure light over the western chamber. Pine branches droop low, flower shadows pierce the curtains, and fragrance lingers in the air. We drink to celebrate the evening, burning incense in reverence to the heavens. Late into the silent night, I wander alone along the veranda.

The divination stall of Shu Zhuang (the recluse) is not true seclusion—rather, like the noble scholars of Shu, he hangs a curtain to sell divinations in the bustling market, concealing his traces. Every character he writes expounds the principles of loyalty and filial piety; every sentence judges right and wrong. The master willingly mingles in the mundane world, yet his heart dwells with virtue and renown.

Someone requests calligraphy, and the brush moves as if guided by spirits, gliding over stiff yellow paper. The strokes carry the grace of Han and Jin dynasties, the forms distinct from those of Zhong Yao or Wang Xizhi. Dragons and serpents dance beneath the brush, ink fragrance suffusing the air. These few lines must be treated with reverence—they may fill the blank spaces on the eastern wall.

A long drought withers the crops, and farmers pray fervently. Suddenly, dark clouds gather, and sweet rain finally falls. Heaven’s grace arrives in due time; its divine power moves the heart. Ditches in the fields fill with water in an instant, and the people rejoice in the life-giving downpour.

A Seven-Character Quatrain:

Facing Longevity (likely referring to a scene of climbing heights or celebrating longevity, though the original text is incomplete).

Returning from the morning assembly, I shed silent tears, my heart ever burdened with concern for all living beings under heaven. Many times I wished to speak to the world, yet alas, mortal affairs remain ever ineffable.

The season of drinking coincides with the wheat harvest, when the weather is crisp and pleasant. Spending whole days in joyous gatherings with immortal companions, I'd gladly drink three hundred cups without hesitation. Even spending ten strings of coins on wine seems no extravagance at all.

When asked about the true essence of cultivation, I—half-drunk—kicked over my wine gourd. The truth is simple: outwardly nourish the body, inwardly nurture the spirit (referring to the Daoist practice of dual cultivation, both internal and external).

I instruct my disciples thus: treasure books as you would gold and jade. Without studying the classics of sages, learning withers away. If asked where cultivation begins, the key lies in making good use of the "three surplus moments" (referring to winter as the surplus of the year, night as the surplus of the day, and rainy days as the surplus of time).

At the ritual altar, I offer my students three cups of wine, fulfilling both ceremony and camaraderie. Amid the solemnity of the hall, this old immortal freely composes new verses.

Three more rounds of wine, and its fragrance deepens. Why must immortals and mortals remain separated by clouds? Tonight's gathering is truly rare—let me sing aloud, and all shall join in chorus.

Three rounds upon three rounds, the higher the spirits, the richer the wine. The true flavor lies not in the cup, but in the spring-like vitality overflowing on this autumn night.

Singing of cockscomb and chrysanthemum: by the eastern fence, autumn's hues linger long, as they proudly face the frost, steadfast in their late-season resolve. Though neighbors, they remain unacquainted—one cradles a crimson heart, the other embraces golden yellow.

Light rain falls at the start of winter, and in the slight chill, every household lights fresh charcoal. Heaven and earth move without cease, like the reeds' ash (used in ancient qi-calibration methods) drifting naturally within the pitch pipes.

The phoenix-tail pine in the courtyard stands apart—scaled like a dragon, lush as phoenix plumes. Surely it came from the mountains, lacking kindred spirits, to keep me company beneath the courtyard shade.

The scene before me is wondrous: spirit dragons and cranes lead the way, geese calling as we soar over cloud-wreathed peaks. Reaching the plains, wild delight grows—yellow blossoms lining the path, framing the traveler.

The sun already climbs three bamboo-lengths high, yet I still slumber deeply. By the stream, orioles sing without end. Rising, I use golden light (sunlight) to refine all things, untainted by the stench of mortal coin.

Celebrating my own longevity, I wander between Wang's Tower and Xu's Tower, singing freely, trading verses in turn. For my host, I offer one more tune—where the flute's melody lingers, even mountains and waters grow serene.

