《擊壤集》

Interpretation

The Jirang Collection is a poetic anthology by Northern Song Dynasty Neo-Confucian scholar Shao Yong (styled Master Kangjie), containing numerous poems depicting natural landscapes and philosophical reflections on life.

In the poem Leisurely Chanting, the poet expresses his contented life of modest means: though lacking even two qing of farmland, he finds joy as simple as a gourd dipper of water. He laments that his sincere devotion has yet to move Heaven and Earth, yet white hairs already crown his head. Observing the indifferent cold clouds and the steadfast old pines, he reflects on his increasing idleness in recent years, yet often reminisces about his earlier days of reclusion in the mountains and forests.

Inscribed at the Temple of Marquis Liu celebrates Zhang Liang’s (Marquis of Liu) achievements in assisting Liu Bang to establish the Han Dynasty: toppling Xiang Yu and reviving the Han was as effortless as turning a palm, while ending the Qin and flourishing the Han resembled a game of chess. Skilled both in grand strategy for governing the realm and in refining his nature through fasting and self-cultivation, the poem alludes to the legendary Yellow Stone Elder imparting military tactics and the immortal Chisongzi accompanying Zhang Liang in Daoist practice, praising his unparalleled talent across the ages.

Three poems titled Spring Outings depict the beauty of spring: the plum blossoms of Lingnan bloom in the twelfth lunar month, while the Central Plains admire them in the first month—though separated by thousands of miles, they share the same spring hues. The melancholy notes of the Qiang flute and the fragrance of wine stir nostalgia in wandering travelers. East of Luoyang, spring’s splendor knows no bounds: willows sway in the gentle breeze, ripples mirror the blossoms, and kingfishers dart along sunlit riverbanks while mandarin ducks play in the shallows. The poems also evoke Luoyang’s famed sites during the Cold Food Festival—the Golden Valley Garden and Bronze Camel Street—with willows draping to the ground, swings peeking over walls, and grass trimmed to perfection, capturing a decade of the poet’s joyful memories roaming the city.

Four Autumn Outings portray early autumn scenes: in the seventh month, lotus flowers bloom in full glory as the poet lingers in gardens, intoxicated by the drifting fragrance, as if lost in the depths of Yianhua Stream or wandering the shores of Dongting Lake. A sudden autumn rain chills the wine in his cup. Noticing autumn’s quiet arrival, he finds the courtyard especially fresh after the rain, riding by moonlight along the Yi River and Tianjin Bridge, savoring the pleasures of poetry and wine. Finally, he mentions dwelling in a bamboo-ringed retreat south of the city, cherishing the mild chill of early autumn—a time when half-drunkenness brings perfect contentment.

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Interpretation

These poems from the Jirang Collection depict seasonal landscapes and life reflections, rendered here in modern interpretation:

The first poem captures autumn vistas from a high vantage. When gloomy skies first clear, the poet leans against monastery railings gazing afar. Having witnessed a decade of worldly beauty, he now combs his white hair in the autumn wind. The vast frosty sky stirs endless thoughts—from this tower, all surrounding mountains unfold before him, the deep autumn palace standing in profound solitude. Rosy clouds traverse distant peaks while sunset dyes the horizon crimson. Though his heart brims with unspoken melancholy, he faces the west wind alone.

The second, third and fourth poems celebrate snow scenes. After heavy snowfall clears, sunlight flickers between brightness and shadow as the poet repeatedly ascends the tower to admire the view. Snow-capped peaks stand like upright swords, frozen rivers resemble newly woven silk ribbons. It seems all jade from Kunlun Mountain has been brought here, the Milky Way poured down as silver adornment. The poet laments his inability to craft worthy verses, though such splendor needs no embellishment. When remaining snow melts, spring light appears heaven-sent. Fortunately, wine fills his cup—only regretting the absence of mountain plum blossoms. Were it not for his deep friendship with the prefect, who would appreciate an ordinary man like him?

The fifth poem paints winter twilight. On an evening when light snow first clears, ascending the tower reveals exceptional freshness. Mist-veiled mountains undulate in layered heights, while beyond sparse woods, water surfaces flicker in and out of view. Brilliant sunset clouds adorn the horizon as intermittent horn sounds drift on the wind—such scenery truly deserves painting, though even skilled artists might fail capturing its essence.

The sixth poem reflects on history through ancient echoes. Four sages once lingered here, their memory cherished through centuries. Eminent figures cannot escape worldly entanglements—only those with emptied minds dwell content in mountain forests. Surveying the rise and fall of ages, true wisdom lies in understanding when to advance or withdraw. Extraordinary talents should manifest themselves, lest life's potential be wasted.

The final piece shares official career insights. Most people crave government positions, but enlightened souls remain unfettered by fame or gain. Resigning isn't about meager salaries, nor retirement solely due to age. Only by comprehending the cycles of all things can one discern heaven's intent. Better to embrace serenity amidst pure landscapes—especially when home villages already cradle such exquisite scenery.

The morning poem finds authentic delight in simplicity. Immeasurable mountain heights and water depths matter less than peaceful presence. Earth bears all transformations while heaven witnesses eternity. Morning mist lightly veils pavilions as drizzles sprinkle green woods—such unadorned beauty proves surprisingly rare in human affairs.

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Interpretation

"Jirang Collection" in Plain Interpretation:

On the Path of Longmen

The principles of life and human affairs are inherently clear—why fret all day long? Advancing or retreating, I follow my own judgment; action or stillness aligns with circumstance, free from attachment to empty fame. Cloud-capped mountains fill my eyes with joy, while fleeting honors and slights stir no alarm. Though they say the gates of power are deep as the sea, for thirty years I’ve walked tall and unswerving.

Lodging at Yanqiu Villa

My carriage enters Luochuan’s bounds; dismounting, I play by the splashing spring. Suddenly, I grasp the joy of cloud-wreathed peaks—here, no clamor of the marketplace remains. Not only is my heart unburdened, even words and forms are forgotten. Tell me, friends of the dusty world—who awakened to this tranquility before me?

Moments in the Hall of Ease

A few emerald peaks along the riverbank, a bright stream threading through the woods. Drifting clouds shift without fixed shape; hidden birds sing unnamed tunes. My companions came unplanned, and our return needs no reckoning. Why force right or wrong in life’s trivial affairs?

Viewing the Southern Mountains from the Upper Temple

Before me, peaks stretch endlessly, westward merging with Liang and Yong’s vast lands. Better than racing through the hills is sitting still to contemplate. These mountains witnessed Tang and Han’s rise and fall, observed Jin and Han’s transitions. All traces of the past have vanished—only the cliffs endure, steadfast.

The Shrine of Nüji

Southwest stands a lofty mountain, veiled in clouds’ deepest folds. Immortals’ traces are hard to find; my gaze meets only boundless mist. The millennia-old Nüji Shrine faces the Luo River’s flow. Though whispers of the "Rainbow Skirt" melody linger, its truth is lost to time.

Sitting at Ease in the Hall of Swallows

The Dao of heaven is vast yet leaves nothing out; the world’s nets are dense yet full of gaps. My heart long ago ceased to stir—now I’ve slipped free of both snares. Clear springs rinse stones by tall bamboos; pine trees sigh with gentle winds (alternate version: Moonlight drifts through pines; beyond the bamboos, a chill breeze whispers). This scene mirrors my very state.

The Cowherd

With straw hat and rain cloak always near, he never breaks nature’s harmony. Warm days find him playing by abandoned walls; cold drives him to nestle by ancient tombs. On his ox’s back, he pipes a tune; along the ridges, he sings mountain songs. Doubtless, he’d never think to ask about the court’s tangled politics.

Chanting in a Dream (Written on the Road to Sanxiang)

A dream within a dream—awake, I still recall, yet wakefulness and dreams are worlds apart. Today’s favor is but hollow delight; past affections now lie beyond retrieval. Can flowing waters fade without a sound? Do fallen blossoms cling to yesterday’s hues? Meeting after long parting feels like strangers—as if we never knew each other at all.

Autumn Reflections (Excerpt)

Nights lengthen in the seventh month; stars vie in brilliance. The courtyard, freshly washed by light rain, chills the mat and pillow. Moonlight lays all things bare...

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Interpretation

When the body becomes empty and luminous, the mind naturally becomes clear as a mirror, capable of reflecting the true nature of all things. When the heart-mind is empty and tranquil, it naturally embraces heaven and earth. Morning light streams through clear windows; the courtyard appears even more serene after rain. Red orchids bloom in silence, while green bamboos stand gracefully intertwined. Wealth and fame are like floating clouds—the inner heart remains indifferent as still water. Though dwelling in the mundane world, one's thoughts transcend worldly concerns.

The bright moon rises from the sea, and cool breezes descend from the heavens. All things manifest naturally, and the heart suddenly expands. Seeing through the stratagems of the Duke of Zhou and Confucius, one loosens the bindings of benevolence and righteousness. Ritual laws were made to restrain petty men—how could they be meant for people like us? Sparse rain drips upon parasol trees; gentle winds caress tender willows. These scenes repeat year after year, yet worldly people have already grown gray-haired. Mundane thoughts easily entangle; worldly attachments are hard to shake off. Life is but a great dream—why cling to illusions?

The lifeblood of a nation lies in its people, and the people's livelihood depends on grain. Even if sages were reborn, this truth would remain unchanged. False kindness is worthless, and indulgence is even less commendable; empty fame holds no value, and deliberate embellishment is meaningless. The clear breeze belongs to no one—it naturally enters my grasp. The bright moon needs no companion—it naturally shines through my window. When the heart is already at peace, how can external things tempt it? Other trivialities are not worth mentioning—my only worry is an empty wine cup.

In the twilight, faint mist envelops sparse woods; light winds carry chilly rain. As the sun sets, people return home while chickens still peck at millet. This heart was never meant to be stirred, yet navigating the world requires great wisdom. A single phrase could sum it all up, yet I fear words may fail to convey the meaning.

The eighth month's weather is neither too hot nor too cold—even the air feels exceptionally fresh. From high ground, tall trees appear to bow low; distant travelers look like beans. All tangible things are illusory; the mind free of attachments is most transparent. Why bother asking about hardships? May you taste life's flavors for yourself.

As autumn deepens, the heart grows increasingly detached. When weary, I descend the steps to stroll; at leisure, I idly flip through books. The high road is thick with dust—they say even closing one's eyes to rest is difficult. The gates of power are deep as the sea; palace towers remain beyond reach. Wild geese beyond the frontier have yet to fly south, while swallows beneath the beams have already departed. Cloud-capped mountains stretch endlessly—where shall we meet again? Lofty city gates, winding paths of long pavilions—wind and dust wear out garments, turning new clothes old in the blink of an eye.

Amid intermittent cicada songs, sparse formations of wild geese pass overhead. Time slips away in vain; human affairs grow ever more desolate. Trimming bamboo reveals fresh shoots; flipping through old books uncovers fragmented texts. Those who truly understand nourishing the heart—how could they vie for power with the vulgar world?

Mid-autumn's scenery is splendid; the mists and waters of the central plains most extraordinary. The weather has just turned cold; people are already half-drunk. Moonlight sweeps the bed clean; robes await the caress of good winds. These slight preoccupations—no one in the world knows them.

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Interpretation

These poems from the Jirang Collection depict autumn scenery intertwined with reflections on life, using natural imagery to convey a transcendent state beyond worldly concerns.

The first poem portrays the Mid-Autumn moonlight: the full moon illuminates a tall building, its cold glow mingling with frost. The poet wipes clean the mirror of his heart (a metaphor for the clarity of his original nature), seeing through the vicissitudes of millennia, his white hair bearing witness to the passage of time. As people age alongside the autumn hues, the mountains and waters grow more profound; when the trees wither, even the wisest birds are left with only hollow cries. The body is no longer what it once was, and the original moral heart fades—only the companionship of poetry offers solace.

The second poem describes the atmosphere of late autumn: in the harshness of the ninth month, withered willows still host the fading cries of cicadas, while the frosty sky echoes with intermittent temple bells, and a clear breeze carries celestial harmonies. In the distant, misty mountains, fierce birds battle across the vast sky. The poet laments that he is not one who transcends the world, yet dares to speak his mind without reservation. A cold pool reflects his true heart, and falling leaves reveal the mountain’s bones (symbolizing the unveiling of essence)—only then does he realize the boundless unity of heaven and earth, where all things are interconnected. He imagines draping his robe over the sacred Fusang tree, reaching into the moon’s palace, and holding fast to his innate sense of benevolence and righteousness.

The third poem expresses year-end reflections: a clear, boundless sky mirrors the frosty moon, while green pines stand tall amid withered flowers. Teeth loosen, hair thins, and he acknowledges his many faults, yet seeks only a clear conscience. It conveys the joy of transcendence: those who attain the Dao (Xiyi refers to the Daoist ideal state) remain undisturbed by praise or blame, seeing through illusion (concepts like "muddy emptiness" and "equalizing things" are Daoist terms). In leisure, he amuses himself with inscriptions, refusing to feign hollow sentiments.

The fourth poem celebrates the pleasures of a reclusive life: in spring, he casually tends to flowers in his small garden, admiring the moon piercing blossoms by the wine shop at night, and bamboo mist curling in daylight. He realizes all worldly affairs are fleeting, yet leisure is not meaningless—within the "sun and moon of the gourd" (a Daoist metaphor for the practitioner’s perception of time and space), there lies another world, where he has basked in beauty for twenty years.

The fifth poem laments the fleeting nature of spring: no worldly joy compares to admiring flowers, yet their bloom lasts barely ten days—one must guard against sorrow’s intrusion and fear the ravages of wind and rain. He urges others to seize the moment, drinking beneath the blossoms, leaving no regrets.

The sixth poem declares his aspirations: a man of fifty-two seeks nothing but a world governed by wise rulers and virtuous ministers—for himself, ample food and deep sleep suffice. The final piece articulates his philosophy of life: practicing Confucius’ "rectifying the heart" and Mencius’ "fulfilling one’s nature," befriending others through the Dao, moving people with sincerity. Even an army of thousands could not shake his resolve.

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Interpretation

Interpretation of "Letter in Response":

A single year’s official salary surpasses a poor scholar’s lifetime expenses. Though worldly ranks may differ in status, has the Virtue (De) bestowed by Heaven ever been lacking? Without enduring the trials of wind and frost, how can one distinguish the character of pines from laurels? Even without official position, noble virtue naturally commands respect; even without power, those who embody the Dao (the Way) are inherently revered.

Interpretation of "Recalling the Past with an Old Friend":

Reflecting on what I’ve witnessed over thirty years—just ten leap years have passed, yet the affairs of the world are utterly transformed. Once-prominent families now lie in ruin, while new elites see carriages thronging their gates. Worldly glory has always been a matter of chance—how can one speak of eternal achievements?

Interpretation of "Casual Verses":

Writing poetry at leisure often delights the heart. Faced with nature’s beauty, how could one remain unmoved? Yet emotions are not lightly revealed. The finest lines arise unbidden; the best poems come by serendipity. Those ineffable insights of heavenly mystery—within the heart, a single spark of clarity shines through.

Interpretation of "Secluded Dwelling by Tianjin Bridge":

My home lies within Luoyang’s walls, nestled by the famed Tianjin Bridge. Close to the sun, we greet the dawn early; low-lying, we sense spring’s touch sooner. Time nourishes this blessed land; the scenery favors the recluse. Content to shun the pomp of office, I pass my days in tranquil ease.

Interpretation of "On Sincerity and Wisdom":

Though Confucius was born with knowledge, he never ceased to learn; though Mencius possessed innate insight, he still cultivated virtue. "Sincerity and wisdom" (Chengming) are our birthright—yet people today insist on seeking them elsewhere.

Interpretation of "On the Plumb Line and Water":

Water excels at finding level but struggles to form straight lines; the plumb line draws true but falters in balance. Were we to merge the two as one, what mystery in this world would remain unfathomed?

Interpretation of "Revisiting the Luo River":

When buying stones, choose those veiled in mist; when purchasing hills, seek those graced by water. Mist embodies the mind free of artifice; water reflects the unadorned self. The heart grows clear through detachment; emotions settle in quiet observation. Neither can be neglected—transcend the external and return to the source.

Interpretation of "A Message to the Wealthy Minister of Sancheng":

Why exhaust the mind with needless schemes? To rise above the dust, one must cultivate stillness. Act as a drawn bow, poised with stored power; refine yourself like gold tempered a hundredfold. When fishing, spare the lives beneath the hook; when playing chess, still the urge to conquer. A single cup of fine wine suffices to nurture the spirit—often I pour my own amidst the woods.

Interpretation of "Ascending Mount Song’s Summit":

The Nine Provinces unfold like a chessboard; a thousand autumns of striving culminate in peace. Were one to govern all under heaven, why would the Central Plains need war? I’ve long feared the reign of schemers—better to live as subjects of Yao and Shun. Fifty-three years slipped by in vain; now, at last, I rejoice to see the spring plowing.

Interpretation of "In Reply to Zu Longtu’s Letter":

Our lot was always to retreat to cloud-wreathed peaks—without these green hills, joy eludes me. Wandering’s delight should know no bounds; even in dreams, my spirit lingers among streams and cliffs.

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Interpretation

These poems from Jiran Ji express the author's weariness with worldly fame and fortune, as well as his longing for a reclusive life. The first poem states that it is difficult to stand firm in the pursuit of fame and wealth, and it would be better to retreat to the mountains and forests early. Otherwise, a body past fifty will continue to be battered by the storms of worldly affairs. The boundless wind and moonlight could serve as guards for the government, and the vast rivers and mountains could become territories for the powerful, but only I dare to speak words without ulterior motives, speaking candidly to others without feeling any impropriety.

The second poem laments his own dull nature, realizing the Dao (the Way) too late, with insufficient wisdom to adapt to worldly affairs in time. Life is but thirty-six thousand days, yet twenty thousand of them are wasted in idleness. During the Zhi Ping era, in the year Ding Wei, on the Mid-Autumn Festival, the author traveled along the Yi and Luo Rivers. On the sixth night, he left Luoyang through the western gate and stayed at a monk's quarters dedicated to filial piety, listening to Daoist Zhang play the qin. In the evening, he departed from the Shangyang Palace by carriage, lodging first in the land of water and clouds, where he heard several strains of immortal music. Only then did he believe that the days and months within the gourd (referring to the Daoist immortal realm) are indeed long and leisurely.

On the ninth day, the author climbed Jinshan Mountain in Shou'an County and stayed in the county town. The poem describes the mist and clouds swirling among the mountains, where arriving here naturally calms the mind. On the mountain, there are immortals whose names are unknown, with cave doors leisurely open to the white clouds.

In Following the Rhyme of Shou'an County Magistrate’s Gift, the author expresses his unwillingness to toil in the mundane world, admitting that his talents do not align with those of contemporary worthies. His original lofty ambitions remain unfulfilled, yet he finds affinity with the green mountains. He reads beneath the shade of emerald bamboo and worships the flying spring deep within the white clouds. Jinshan Mountain faces the southern stream, and he looks forward to someday traveling there with like-minded companions.

On the thirteenth day, while visiting Upper Temple and Huangjian, the author reflects: Only by letting go of the mundane world can one reach true enlightenment; those who have not resolved the affairs of the monastic life remain ordinary people. If one does not seek the blessed grotto-heavens (Dongtian) here, where else can the hidden immortal realms be found?

On the sixteenth day, in a poem replying to the magistrate of Fuchang County, he writes: How easy is it to forge friendships based on righteousness and the Dao (the Way)? The ancients said the hardest bonds to form are those of true understanding. Literary pursuits do not mingle with court officials; honor and disgrace have nothing to do with hermits. Discussions of the profound are all about the principles of things, and words without artifice reveal one’s innate nature. In the future, the companions of the Luoyang poetry society will add yet another neighbor to their roster.

On the nineteenth day, while returning to Luoyang and visiting Longmen, the poem notes how each time he passes Longshan, he feels a sense of leisure. Do not say that one’s surroundings cannot change a person—how can one remain deeply entangled in the pursuit of fame and wealth?

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Interpretation

Selected Passages from "Jirang Ji" with Modern Interpretation

Inscription at Longmen

Who knows how many ages shaped these towering cliffs of Longmen, their sheer green walls veiled in misty sorrow? Legend says Yu the Great split these mountains to let the Yi River surge through. The roar of rapids echoes through all seasons, while the majestic landscape unfolds before one’s eyes. Traveler, do not linger too long at the railing in lament—how many heroes have stood here, sighing in vain at their graying hair?

Gazing Afar from the Stone Tower of Yichuan

For days I wandered through mist-wrapped peaks, leaning on the railings to savor the essence of heaven and earth. This hundred-foot tower bridges the path of soaring birds, and the vast expanse of misty waters was once a sanctuary for monks. Only those free from worldly attachments know true joy, realizing that rank and glory are nothing to boast of. To relish such scenery in leisure is to grasp the boundless happiness of life.