The Buddha's hand citron (a citrus fruit resembling a hand in mudra) at the banquet is especially precious, standing out among the spread of fruits and flowers. Were one to demonstrate the Dharma of the West, this fruit too could transform into the ten directions (a Buddhist term for the entire cosmos).

Plain Interpretation of "Eastern Garden Sayings":

Bending fingers prepares them for better stretching, just as life requires timely advance and retreat. When strolling down the mountain, the spring breeze scatters worldly troubles, refreshing the heart. I told my young attendant to bring wine for our excursion—a single note from my iron flute made even the clouds part across the sky.

Speaking of peonies: No rouge could capture their divine charm, that perfectly balanced touch of crimson. Even if peach blossoms drift down like scattered dots, they cannot match the peony's smiling grace in the spring wind.

On the effects of preaching the Dao (the Way): When sun and moon shine in harmony, autumn harvests fill Jiangcheng's slopes. To understand Sichuan's perennial abundance, know it springs from the merit of spreading Daoist teachings across the land.

Reflections on withering things: Nature's decay seems cruelest of all, yet pines and cypresses endure millennia. Were it not for winter's harshness, who would recognize the worth of such noble timber?

Drinking when inspiration strikes: My quiet hut floats like a moored boat, with fine wine perfuming the breeze. A Daoist cultivator would rather stay drunk than sober—swap small cups for large ones!

Insights from testing a bell: Though newly cast, its voice already fills heaven and earth. Seeking to cleanse worldly dust, I strike it thrice to temper my heart's disposition.

Inscription at a fire scene: Fierce flames need not bring panic—better to reflect quietly on life's journey. Misplaced cunning and schemes turn ill-gotten gains to ashes in an instant.

Ode to chrysanthemums, peonies and hibiscus: Plucking dew-kissed crimson hearts from the chrysanthemum bed alone, I raise my cup until wine-stained cheeks bloom hibiscus-red.

Seeing off Ye Zihu's spirit: Riding light winds to Yizhou, pausing in fragrant mist. The merciful ferry delivers beyond life and death—his skiff glides straight to the far shore.

Thoughts after reading "Returning Home": Tao Yuanming loved his thatched hut best after renouncing office, devoting himself to books in golden hours. Simple joys outshine all—who could rival his clear breeze and bright moon?

Admiring crabapple blossoms: Countless spring winds bearing rains, immortal cranes descend to the altar. The crabapple kingdom stirs pure envy—facing famed blossoms, I'll drink a thousand cups!

Birthday celebration scene: Cranes arrayed from celestial realms, pious incense fills the burner. Don't blame immortals for lingering—they toil day and night to deliver mortals.

Impromptu landscape verse: Gentle rains keep visiting my mountain home; sobered from wine, my zest grows stronger. The garden's spring palette never tires—red peach blossoms threaded with white.

Interpretation of Dongyuan's Sayings in Modern English:

Poem composed while drinking with disciples:

The first cup opens the liver and gallbladder, calms the Shen (spirit), and nourishes Jing (essence). Tonight's feast holds endless joy—the bright moon hangs high, my mind clear until dawn.

The second cup's aroma rises, drinking it like obtaining the elixir of immortality. Tell me, what worldly joy compares to this transcendent state?

After three rounds, inspiration flows stronger—no need for songs amidst scattered cups. Compose another verse for me, watching moonlit clouds reflected on rippling water.

Self-inscribed poem:

With a wooden brush I write divine words, even awakening the dull-witted. I vow to cherish ancient wisdom yet never scorn modern insight.

For Zuo Jingxu:

Ah, Zuo Jingxu! Your talent pure as winter plum blossoms. Like He Yan and Han Yu who attained the Dao in youth, you've forged the sacred embryo (pure Yang body in Daoist cultivation), transcending mortal form.

To Liu Zida:

Resigning office to return home, gazing at misty Xiang River waves. Seek not the Golden Elixir externally—gather your Shen (spirit) through proper practice, consulting often the Yellow Chamber (Dantian).