Reply to Wu Chuanzheng’s Poem

A clear day is perfect for reading—what seems ordinary holds hidden paths. The radiant moonlight draws me back to the fragrant ferry, while swift winds sweep across Lake Dongting. If one does not often seek the Red Waters (Daoist metaphor for the heart’s fire), how can they daily delight in the Yellow Sprouts (Neidan term for nascent Yang energy)? Say not that nothing stirs by the Tianjin Bridge—even in idleness, one must cultivate with diligence.

Letter to Zhou Shiyan, the Reclamation Officer

Do not lament the constraints of official life—ascending heights always begins from below. A noble man knows that yielding and advancing are the way of the world; a scholar’s retreat or advance must be timely. Like Tao Yuanming resigning to return to seclusion, achieving merit before withdrawing is never too late. My only regret is leaving behind the boundless beauty of Yisong—one day, I must revisit this earthly paradise.

Reply to Professor Wei

In this enlightened age, writings shine like the sun and moon; though untalented, I enjoy these prosperous years. I roamed from Mount Taishi to Shaoshi, from the Yi River to the Luo. Even Mencius in ancient times struggled to grasp the Dao—where now is a sage like Yan Hui? Whenever I read of the Dao’s profound roots, I fear your questions on its deepest mysteries.

Reply to Wu Chongqing

"Neither being nor non-being" (a Daoist philosophical concept) is the true origin, barely distinct from the mundane world. All claim to reach it, yet none arrive; all things are unobstructed, yet who truly is? In loss, the liver and spleen feel as distant as Chu and Yue; in realization, wild greens surpass rich feasts. For ages, none have unraveled this single truth—to witness its wondrous function, observe the Lüliang (symbolizing the natural Dao).

Song of a Wounded Heart

What kind of iron forged this needle, crafted solely to pierce the human heart? Had I known the heart spans but an inch, why drive the needle tenfold deep?

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Interpretation

The Jirang Collection poems vividly embody the Daoist philosophy of spontaneous living and worldly wisdom.

The first poem advises against letting sorrow obscure the beauty of nature, as time rushes past like galloping horses. True contentment comes from knowing one’s place, while endless craving only brings unrest. Strolling through fragrant gardens after meals or visiting monks’ quarters upon waking—such simple pleasures are sublime. The moonlit scenery by the Milky Way is most enchanting, best enjoyed with friends over cups of clear tea.

The second poem reflects on the rarity of benevolent virtue (De) and the need for humility. Aggressive shortcuts often conceal peril, whereas yielding words leave lasting grace. Indulgent delicacies invite illness; unrestrained joy sows disaster. Better to prevent sickness than seek cures too late.

The third poem reveals that true leisure lies in the mind, not remote mountains. If one transcends worldly attachments, what harm could gain or loss inflict? No need for guarded speech or hidden schemes. Who knew joy could be so effortless—free as a heavenly steed galloping across the skies?

The fourth poem marvels at the inscrutable designs of creation, celebrating the poet’s love for wooded hills. In youth, illness spared him the chase for office; in age, lack of talent freed him from ambition. He wanders watersides beneath blossoms and moonlight, reclines to pine whispers carried on fragrant winds. To nap by a quiet window, untroubled, is worth more than titles and rewards.

The fifth poem weaves Chan (Zen) insights: Why fixate on origins when the sun courses through vast heavens? The roc soars miles without chariots; the crane lives millennia, cradled in eternal spring. Alchemy’s promise to turn lead to gold is illusion; painted steeds will never gallop. Observe instead who stands unshaken on stormy, frozen nights.

The sixth poem jests at the poet’s own ignorance—his mind empty, his wit dull. A dried-out gut craves only wine; sore eyes dread poetry books. Yet in Luoyang’s gentle breeze or the Milky Way’s misty rain, he wonders: How fares the friend a thousand miles away?

The final verse cautions: Foresight is our gift, but scoffing at convention risks mockery. Better solitude’s quiet joy than public folly. Exotic flowers fade in a blink; the moon’s pure glow lingers forever. Such a life is no waste—to live with unburdened delight is the true Way (Dao).

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Interpretation

The wind rustles leaves but never moves the tree's roots, teaching us not to invite unnecessary troubles. The ancient capital (Luoyang) remains a fine place to dwell in peace, while the idle affairs of sages need no excessive discussion. Immortal companions in the land of longevity, prosperous souls in the nest of contentment—after traversing countless mountains and rivers, one must ultimately recognize one's original heart.

Strolling leisurely, I chant: Often I recall sweeping my humble hut in years past, never letting the path before my door grow wild. Aspiring to be the world's master dragon-slayer, how could I bear to read books unworthy of sages? Understanding the principle of rise and fall teaches timely advance and retreat; perceiving the great Dao of heaven and earth reveals true kinship and distance. Since realizing the true meaning of "the pivot of the circle" (the Daoist realm beyond dualities), not a wisp of idle frustration remains in my heart.

I sought truth across Wu and Yue, unaware it lay right before me. With open eyes, confusion persists; lifting my gaze to search only brings missed connections. Yan Hui (Confucius' disciple) dwelled in that stage of apparent dullness concealing true awakening, while Mencius reached the state of unshaken heart-mind. Who has leisure to visit jeweled shops? True lovers of gems only fret over wealth.

Divining doubts is but self-inflicted worry—what medicine can cure sickness penetrating the marrow? Dreams within dreams build layers of delusion; beds stacked upon beds epitomize absurdity. Even Liezi riding the wind still relied on external aid; was Kuafu's pursuit of the sun not exhausting? Much toil yields little harvest when one exhausts life's winding byways.

Song of Carefree Wandering: The great Dao is naturally level, yet people refuse to walk it. Realizing one's original heart brings serene detachment; missteps plunge one into deep pits. Without comprehending heaven and earth's ultimate principles, how can one penetrate life and death? The crux lies in maintaining sincere clarity within.

Human lives fret over insufficiency, but what remains to seek after fulfillment? Though not wholly satisfied myself, I harbor no worries. I brew fine wine with heaven's harmonious Qi (vital energy) and compose poetry with genuine joy. Unconvinced that time alone brings aging, why dread early graying?

Night rests in the nest of contentment, dawn breaks with draughts of Taihe (primordial cosmic energy). Probing spiritual principles reveals peace; cultivating an unadorned heart receives heaven's singular favor. Let sun and moon shift, mountains and rivers change. To reach this realm ultimately depends on oneself.

What stirs the human heart most? Seeking yet finding nowhere to grasp. The two polarities (Yin-Yang) rest ever in hand, while myriad transformations warrant no concern. Jade hides within rough stone; true gold surfaces repeatedly from sand. Though principles appear clear, true understanding demands profound reflection.

Releasing small fish: Delicate lives deserve no confinement—losing freedom ends a lifetime. I return you to lakes and rivers, sparing you cauldrons and cookpots. Hide deep to escape nets; beware swallowing hooks. With countless cooks under heaven, don't become commoners' meal.

Reply to Minister Wang Buyi's Gift Poem: This verse responds to my friend Wang Buyi's presented poem, expressing appreciation while embodying Daoist ideals of naturalness and transcendence beyond material desires, alongside Confucian cultivation principles.

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Interpretation

The poems in the Jirang Collection primarily express the author's reflections on nature, human life, and states of mind.

The first poem describes the joy of an autumn outing: the crisp early coolness makes it the perfect time for wandering. In the season when wild geese fly south and eagles soar, one can fully embrace the pleasures of nature. Yet human life is like a boat on a river—often unable to reach its destination.

The poem about ascending a stone pavilion on the Double Ninth Festival says: events happen in an instant, and once past, they cannot be reclaimed. Just as there's no need to speak of summer's heat once it has passed, we only begin to speak of winter's chill when it arrives. Understanding this truth naturally reduces worldly vexations.

The poem about visiting Longmen with friends depicts the delight of seeking secluded beauty: in life, nothing brings more joy than discovering hidden places, and the author visits Dragon Mountain multiple times a year. Coming and going as the heart desires, unburdened by fame or profit. Strolling by the Yi River, spending nights in the stone tower of Fragrant Mountain, where cool breezes and misty rain deepen the autumn atmosphere.

Self-Reflection at Year's End is a late-life meditation: in youth, ambitions stretched as vast as the autumn sky, but looking back now seems laughable. All forced pursuits prove trivial, and without attaining the true Dao (the Way), efforts remain futile. In old age, the joys of quietly observing all things, reading, and savoring life grow richer. Though admired by worthy peers, it has meant family members worrying over his graying hair. No longer chasing fame or wealth, he now wishes only to compose poetry and drink wine among forests and springs, cherishing each passing moment.

A poem to a friend explores the nature of mind: the root of the "mind of heaven" is actually "no-mind," yet clinging to this idea of no-mind becomes its own obstacle. Just as metallic sheen naturally appears on water's surface, some things cannot be forced.

On appreciating peonies, the poem says: admiring flowers is easy, but truly knowing them is hard—those who understand examine them closely. One must observe the work of creation in the nurturing of rain and dew, and rank their beauty among celestial standards. Common blossoms merely follow trends; only extraordinary flowers transcend the mundane. Such innate gifts require a lifetime of leisure to fully grasp.

Self-Dedication in the Nest of Comfort portrays a life of ease: in this peaceful dwelling, flower shadows ripple in wine cups, while the chest brims with the harmonious Qi (vital energy) of heaven and earth. Most marvelous is that half-drunken state where one communes with Taichu (the primordial Dao).

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Interpretation

Selections from Jirang Ji:

When things follow their natural course, they often achieve perfection; deliberate scheming, by contrast, leads to imbalance. Those who refrain from stirring up trouble in the world will find no inner turmoil—no burning fire or freezing ice within their hearts. Misfortune is like leaves falling before autumn frost, while wealth and honor resemble red blossoms after spring rain. The workings of Heaven and Earth remain inscrutable to ordinary people, yet the cycles of withering and flourishing pass in the blink of an eye.

From Reflections on the "Supreme Principles Governing the World":

After the simple purity of ancient times faded, Fuxi established the foundations of human culture. As the ages turned, the records of these events became difficult to verify. Yao and Shun initiated the tradition of abdication, while the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties established moral and social order. The Five Hegemons of the Spring and Autumn period rose through sheer might, and the Seven Warring States contended for dominance. The Han dynasties soared like dragons and phoenixes, while the Three Kingdoms clashed like tigers and wolves. The Western Jin appeared refined but invited disaster from the north, while the Eastern Jin preserved its elegant traditions, passing them down to the Southern Dynasties. The Northern Wei seized power during the Jin’s decline, moving its capital to Luoyang only to fracture soon after. The Sui unified the realm but merely paved the way for the Tang, and the Five Dynasties’ chaos spun like a revolving lantern—until the true Son of Heaven emerged to restore order. Surveying four thousand years of history across vast lands, over five hundred rulers either unified the realm, ruled fragmented territories, founded dynasties, or met untimely ends. Their triumphs and downfalls stemmed from external threats or internal strife, much like illness entering through the mouth or disease festering beyond cure. Jests and laughter concealed seeds of calamity; feasts and wine hid deadly schemes. The strong devoured at will, and disasters knew no bounds. The mountains and rivers remain unchanged, yet tombs lie desolate. Good and evil intertwine like dragons and serpents on the plains; precious jade mingles with common stone on Kunlun’s slopes. The Duke of Zhou and Confucius excelled at establishing order, while Laozi and Zhuangzi advocated the unity of all things and self-forgetting. Yet wisdom often comes too late—how can one ever truly transcend it all?

Mourning Chen Zhimo of Zhengzhou:

True beauty must stand alone, unmatched in the world, and extraordinary men rarely meet with golden ages. For fate to produce such a soul is no easy thing. To hear his name across the ages is one matter—but to have lived in Chen’s time, to have heard of him yet never met him, is a regret beyond words.

The Small Carriage Journey:

Drunk on fine wine, one may find lasting joy; cherishing spring’s light, flowers bloom all year. Wherever the small carriage passes, all faces glow with delight—the whole of Luoyang feels like home. Along the road, willow branches sway gently, and the scenery soothes the soul.

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Interpretation

The willow by my gate sways with the wind, dancing back and forth in the eastern breeze. I forget my advanced years for a moment, half-dreaming I'm still in my youthful days.

"Ode to Ultimate Spirit" says: Among all beings, humans are most spiritual; among humans, rulers are most noble. In brightness, we're illuminated by sun and moon; in darkness, observed by spirits and deities.

"On Lifelong Relationships" states: Throughout my life in dealing with others, I've never harmed anyone nor betrayed their trust. Neither have others ever wronged me.

"Song of Knowledge" observes: What the eye perceives we call "recognition"; what the ear hears we term "understanding." Yet how few in this world truly possess real knowledge!

"Ode to Benevolent Sages" declares: Those who fully embody the Dao (the Way) we call sages; those who embrace all like heaven we name benevolent. Such benevolent sages have no equal under heaven.

"Ballad of Striking the Earth" sings: People speak of immortals in mountain caves—likely empty tales all. Should we wait for the ninefold-refined elixir? That would take another thousand years. In the Land of Longevity bloom a thousand trees; the Nest of Comfort brims with joy. With music, flowers, and fine wine, I fancy myself an immortal in those caves.

Selections from "Songs Beneath the Trees":

First verse: Would the work of true creation ever show partiality? The schemes of foolish men prove trivial indeed. Waking in my Nest of Comfort, I drink the half-intoxicating Elixir of Supreme Harmony. Riding my bamboo sedan to tour the Land of Longevity, leaning on my cane to return to the Village of Eternal Harvest. Life flows peacefully without affairs to attend, letting the wind play with my white beard as it will.

Second verse: An aged body needs gentle warmth and care—the Nest of Comfort holds springtime all its own. No worldly concerns burden my mind as I recline at ease; all four limbs stretch freely as they please. When courtyard flowers bloom, I spread my cooling mat; when eaves gather snow, I lay my warming cushion. Who says this old man is clumsy and useless? He knows quite well how to nurture his own being.

"On Supreme Harmony" muses: There exists an ethereal thing called "Supreme Harmony" (Taiji, the balanced qi of yin-yang), best felt in mild intoxication's springlike glow. Can the spiritual elixir truly transform one's mortal frame? Is daytime ascension more than empty show? When moved by joy I dance spontaneously; where passion carries me, I sing without restraint. Friends, don't fault my unrestrained manner—true happiness springs unbidden from the heart.

"Self-Reflection in the Nest of Comfort" confesses: I contend not for fame or gain in this dusty world, yet find even avoiding faults proves hard. Wasted years reveal Qu Yuan's awakening was wise; wrong turns taken make Confucius' Yijing studies clear. White hair cannot regain its darkened hue; a transparent heart finds words grow scarce. Only the purest yang qi forms jade—I fear my practice still lacks perfect purity.

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Interpretation

The "Jirang Collection" poems depict the leisurely and carefree lifestyle of a recluse and his transcendent state of mind.

The first poem describes how even a reclusive life has its own "official duties"—four daily tasks: admiring dew-laden flowers at dawn, enjoying willows in the evening breeze, composing poetry under the moon, and drinking with close friends. Twenty years passed this way, yet finding like-minded companions remained difficult. When receiving the wine vessel of Xiyi (referring to the revered Daoist master Chen Tuan) as a gift from Xie Ning, the poet lamented that such lofty figures were now rare. The line "Though my painted tiger falls short, my heart remains steadfast" expresses that while he may not reach Chen Tuan’s level, his aspiration remains unchanged. "Weeping for the unicorn that never answered" uses the qilin as a metaphor for the rarity of true sages. In the end, he realizes that true contentment lies in serene freedom.

The second poem portrays solitary meditation in a flower-covered hermitage. Sitting in stillness nurtures the primordial Qi (Tianhe, or "Heavenly Harmony"), bringing profound rewards. The hermitage is densely entwined with vines, worldly rules forgotten, welcoming only mountain visitors. Though aware of worldly affairs, he ultimately prefers silence.

The third poem contrasts urban clamor with rural tranquility. The city is ceaselessly noisy, while the countryside, though lacking fine steeds, offers shelter. The moon rises behind mountains, wind whispers through pines and bamboo. Such simple, rustic living—why care for others’ mockery?

"Autumn Night" paints an evening scene: after clouds disperse, stars fill the sky; red berries dot green moss, white lotuses exude fragrance. Still clad in summer robes, yet cicadas’ songs have faded. Long sitting brings deep silence—the autumn night, utterly still.

Two cloud-themed verses capture their ethereal freedom. In clear skies, a lone cloud drifts suddenly—under sunlight, a phoenix; in the wind, a white robe. Coming and leaving without trace, appearing and vanishing naturally, its patterns elusive. Another describes clouds born from stone, not meant to adorn the heavens, unable to bring rain, nor needing to return to celestial palaces—drifting freely is their home.

"Climbing the Stone Pavilion in Autumn" depicts the view from heights: after rain, the crisp air of the eighth month feels desolate. Wishing to ascend the highest point to gaze upon the mortal world, yet in old age, only tranquility is cherished. Telling distant mountains not to frown (lian dai), for such sentiments have long faded.

"The Chant of Wind and Moon" speaks of cool breezes and bright moonlight—these companions never leave, bringing joy all day. "Thrice stripped of rank by dusk" suggests total immersion in the pleasures of wind and moon, indifferent even to the symbolic loss of official robes (representing worldly concerns).

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Interpretation

Selected Passages from Jirang Ji Interpreted in Modern Chinese:

Regarding fame and disgrace, gain and loss—they are as natural as the sun rising in the east and setting in the west each day. These external judgments were never within my control to begin with, so why should I be perturbed by them?

In To Duke Fu, it is written: The rise and fall of the world is intimately connected to each individual—who in this world can truly transcend it? Though you once served as prime minister through three dynasties, now you wander freely among clouds and streams as a carefree recluse. Having seen through the vicissitudes of a thousand ages, one must ultimately return to guarding the true nature of the heart. I know not why, but each time we meet, you always show me particular warmth.

Admonitions to My Son teaches: Good and evil have no fixed standards—it all depends on the intentions behind them. The difference between petty men and noble gentlemen lies in a single thought. One who corrects his faults does not cease to be a gentleman, while one who persists in error will ultimately become a petty man. Good medicine is valued when it proves effective; flawless white jade is worth treasuring. To become pillars of the state requires constant polishing—why not rectify mistakes the moment they appear?

Since Ancient Times says: Even the great sages of antiquity found self-cultivation difficult—how much harder must it be for later generations to casually reach the highest realms? The more desperately one pursues it, the harder it becomes to attain, yet when enlightenment comes, one finds it was always so simple. Ten thousand people may harbor ten thousand different thoughts, but the truth remains singular.

Cold Night Reflections describes: When the cold doubles, I simply add another quilt. I avoid excessive speech and refrain from extreme actions. Strict with myself yet lenient toward others—only the great sages can remain invincible.

In Critical Moments states: Only during drought does one truly yearn for rain; only at death's door does one urgently seek medicine. When people reach crucial junctures, they naturally comprehend the deeper meaning.

On Judging Character cautions: Crisis reveals true character; adversity shows genuine hearts. Those displays of profound sincerity in ordinary times—take them not at face value.

On Foreseeing Peril warns: Excessive ornamentation approaches falsity, and falsity inevitably invites disaster. To relieve hunger, one needs real grain; to end drought, timely sweet rain is essential.

In Response to Junshi Daoming writes: Cultivating the Dao lies in contentment with simplicity, letting white hairs multiply as they will. Without official duties to bind me, I'm spared the suspicions of the world. A thatched cottage suffices to preserve my true nature; coarse tea and plain fare bring satisfaction. What I love most are winter days, basking in sunlight leaning against the eaves.

In Gratitude for the New Poetry Scroll Shown by the Esteemed Duke replies: By the great Dao's side, I chose a spot shaded by pines and bamboos where this virtuous elder retired from office in flourishing times. Planting fine flowers to observe all creatures' nature, filling cups with fine wine to express heaven's true delight. The illustrious achievements of those high-ranking days have now transformed into an immortal dwelling in emerald mountains. Twenty new poems again flow from your brush, each character radiant as the spring sun's warmth.

Finally, it speaks of literature as the common vessel of the world, with poetry being its quintessence. Only by returning to one's original nature can true flavor be known; only by reaching divine clarity can genuine skill be seen. At leisure, observe the waxing and waning of the seasons; in stillness, comprehend heaven and earth's being and non-being. These verses surpass even Li Sao in their gentle depth and subtlety.

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Interpretation

Plain Interpretation of the "Jirang Collection":

The line "Rùn Lísāo qí nài shǎo kuānshū" expresses the poet's dissatisfaction with the overly restrained style of "Li Sao" (The Lament), yearning instead for a freer, more untrammeled realm.