Advice for Liu Chaoxun:

Saving others and saving yourself are one—Heaven's will and human heart share no division. When merit's complete and you retire, play your flute through cloud-wrapped mountains.

On oleander, crabapple, and cymbidium:

Peach blossoms lean on bamboo stems, crabapples vie in wind-swept grace. Only cymbidium's hidden fragrance inspires fresh poetry when transplanted.

Teaching Yang Xueren:

Constant vigilance against distractions breeds more chaos—better tether your mind like a wild horse. Here's a method to collect your thoughts: play the fool wisely.

Teaching Wu Zilin:

Cultivation needs only focus on the Dantian—why seek afar? When Qi gathers, Shen naturally stabilizes—why indulge in empty Zen phrases?

Tipsy improvisation:

This Daoist loves wine but not drunkenness, lingering tipsily in daylong naps. Awakening to drink hundreds more, singing beneath stars and moon. Inspiration flows into verse—ask where meaning lies? The poem's soul dwells within the winecup.

Wandering Mist Mountain:

Mist Mountain pierces cloud-filled skies, vapors coil around its cliffs. Ancient trees stand witness where no footprints mark—a thousand peaks shoulder to shoulder. Tracing old paths through moss, slippery steps tangled in vines. No birdsong breaks the mountain's silence—only celestial winds whisper.

(Note: The entire text uses poetic verse to convey essential cultivation methods—collecting the mind, maintaining stillness, and focusing on the Dantian. Interwoven with nature imagery and wine-drinking delight, it embodies the Daoist "Wuwei (non-action)" approach to practice.)

The Dongyuan Yulu presents two vivid scenes: the first depicts a journey to seek immortals in remote mountains, while the latter uses swallows building nests as a metaphor for life's impermanence.

In the deep mountains, one hears the murmuring of stream waters and glimpses the comings and goings of dragons, snakes, tigers, and leopards, while the pungent scent of sulfur fills the air. The mountain path is blocked by fallen trees and scattered boulders, the sky overcast with lingering mist. In the distance, the tolling of a bell suggests the dwelling of a reclusive immortal. Pushing through dense woods, one finds an ancient Tang-dynasty temple where monks sit in midday meditation. Upon inquiry, it is revealed that the temple once suffered a devastating fire—what was once a magnificent palace now lies in ruins, with only a few broken pillars remaining, and wild deer resting among shattered tiles and bricks. The temple once housed the Moonlit Pool and Flowing Moon Bridge, but after a thousand years of change, all that remains are moss-covered ancient steles. The immortals have long departed; amid the gathering and dispersing clouds, one seems to glimpse the passage of millennia, as if riding the white mist to ascend to the realm of Taixu (the Daoist highest celestial sphere).

The latter section employs swallows building nests as an allegory for life’s transience. In spring, new swallows arrive, flitting through curtains and beams in search of a nesting place. Disdaining old nests as unstable, they busily select a new site and build afresh. After much effort, they endure hunger and thirst to incubate their young, tirelessly foraging to feed them through wind and rain. Yet once the fledglings grow wings, they depart without return, leaving the parent swallows to lament alone. This mirrors the ingratitude of human children who forsake their parents’ care, a sorrow that twists the heart.

Through these two images—the failed search for immortals in the mountains and the abandoned parent swallows—the text conveys the Daoist truth of impermanence and the fleeting nature of karmic bonds. The ruins of the ancient temple hint at the evanescence of worldly splendor, while the swallows’ tale reflects the fickleness of human affections, both pointing to the core Daoist teaching of "the impermanence of all things."

Plain Interpretation of Dongyuan Quotations

On Filial Piety:

Repaying the kindness of one’s parents is a duty bestowed by heaven. Life is fleeting, so filial devotion must be timely. While parents are still alive, stay close and do not wander far. Regret after their passing comes too late.

Seven-Character Regulated Verse: Inscription on Pingyun Hall, Also for Tao Zifu

By chance, I wandered through a bamboo-lined path to Pingyun Hall (likely a place of cultivation), where the surroundings are serene and transcendent. Two streams before the gate float like duck’s feet, while ancient cypresses in the courtyard bear bark like dragon scales. Opening the window, I find a clean table for quiet conversation, already catching the fragrance from the incense burner. I truly admire the host’s refined character—he warmly offers wine with grace.