In "Harmonizing with Junshi the Duanming, Ascending the Stone Pavilion," he writes: Standing on level ground, one's vision is limited—how could one discover the novelty of all things? Only by climbing a hundred-foot tower can one behold the unique beauty of spring. In "Reflections at Sixty-Three," the poet, now sixty-three, declares: Though teeth and hair have aged, my aspirations remain undiminished. I refuse to waste my spirit (Shen) idly, nor will I casually display my talents. The sound of scraping bone to cure an ailment brings sorrow, while petty cleverness that nitpicks only breeds vexation. He treasures the teachings of the Daoist master Chen Tuan (a renowned Song dynasty adept): What seems like loss may, in truth, be gain.

"Ode to Taihe Soup" describes the joy of drinking: When two wines blend in the jar, their flavor improves. Sharing a drink is for leisurely idleness; solitary sipping is not to drown sorrows. A single sip brings immediate ease to body and mind, and in mild intoxication, one seems to wander in divine company with Fuxi (the ancient sage). People all love the feeling of drunkenness—but who would willingly set down the cup before reaching it?

"Ode to Heaven’s Will" expounds on the Dao of Heaven: Heaven’s will is simply nature itself—beyond nature, there is nothing else. With a clear conscience, even in a dark room, one need not fear. To sever selfish desires, one must strike at the root. Before success, excuses may linger; after achievement, words are unnecessary. The sage’s realm is beyond ordinary reach—like a priceless pearl hidden in the depths.

"Three Delusions" points out three life missteps: The first is refusing to rest despite old age; the second is having comfort yet no joy; the third is leisure without purity—all of which harm body and spirit. "Four Joys" lists life’s great pleasures: longevity, bountiful harvests, serene leisure, and robust health.

"Chant of a Single Room" extols the pleasures of simple living: A single humble room suffices for contentment, where all seasons feel like spring. Never lacking fine wine or good company, one may admire flowers in a grotto (referring to the artificial cave in his friend Junkuang’s home) or climb a tower to gaze at the moon (his friend’s pavilion). Friends tease me for being too rigidly principled.

"Two Years of Excursions to Jinping" recounts: Every spring when flowers bloom, I visit Jinping Mountain—yet for two years, I’ve missed accompanying Magistrate Zheng, like an immortal lingering too long in his cave.

"Chant from the Nest of Peace and Joy" depicts a recluse’s life: In this nest of peace, free of worldly cares, I keep only a single volume of Fuxi’s teachings. When weary, I sleep; when inspired, I roam with my staff. I gather dew to brew tea, grow herbs, and raise fish—all practices opened to me by the wisdom of ancient sages.

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Interpretation

In my abode of peaceful bliss (a hermit's retreat), I nearly became a shallow vulgarian. Here I organize old manuscripts, restoring scattered texts on the verge of being lost. Through three thousand nights of diligent study by lamplight, I've spent twenty springs and autumns among flowers by the waterside. Though mountains and rivers are beautiful, they're not truly mine—better to content myself with clear breezes and bright moonlight. In leisure I compose poetry, but worldly folk needn't inquire—this self-cultivation practice isn't something mundane minds can comprehend.

This peaceful abode rivals the mansions of nobility—how could I bear to waste such fine hours and lovely scenes? Late spring offers the purest leisure, and white-haired elders should indulge their hearts freely. When morning dew lies heavy on a hundred blossoms by the railing, and warm wine simmers gently in brimming cups—even the sages sought no more than this. Here we save ourselves from mental toil and avoid countless worldly troubles.

Truly, this peaceful abode lacks nothing—a single couch suffices for contentment. Confucian refinement gradually gives way to Daoist realms, where all seasons feel like spring in harmonious warmth. The sun and moon revolve like enlightened rulers governing wisely, while human speech finds value in sincerity. The human heart and heavenly principle were never far apart—what truer truth exists beyond this?

The Reflections on Simplicity says: Fewer thoughts mean fewer dreams; fewer words mean fewer faults. Only when the curtain hangs still do we notice the length of daylight; only when willow branches cease swaying do we sense a breeze. Simply watch flowers bloom and fall—ignore the rights and wrongs of human affairs. Why seek some distant immortal realm? Living this way is no waste of time.

The Lament on the Busy World sighs: All under heaven rush about in toil—who truly achieves carefree leisure? How fortunate I am to lie here admiring Luoyang's spring scenery.

The Poem on Old Age Meeting Spring observes: When the aged encounter spring, they shouldn't hesitate. Having seen through nature's patterns, they understand human sentiments clearly. Some truths are formless and traceless—only the heart can grasp them. Only in old age do we learn to cherish spring's fragrance, knowing these are the year's finest days. Seeing lovely flowers, we treasure them more, aware such chances dwindle.

Rare blossoms seem most precious in full bloom—perhaps the Spring God (Dongjun) means to teach us this. Only when we've spent spring's golden hours lavishly, when extravagant desires fade, can we finally smile with genuine understanding.

The best wine brings mild intoxication—like the first fragrance from the vat, or bubbles forming in the cup. If guests visit, why not claim to be Fuxi from antiquity? The finest flowers are best admired half-open: breezes like soft laughter, dewdrops like tender tears. In that space between smiling and not smiling, rich floral scents cling to robes—such subtle beauty defies description.

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Interpretation

Selected Passages from Jiran Ji in Modern Interpretation:

At the very moment when Yin and Yang first intermingle, we witness the primordial chaos before heaven and earth separated. This mystical state defies verbal description—even the most skilled brushwork couldn't capture it. Few in this world truly comprehend such profundity.

Drink wine until pleasantly tipsy; admire flowers at their peak bloom. Deepening intoxication leads to euphoria, while full blossoms herald their decline. Thank you for reminding me—observing flora's changes indeed marks winter's turn to spring.

Occasionally I wonder: Could I be an ancient cultivator predating even Fuxi? I neither track the sun's rise nor the moon's set, perceiving seasons solely through vegetation's cycles.

When composing poetry in half-drunken delight, I wield my brush like a giant pillar. After pouring forth my soul, I know when to stop; deep emotion requires but slight ink. Lu Yang's feat of halting the sun pales, while Zong Que's ambition to ride winds still falls short. To depict true peace, better let people sing praises themselves.

The essence of teaching children: Among thousands, barely one grasps self-cultivation's true path. Understanding principles matters less than practicing them—what counts is genuine application. Mastering affairs marks talent; transcending mundanity reveals treasure. Good and evil differ vastly, shaped by both nature and nurture.

Life's true leisure lies in the unhurried mind. Finite time brings inevitable aging, yet breeze and moon console. Daily life unfolds amidst mountains and streams; gazing afar reveals cloud-wrapped peaks. Drunk beneath flowering shade, one wakes only when shadows shift.

How could hearts remain unsettled in peaceful times? Inner peace naturally stills contention. I shun chessboard stratagems but cherish zither's authentic notes. Youth spent studying classics; old age favors the Yijing's depths. Cultivation's fruits show clearest—like pines staying green through winter's harshness.

Summer weeds may flourish, yet lost time never returns. Facing gain or loss, people contend—but act not in doubt, keeping body and mind ever auspicious. Human hearts differ little; why would peace bring discord?

Morning mirror shows white hair—I gladly accept this elder's form. Still bold to comment on worldly affairs, clearly holding transcendent views. Though the world needs no fixing, sages still emerge. What's my life's purpose? Only feeling fit for mountain springs.

(Note: "Fuxi" refers to the ancient sovereign; "Lu Yang" alludes to the Huainanzi tale of halting the sun with a spear; "Zong Que" was a Southern Song general who famously declared "I wish to ride long winds to break ten thousand waves" in youth.)

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Interpretation

The Jirang Collection conveys profound life wisdom through simple verses. Let me explain each poem one by one:

The first poem speaks of true freedom. The human heart is but an inch wide—why let it be bound by grasping hands? The body measures only a few feet—why confine it with walking feet? Though all men drink and study, why is it only sages like Yao who truly wander freely between heaven and earth? This teaches that real liberation comes from inner transcendence.

The second discusses the importance of inner peace. When the heart is calm, the body naturally finds ease; when both mind and form are tranquil, external disturbances cannot affect you. Though a person's body seems small, in stillness it stands firm as Mount Tai; though a room appears cramped, with expansive awareness it contains the whole cosmos.

The third encourages virtuous conduct. Doing good is simply natural—even metal and stone can be moved, let alone spiritual beings (shen). Act according to righteousness (Dao), speak from sincere conviction. Don't worry whether others notice; what matters is a clear conscience.

The fourth explores humanity's relationship with creation. The sun is the essence (jing) of all things, humans are the numinous (shen) among beings. All phenomena arise spontaneously, just as words require trust to take effect, or the moon needs sunlight to shine. When humans live in harmony with nature, universal peace follows naturally.

The fifth describes masculine cultivation. A true man overcomes four temptations: wealth breeds greed, beauty fosters obsession, fame inflates pride, power creates dependence. Freed from these shackles, one transcends worldly dust.

The sixth discusses interpersonal conduct. Sincerity is paramount when engaging all things—only with genuineness can one travel the world unimpeded. Cosmic principles make no distinction between near and far; heaven's way (Dao) is perfectly clear. Understand righteousness, don't flaunt talent—worldly vanity is ultimately empty.

The seventh portrays the state of non-action (wuwei). Human affairs grind like stones in a mill, full of calculations about glory and decline. Only the primordial chaos before heaven and earth separated represents true liberation.

The eighth paints a serene night scene. When the moon reaches zenith and breezes skim the water's surface—this refined elegance is something few truly comprehend.

The ninth advocates contentment. Abiding in one's proper station avoids disgrace; understanding timing brings natural ease. Though physically in the mundane world, the spirit already transcends human realms.

The tenth emphasizes virtuous action. Among human affairs, only good deeds are essential—this isn't about heaven's will but one's original heart. Don't abandon them for seeming slow results; the longer you persist, the more their efficacy appears.

The eleventh describes mystical realization. In the dawning distinction of yin-yang, at creation's first stirrings—these subtle visions can never be fully captured in words.

The final poem humorously remarks: People say fine jade comes from Kunlun, legends tell of luminous pearls in the blue sea—such tales may be unreliable. But the treasures in my household collection are undeniably real. This ironic conclusion points to the true jewel being inner cultivation.

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Interpretation

These poems from Jirang Ji embody the Daoist philosophy of following nature's course and returning to pristine simplicity.

The first poem speaks of how the will of heaven resides within the human heart. The vast sky is silent and seems distant, yet the Dao is not far away—it is fully present for us to realize within. People often say the will of heaven is inscrutable, but though the heavens do not speak, that does not mean nothing happens. Such profundity is not easily grasped by the worldly mind.

The second poem depicts a life of leisure. The poet has not read the classics for twelve years (the "woven bamboo" refers to ancient scrolls), spending his days by large wine jars, riding in a small cart while gazing at the blue sky. He declares himself master of the mountains, waters, bamboo, and clouds, quietly savoring the idleness of wind, flowers, snow, and moon. In every moment, he finds joy, letting others say he lives like an immortal.

In the evening, he strolls along the riverbank with a bamboo staff, quietly following fragrant grasses and leisurely chasing wild clouds home. The moon climbs the pine branches, a light breeze ripples over duckweed—such exquisite woodland scenery, yet how many truly appreciate it?

Another verse reflects on the relationship between all things and humanity. The myriad beings nourish life, and humans are their most refined essence. People depend on all things to survive, and all things flourish because of humanity. The union of man and woman is nature's way; the bond of husband and wife is human convention. Beyond these fundamental truths, most are but empty names.

The poem about Patriarch Chen Tuan (Master Xiyi) says: Before meeting him, one only knew his reputation, but upon seeing his authentic calligraphy and paintings, it became clear that such sages exist in every age. His brushwork can be admired and copied, but the state of his mind is beyond words.

The "Poem of Joy" observes how the sun and moon alternate endlessly, half above and half below the horizon. In human life, to be without sorrow is joy—this is why the poet rejoices.

The self-portrait poem uses pines and osmanthus to symbolize integrity, orioles and flowers to represent literary grace. It carries the grandeur of rivers and mountains, yet embraces the sentiment of wind and moon. With this very form, beyond practicing Taiji (the "playing with pellets" refers to Taiji cultivation), he passes his days in leisurely contentment.

Gazing afar from an autumn balcony, his heart stirs with emotion. The mountains, rivers, sun, and moon before him are no different from those of the Tang and Song eras. The pale sunlight before frost, the sparse sky after rain—even the most skilled painter could hardly capture such essence.

The final poem speaks of the way to live in the world: less is more, and nothingness is fullness. Relying on external maneuvering cannot last. Just as heaven and earth, vast as they are, have their limits, how much more so the affairs of human life? There is no need to overthink them.

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Interpretation

These poems from Jirang Ji embody the Daoist attitude of following one's innate nature and the wisdom of engaging with the world.

The first poem reflects on human relationships: While people often pursue fame and success through power and opportunity, the poet cautions against forcing such pursuits. Though life’s circumstances can be as harsh as frost and snow, one should remain true to oneself like the steadfast pine and cypress. When reuniting after long separation, the greatest joy lies in finding that both have remained committed to the Dao and righteousness—even after twenty years, still remembering the hardships once shared.

The second poem is a dialogue with his friend Fu Qinzhi: Fu believes poetry should prioritize refinement over quantity, but the poet responds that writing should follow nature’s flow—neither too much nor too little, never striving artificially for volume. Just as orchids in a room naturally emit fragrance, or metal and stone make sound when striking the ground, one should grieve wrongdoing without dwelling on it and rejoice in goodness without excess.

Strolling by Moonlit Banks depicts a life of leisure: Wandering along fragrant grasses into the distance, he lingers by the clear stream, reluctant to return. Alone, he strolls and chants poetry, sitting quietly by the cool waters of early autumn, savoring the tranquility of solitude.

In reply to the monk Yuan Yi’s poetic gift, he writes: Reading your verses is like fine medicine dispelling doubt, like fresh tea banishing weariness. The moonlit pines and misty hills beyond the water in your poems stir longing—if free tomorrow, I’d gladly meet again in the Celestial Ford (a metaphor for the immortal realm).

Self-Reflection conveys life’s insights: True treasure lies in finding an enlightened teacher. He realizes no joy surpasses the freedom of old age, with a heart as expansive as spring. In success, his mind embraces the world; in retreat, his spirit dwells in mountains and streams. With inner clarity, he stands blameless before heaven, earth, and human conscience.

My Humble Dwelling at Tianjin thanks friends for pooling funds to buy him a garden: Grateful for their help securing this wooded spring in the city—a gentle stream winding seven thousand paces, purchased through the contributions of twenty-odd households. During the Jiayou era, he rented lodgings; by Xining, he finally owned a home. Now a new recluse beneath the Phoenix Tower, an old carefree immortal in the Ward of Virtue. At dawn, Luoyang’s breeze fills his sleeves; by night, Mount Song’s bright moon bathes his window. By lotus ponds, they drink and discuss mysteries; beneath willow trees, they sway horsetail whisks and discourse on the Dao. Bronze Camel Street blooms splendidly; the Golden Valley Dike’s fragrant grasses stretch endlessly. Though youth has faded, he still roams freely; even at high noon, he naps undisturbed. This cave of eternal life at last has an owner—content in his nest of peace and joy. Boldly illuminating his true nature in this world, he sees through human illusions. Willingly, he dedicates his remaining years to this realm of untrammeled freedom.

These works express the Daoist philosophy of embracing natural authenticity and transcending material desires, emphasizing inner clarity over external achievements while comprehending the great Dao through a life of serene leisure.

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Interpretation

The Jirang Collection is a poetry anthology by Shao Yong, a Northern Song Dynasty Neo-Confucian scholar. Here are several poems rich with Daoist life wisdom, interpreted in accessible language:

The first poem describes how the poet captures the cosmic transformations in his wine cup through verse, declaring this splendid universe worthy of being depicted with a brush as mighty as an oak. His friend Sima Guang (courtesy name Junshi) presents eight kinds of mountain herbs, each as precious as medicinal sprouts and labeled with their respective mountain origins. The old mountain dweller is delighted to receive this gift from the Censorate (frost terrace) and immediately has his wife prepare them in the kitchen.

About viewing flowers in Luoyang, he writes: Luoyang’s climate is the most temperate, where every plant and tree deserves close admiration. Simply drinking water brings joy, let alone frequent toasts with wine. Luoyang’s flora is renowned throughout the land, and our leisurely enjoyment surpasses that of ordinary folk. Reflecting on the arrangements of the Spring Deity (Dongjun), how could one bear to rush past such beauty? Friends in Luoyang are all extraordinary talents, taking turns to admire the gardens as freely as if they were their own. He even laughs at the Tang Dynasty’s Meng Jiao for his frugality, viewing all of Chang’an’s flowers in a single day.

The owner of the South Garden plants nothing but peach and plum trees, yearning for spring’s early blossoms. Grateful for the host’s generosity, this guest by the Tianjin Bridge is no casual visitor.

Of late spring, he writes: Living in the woods, I often sleep till the sun is high, with few carriages or horses disturbing me these days. In the deep spring, the days grow long, curtains hang low, and in the windless courtyard, petals drift on their own.

The Inscription on the Nest of Peace and Joy states: The greatest peace lies in enlightened governance; the greatest joy lies in abundant harvests. Without clear governance or favorable years, how could this nest of mine know tranquility?

The Reflection on Self-Examination is a self-admonishment: Confucius (Zhongni) reconsidered matters twice; Zengzi examined himself thrice daily. Who am I to dare neglect self-cultivation and introspection?

The Song of Qian and Kun employs Yijing principles: The Qian hexagram’s "using nine" (the changing yang lines) resembles headless dragons yet gives birth to all things, while the Kun hexagram’s "using six" benefits eternal steadfastness. The four images of Qian (greater yang, lesser yang, greater yin, lesser yin) each paired with nine make thirty-six; paired with six, they make twenty-four. How can these numbers of nine and six exhaust the myriad affairs of human life?

The Ode to the Grand Ultimate’s Cosmic Cycle expounds a cosmological view: Heaven and earth are like a canopy and chariot frame, sheltering and bearing all things in their vastness. The sun and moon are like ants on a millstone, cycling endlessly without pause. The eons above and below defy calculation, so we speak provisionally of one cosmic cycle (129,600 years)—a principle still comprehensible. Three millennia of order and chaos, rise and fall, are clearly recorded in history. I can thread them together as if I lived through them all.

The Song of the Responsive Dragon describes the dragon’s nature: The dragon belongs to yang, moving with the times. It transcends all things, roaming the six directions (liuxu) of heaven and earth. It can hide or appear, inhale or exhale at will.

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Interpretation

These verses from Jirang Ji embody the Daoist ideal of following one's innate nature and transcending worldly concerns. The first passage reveals that the "land of immortals" isn't some distant place—when the mind is pure and tranquil, even a humble hut can become an abode of celestial freedom. True liberation doesn't depend on one's surroundings but on maintaining inner clarity and serenity. In stillness, one comprehends the vastness of heaven and earth; in leisure, one perceives the eternal flow of time.

The second passage portrays a detached perspective gained through experiencing life's vicissitudes. Having witnessed enough honors and disgraces, gains and losses, one rises above worldly turmoil while preserving sincerity and luminosity within. The grandeur of cosmic forces becomes palpable in idleness, while the crystalline purity of universal time reveals itself in quietude. Such a life is truly well-lived, especially when blessed with the rare fortune of dwelling in peaceful times.

"Ode to the Jar-Window" uses the image of a broken jar repurposed as a window to express the wisdom of contentment. Though discarded, the jar serves perfectly as a window—functioning as needed, its natural frame admitting sunlight without artificial adornment. Resting in such simple surroundings, one's mental state rivals that of the ancient sage Fuxi.

The poems also address two fundamental human anxieties: survival and reputation. Some exhaust themselves chasing profit, others scheme tirelessly for fame, perpetually fearful of failing to attain their desires until their hair whitens prematurely. In contrast, the poet reflects: what merit do I possess that allows me to transcend such worries?

The Mid-Autumn poem contemplates time's passage through moon-gazing. In ten autumns, clouds obscure the moon nine times; to see its perfect fullness requires waiting past midnight, while its brightest radiance comes only at zenith. Cloudless moonlight conveys profound sentiment, and the insights gained through sleepless contemplation run deepest. Though admiring ancient moon verses, none compare to witnessing the real lunar glow spanning a thousand miles.

Early Autumn depicts the season's crisp clarity after rain: eaves cleansed by showers, mountains and rivers luminous. A refreshing wind whispers through woods, fallen leaves carrying autumn's metallic note (one of the Five Phases' sounds). Suddenly lotus pods form, then chrysanthemums bloom. Growing old in this peaceful era—how can one repay such a leisurely life?