Second Poem:

This place resembles Mount Kuang’s "Garden Free from Defilement," where no clamor of carriages or horses is heard all year. In stillness, time stretches long; in leisure, one silently refines the root. Yellow orioles sing from distant treetops, and swallows occasionally flit past the eastern window. Dwelling here is effortless—perfect for contemplating profound mysteries.

Third Poem:

Before the hall, flowers bloom in succession, weighing down the low fence. Butterflies flit by the steps as if in a dream, while the scent of robes lingers by the railing. The midday meditation has just ended; morning wine wears off, leaving a quiet mood. Even more rustic is the cicada’s song, lingering until sunset.

Fourth Poem:

The recluse of Pingyun Hall is noble in character, his bearing as pure as fine jade. Having awakened to the illusion of worldly ties, he now seeks the truth of "no-birth" in this life. Sitting behind lowered curtains nurtures his true Qi (vital energy); silence preserves the primal Jing (essence). Since ancient times, the path to immortality has been open—do not let wrong turns hinder your way.

"Remembering Fan Zihan"

Years have passed since parting with my old friend, yet I hear your cultivation deepens. Establishing virtue and wisdom without pause, your pursuit of immortality and Buddhism flows from karmic causes. You extend aid to the poor, like a white lotus rising from mud. While others drown in filth, your purity shines—such sage resolve commands reverence.

"To Fan Zihan"

How fathomless the human heart—storms arise without cause. Without filial devotion at home, how can ancestors be honored? The world teems with villains who dare defy the law. People never tire of wealth but scorn talk of karmic retribution. Such tides are hard to reverse—do you, too, sigh in regret?

"To Zhong Ziben"

Mountains and rivers now divide me from Ziben—eight years have slipped away. Surely your practice has grown ever deeper—how could the dust of the world

These passages from Dongyuan's Discourses contain poetic admonitions and teachings a Daoist practitioner wrote to different disciples, conveying the principles of self-cultivation in plain language.

The poem for Lu Zixu depicts an eighty-year-old man still vigorous in spirit and strong in appetite—a sign of longevity. He constantly nurtures thoughts of cultivating De (Virtue) and has maintained his commitment to a simple life. Just as building a mountain requires adding basket after basket of earth, refining oneself demands daily effort. Despite his advanced age, he remains diligent, treating others with the warmth of spring breeze.

To Xu Zizhi, the teaching says: Having passed through countless rebirths to attain this human life, do not squander your time. Youth is prone to idleness, yet a lifetime of practice is no trivial matter. Accumulate virtuous deeds wherever you go, and discern righteousness from profit when facing wealth. The phenomena of this world are as illusory as flowers reflected in a mirror or the moon cast on water—what truly matters is examining your original mind with care.

In advising Xiao Zixiang, the text warns: Anger can scorch the roots of your innate nature—do not let raging flames cloud your judgment. Only by maintaining serenity can you become like spring rain nurturing all things; only by dissolving vexations can you preserve joy. The principles for observing others and examining yourself are one and the same—there’s no need to dwell on worldly flaws. When encountering social gatherings, avoid contentiousness and safeguard your spiritual authenticity.

For Hu Zishu, the teaching emphasizes: The human body embodies the marvelous union of Heaven, Earth, and humanity, with innate purity at its core. Only through the growth of selfish desires in later life is this primordial goodness obscured. Return to your origin like droplets merging back into the source—do not lose your primordial Shen (spirit) on misguided paths. Time slips away beyond retrieval; genuine self-realization comes through early cultivation.

In praising Zhao Ziren, the text notes: He upholds both orthodox Dao and compassionate kindness, his nature enlightened and free of selfishness. He disciplines himself and others through ritual propriety, exhorting teachers and friends with earnest words. His spiritual altar long purified, he deeply understands karma’s undeniable truth. By persistently accumulating such merit, he will surely witness auspicious signs—the sun cradled by radiant clouds.