"What Does Yaofu Possess?" expresses contentment. The poet asks: what do I have? Only harmony with the seasons—summers in the Cave of Long Life, winters in the Nest of Peace. Warbling orioles and blooming flowers delight me; cool breezes and bright moons inspire my verses. Surely no earthly joy surpasses this.

"Longing for First Words" brims with life's poignancy. He recalls babbling childhood games at his parents' knees—now a white-haired elder watching children play with mingled joy and sorrow. The concluding "Sitting Alone, Chanting" perfectly captures the Daoist ideal of returning to simplicity through solitary contemplation and spontaneous verse.

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Interpretation

The first passage explains: Heaven has always been sending reminders to humanity, yet most people refuse to heed them. Each season possesses its own beauty, and all things contain their inherent sentiments. Fortune and misfortune are matters visible before one's eyes, while right and wrong, merits and faults are only judged after death. Why should one vex over such trivial matters and insist on competing with the world?

The second passage continues: Heaven's will is actually quite clear, but people are unwilling to follow it. When spring first arrives, orioles and blossoms sense the warmth; after rain clears and skies brighten, the breeze and moon appear even more lovely. Sitting quietly to organize one's thoughts, or casually reciting poetry to nurture one's temperament—why trouble oneself with petty concerns and strive against the world?

The third passage discusses the state of "before thoughts arise": When thoughts have not yet sprouted in the heart, and words have not left the lips, even the Shen (spirit) cannot perceive them, and others cannot criticize. The noble person values caution in solitude, maintaining integrity even when unobserved. For the human heart itself is Shen, thus one must naturally be prudent in speech and action.

"Ode to the Old Man" depicts a white-haired elder: This old man has lost enthusiasm for worldly affairs, his memory of old objects grows faint, and meetings with old friends become rare. Watching flowers half-visible in mist and fragmented dreams scattered by the wind, he simply wishes for peace under heaven and abundant harvests year after year.

"Ode to Daoist Robes" contemplates Daoist attire: Those who cultivate the Dao (Way) wear these robes and caps to venerate the stars, not ordinary people. But Shao Yong (Yao Fu) counters: Who's to say ordinary people aren't incarnations of stars? He adds that he's heard even Daoist masters pay respects to others—how can we know ordinary folk aren't our teachers? Wandering the lanes in Daoist robes and comfortable carriage seems perfectly ordinary; they say immortal realms are no different, and my hometown hardly differs from paradise. True Dao resides in the human heart, and cultivation depends entirely on oneself. If wearing Daoist robes meant practicing Dao, how would I, Shao Yong, dare casually don them?

"Golden Sparrow Inkstone" is a poem of gratitude: This golden sparrow inkstone is rare in this world, and I'm ashamed to repay it only with verses. The poems by this national scholar (the gift-giver) possess extraordinary elegance, like ink blossoms blooming beneath a spring-lit window.

"Portrait of Fan Zhongxian" describes three notable figures: Fan Zhongyan and Shao Yong resided in Luoyang, while Chen Tuan (Master Xiyi) dwelled on Huashan. Chen Tuan was a local, Fan Zhongyan an illustrious official. Shao Yong came after Fan Zhongyan, Chen Tuan before him. The three shared similar countenances, with Fan and Chen's reputations being closely linked.

"Testing the Brush" uses the sun as metaphor for the heart: The human heart is like the sun within the body, capable of illuminating the world. How might this bright orb light all directions, transcending worldly attachments like the Lingtai (spiritual platform)? With household peace, poverty cannot harm; free from illness, what does thinness matter? Reciting aloud within Luoyang's walls, observing the bustle of mortal affairs.

Though brief, "Testing the Inkstone" captures through the image of "ink blossoms in spring's warm window-light" the serene pleasure of testing an inkstone and writing under warm sunlight, where ink traces bloom as beautifully as spring flowers.

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Interpretation

When wealthy and honored, if one treats others with arrogance, will they truly be convinced? Have you considered that wealth and honor are ultimately fleeting? In moments of quiet solitude, time seems most beautiful, yet in idleness, the mind inevitably grows restless. The sun rises and naturally illuminates the sky—how could wind blowing over water fail to stir ripples? The world already has broad and level roads—why insist on taking shortcuts?

Speaking of the art of governing (regulating the cauldron), let me ask you: How dare one speak presumptuously of statecraft? It is like cooking—salt and plums (seasonings) alone cannot create flavor; how could one omit ginger and cinnamon to enhance the taste? A well-balanced soup must strive for perfection, yet how can one satisfy all palates? Remember, do not lightly discuss matters of the world—men like Yi Yin and the Duke of Zhou (ancient sage ministers) were no ordinary talents.

On frugality (year of scarcity): Superficially, it may seem stingy, yet inwardly, it brings abundance. Who would have thought that between heaven and earth, there exists another realm of beauty?

Delving deeper into life: Below lies the Yellow Springs, above stretches the azure sky—everyone is promised a hundred years of life. Yet have you considered that squandering time is like dying ten thousand deaths, and living in confusion is as if never having lived at all? To seek pearls, one must venture into the deep sea; to find fine jade, one must visit famed mountains. Only after comprehending the myriad phenomena of the world can one speak of transcending the mundane.

On the clear mirror (seeking reflection): If a man lacks a mirror, flowing water may serve as one—yet flowing water is ever-changing, while still water reflects clearly. If one does not use water as a mirror, then let him use others—water reflects the face, while people reflect the heart.

Reflections on learning Buddhism: Days of ample food and clothing are not easily endured—how to pass such long hours? In youth, one seeks fame and follows Confucius; in old age, fearing death, one draws near to the Buddha. Trying to sever worldly ties only entangles one deeper; forcing illness away invites new ailments. The Yangtze lies calm as silk, yet without wind, waves arise unbidden.

On human nature: The virtuous restrain their emotions by adhering to norms (treading the path to govern feelings), while sages cultivate their nature by following its innate course (embodying form to govern essence). Sages comprehend their original mind; the virtuous abide by rules. Comprehending the original mind leads to boundless realms; abiding by rules ensures limitless order.

Winter musings: It is not that I do not wish to go out—only that I lament winter’s bitter brevity. In old age, I fear long-winded speech; in cold weather, I dread the late return. The friendship of mountain hermits runs deep—if you wish to invite them, wait not long, for spring is not far.

Observing all things: The earth is square through stillness; the heavens are round through motion. Understanding the principles of square and round reveals the Dao of movement and stillness. Extreme stillness begets moisture; extreme motion begets flame. Moisture is water’s essence; combustion is fire’s function. Water requires a vessel to hold it; fire relies on fuel to spread. Water’s form follows its container, yet fire’s function predates heaven and earth.

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Interpretation

The Jirang Collection poems reveal the wisdom of Daoist reclusive living. The first poem, "Inscription on My Right," depicts the author's state of mind at sixty-five while residing in Luoyang: though dwelling in a bustling metropolis, his spirit remains as tranquil as if secluded in mountain streams. His courtyard features flowing springs, lush bamboo groves, and the companionship of cool breezes and bright moonlight. He abstains from worldly disputes, disregards fame and wealth, and delights only in discussing others' virtuous deeds. The poem emphasizes how sincerity's power can move metal, stone, and spirits (shen), expressing a transcendent attitude toward material existence.

"Reflection on the Changes" elucidates the Daoist cosmological view of "all things as one body." It posits that each entity contains the complete cosmic principles (Qian-Kun), and the human mind can perceive heaven-earth-humanity's (sancai) operational patterns. The Dao (Way) of heaven and the Dao of humanity are fundamentally interconnected—the crux lies in whether humans can comprehend and embody this realization.

"In Praise of the Three Sovereigns" extols the achievements of ancient sage-kings, stating that the cosmic laws (Great Dao) established by the Three Sovereigns are profoundly ineffable, their virtue-power (de) surpassing ordinary comprehension. The phrase "not the constant Dao" subtly references the Daodejing's "The Dao that can be spoken is not the eternal Dao," illustrating how true Dao transcends verbal description.

"On the Five Emperors" portrays these rulers' governance style—composed and courteous, they governed through virtue-power (de), enabling all things to follow their natural order. Such attainment was possible because their virtue shone with the radiant clarity of the midday sun.

"Joy in Aging" expresses wholehearted acceptance of old age. The author declares white hair a natural law requiring no concealment. Though holding no office, he perceives life's truths clearly. Roaming freely during fine spring and autumn days, he discovers idyllic rural landscapes everywhere, finally able to "unfurl his brows" in contentment. This embodies the Daoist philosophy of harmonizing with nature and finding joy in sufficiency.

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Interpretation

The Jirang Collection is a poetic anthology by Northern Song Confucian scholar Shao Yong, brimming with Daoist philosophy and life wisdom. Here are vernacular interpretations of selected poems:

In Returning the Poetry Scroll to Monk Yishang, he writes: A monk holding a khakkhara staff and wearing a headscarf—that very cloth once brushed dust from the ten directions. His mind long penetrated Buddhist truth without obstruction, while Confucian teachings from his lips transcend stale platitudes. The rivers and mountains of Wu-Yue now drift like passing clouds, as he companions with breeze and moon amidst Yi-Song's peaks. Leisurely strolling or sitting beneath pine shade, his luminous eyes forever smile with worldly insight.

Chant of the First Outing in a Small Cart describes: Legendary grotto-heavens and blessed lands all seem scattered around Luoyang's periphery. Yet driving his cart through spring and autumn's elements, he barely visits one celestial realm per day.

Chant of No Illness declares: The serenity of no ailments, the fortune without calamity—such a state remains elusive even if all under heaven sought it.

Chant of Four Temptations reveals: Wealth, beauty, fame, and power—only by transcending these four can one perceive humanity's original face.

Chant of Paradox ponders: What we desperately pursue remains unattained; what we try to refuse clings unrelentingly—how vast this chasm between them?

Chant of Observing Phenomena expounds: Heaven granting us keen ears and bright eyes is already immense grace. Only exploring the moon-palace's arcane realm unveils creation's truth—how recognize human nature's root without ascending heaven's foundation? At the Qian-meets-Xun moment, observe lunar mysteries; where earth trembles with thunder, contemplate Dao's origin. This free wandering between celestial roots and lunar grottoes fills all thirty-six grotto-heavens with vibrant spring.

Autumn Meditation reflects: Just farewelled spring's brief splendor, already wild geese journey south beyond clouds. Seasons shift with startling swiftness, years flowing through greying temples. Though youthful ambition lingers, how can today's sinews escape decay? Fortunately, the heart retains perennial joy, glimpsing even sages' elusive mysteries.

Year's End Self-Admonition warns: Heaven's cycles hold no eternal spring; earth won't always yield rare treasures. Only by embracing harmonious Qi (vital energy) can pure De (virtue) gestate. Fertile fields grow millet aplenty, while barren land sprouts thorns. Those ailanthus trees, oaks, fleabanes and mugworts—let them serve as firewood.

Gentleman's Drinking Song depicts: Father's kindness and filial piety, brotherly respect in harmonious homes, bountiful harvests in peaceful times, robust health among friendly neighbors—such moments make a gentleman's drinking truly joyful.

Reading Zhang Liang's Biography (original text missing; traditionally praising the strategist's wisdom in retiring after triumph)

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Interpretation

Selected Passages from Jirang Ji in Modern Interpretation:

Zhang Liang (styled Zifang), the foremost contributor to the founding of the Han dynasty, was one who excelled both in initiating great deeds and bringing them to completion. Later generations often suspect that the immortal Chisongzi, whom he followed in his later years, was none other than the Yellow Stone Elder (Huangshigong) who had guided him in his youth. The choices one makes in life must accord with the tides of circumstance; the decision to act or withdraw, to reveal or conceal, lies entirely within one’s grasp—for the alternation of adversity and prosperity is but the natural order. The ancients are gone beyond our sight; what pains us most today is how rarely we encounter such noble character.

Reflections on order and chaos, rise and decline: The Central Plains, this seemingly ordinary land, once nurtured the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors (legendary sage-rulers of high antiquity). Yet among their descendants, some were poor and lowly, others rich and noble—their fates diverged widely. The subtlest principles can connect with the divine and manifest in function; when wielded with ease, this is called "spirit" (shen). The divine has no fixed form, just as the Book of Changes (Yijing) transforms without constancy, hidden in function yet revealed through virtuous power (de).

Insights on observing worldly affairs:

The year’s plan is made in spring,

The day’s plan at dawn,

The life’s plan in youth—

In all endeavors, innovation at the outset is most precious.

Sages emerge from among ordinary people;

Noble character is forged through practice.

True gold is sifted from sand,

Fine jade carved from rough stone.

Perspectives on viewing the world:

Looking up from below, those above seem infinitely wealthy and noble;

Looking down from above, those below seem endlessly poor and lowly.

When observing all things with the original mind, no distinctions exist;

When reflecting on the self through all things, the human heart remains unsettled.

Lament on life’s irreversibility:

Spring does not come twice,

Flowers do not bloom anew,

Youth does not return—

Time once gone is gone forever.

On sincerity and hypocrisy:

Genuine concern for the nation springs from loyalty to the ruler,

And loyalty to the ruler should outweigh self-preservation.

Fine words may lack truth;

Only what one enacts personally counts as sincerity.

When deluded thoughts arise, clarity is lost;

When selfish motives stir, discernment falters.

Willful slander is the gravest harm—

How many talents have been buried in dust because of this?

Six capacities for cultivation:

Eyes must see clearly,

Ears must listen attentively,

Mouth must speak wisely,

Hands must act diligently,

Body must practice earnestly,

Mind must learn to let go.

Master these six, and one aligns with the virtue (de) of Heaven and Earth.

Be mindful in eating, resting, speech, and action—

This saves not only effort but also the heart’s burden.

Cultivation to eliminate delusion:

Ears do not listen recklessly,

Eyes do not gaze randomly,

Mouth does not speak carelessly,

Mind does not entertain idle thoughts.

Achieving these four restraints

Brings one to the cultivation of sages.

Who am I to dare not aspire to such a state?

Realization of Heaven-human unity:

The cosmos turns as if in one’s palm;

All things seem linked to one’s being.

This unbroken sense of presence,

When applied, requires no strain.

Insight into the Dao of nature:

In long drought, we yearn for rain;

In endless rain, we long for sun—

Such is Heaven’s constant way,

And humanity’s constant sentiment.

Maintain your innate nature through steady cultivation;

Focus the mind without distraction—

Why then worry about failing to reach the ancients’ heights?

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Interpretation

Here are several poems from the Jirang Collection rendered in modern vernacular:

Innate Song (Dedicated to Xing Heshu)

The primordial state of the cosmos is called "Great Void" (Taixu, the Daoist term for the cosmic origin). Only when the mind is free of distractions can one perceive true essence. If your heart holds genuine wisdom, why boast of it? The world's talents are often misunderstood. When principles are thoroughly understood, any words may be spoken; when the heart is at peace, any place can be home. Only when the mind reaches a state of vast tranquility can one truly believe in the existence of towering heroes in this world.

Song of Vastness

What does it mean to understand timing? Only those attuned to the divine can discern its subtleties. To act or withdraw is entirely up to oneself, but whether one is used or not depends on the times. I often regret understanding others too late and worry about grasping truths too slowly. Only by merging with the Dao can one truly comprehend Confucius (Xuan Ni was Confucius's courtesy name).

Song of Fame and Profit

Neither fame nor profit weighs on my heart; within, it brims with vast and noble Qi (vital energy). Love and hate alike are ailments of the mind—when will the spirit ever find peace?

Song from the Heights

Who can transform a thousand cruel poisons into deep benevolence? Melancholy lingers for the sages of old, now beyond sight—left only to ponder alone when climbing high.

Song of the Noble Person

The noble person seeks the Dao, the petty person craves profit. Seeking the Dao brings daily growth; craving profit brings daily decline. The noble person honors virtue (De), the petty person worships force. Honoring virtue wins allies; worshiping force breeds enemies. The noble person creates blessings, the petty person wields power. Creating blessings invites fortune; wielding power invites calamity. The noble person delights in goodness, the petty person revels in wickedness. Delighting in wickedness brings retribution; delighting in goodness yields rewards. The noble person praises others, the petty person slanders them. Slander breeds resentment; praise fosters joy. The noble person contemplates prosperity, the petty person schemes destruction. Contemplating prosperity brings auspiciousness; scheming destruction invites disaster. The noble person enjoys giving, the petty person hungers for taking. Enjoying giving multiplies joy; hungering for taking multiplies sorrow. The noble person cherishes life, the petty person relishes killing. Cherishing life nurtures the Dao; relishing killing severs it.

Song of Tempting Flavors

Delicious food—eat sparingly. Thrilling actions—think rarely. Pleasant words—speak little. Comfortable indulgences—practice scarcely.

Song of Utmost Sincerity

Not coveting is how one gains; never ceasing to learn is how one understands. To keep the mind ever clear, nothing surpasses utmost sincerity.

Song of Poetry and Wine

The sage's realm defies description, yet poetry conveys truths spanning millennia. A tranquil heart sees reality clearly; bright eyes recognize the Dao. Poetry depicts the forms of spirits; wine unveils the mysteries of creation. Truth needs neither poetry nor wine to be conveyed—yet without them, how could it be spoken?

Song of the Kindred Spirit

Only Confucius (Zhongni) could speak of "no intention," and Mencius alone achieved "unmoved heart." Seek not white jade in distant mountains—the true treasure lies within.

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Interpretation

These poems from the Jirang Collection express Daoist reflections on nature, human life, and spiritual cultivation in accessible language.

The first poem observes how people search for gold and jade in the mountains, unaware that the true "gold" (symbolizing inner cultivation) lies within themselves. How dare we claim to understand the great Dao (the Way)? Genuine kindred spirits are rare in this world!

The second poem, Song of Observing Things, describes cosmic creation: when primordial chaos first parted, the two energies of Yin and Yang (two polarities) took form, giving birth to the round heavens and square earth. From this transformation, the myriad beings emerged—plants and animals alike. Yet among them, humans possess the highest spiritual nobility.

The third poem, Song of Reflecting on Affairs, states: All things contain essence (Jing), but humans are the most spiritually refined. To govern the world well, one must first comprehend the nature of things before discussing human affairs. Only when the Qi (vital energy) is calm and the body at ease can there be joy; only when the mind is tranquil and the body harmonious can there be peace. The ancient sage-kings ruled precisely by this principle.

The fourth poem uses warfare as a metaphor for healing: Medicine is like battle—how can there be peace in war? Seeking health yet failing to attain it, illnesses come and go. Before tonics can restore the body, one craves rich flavors again. How can this lead to longevity? Only by aligning with the natural order (symbolized by the Elder Star of longevity) can one find true health.

The fifth poem laments life’s brevity: Countless millennia stretch before and after, yet human life barely spans a century. If one speaks no good words and does no good deeds in this time, they may wear human form but lack the nobility of true humanity.

The sixth poem, Song of Seeing Righteousness, outlines the principle of virtuous action: When you see good to be done, do it; if unseen, let it be. Act according to your capacity, giving your fullest effort—but stop when your strength is spent.

The seventh poem, another Song of Observing Things, compares methods of observation: A painter labors long to depict an object, while a mirror reflects it instantly. Yet even the clearest mirror lacks precision, whereas a painter’s work varies in skill. The flattest thing under heaven is water, but it only reflects surfaces. Only sages penetrate both outer and inner truths, observing words and deeds without illusion.

The eighth poem discusses knowledge and action: Those with virtue (De) can surely explain principles, but eloquent speakers may fail to practice them.

The ninth poem, Song of Being Able to Sleep, explores rest: Great shock, grief, injury, illness, or joy all keep us awake. Only genuine inner peace brings sleep. Sleeplessness stems from clinging thoughts; sound sleep comes from a mind free of burdens.

The tenth poem, Song of the Primordial, speaks of cultivation: The true "primordial state" (the natural unity with Dao) has not a single word. Only in the "conditioned state" (the stage of deliberate effort) must one labor. Even Herculean strength cannot force progress in spiritual practice.

The final poem, Song of Self-Joy, celebrates reclusive happiness: The qilin and phoenix actually dwell in the wilds—why chase them in times of peace? Hearing of good deeds brings joy; encountering rare books, I copy them by hand. Drawing clear water from beneath bamboo, watching twin sunbeams through pine boughs—waking and sitting in a grassy nest, what need have I for words to answer mockery?

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Interpretation

Interpretation of the Jirang Collection

On the Metaphor of Metal and Character:

True gold reveals its purity only after being tempered a thousand times—how can the reflection on water compare to the clarity of the human heart? Never abandon the bonds of old friendships; how dare one forget long-standing promises? In life, handle great matters with righteousness, and in interactions with others, speak only with sincerity. Among countless plants and trees, only the pine and cypress remain green through winter.

Reflections on All Things and Life:

All things between heaven and earth are contained within the human body, and the universe never fails humanity. Yet it is a pity that time slips away swiftly, leaving many matters unresolved. One laments the fleeting nature of youth, then startles at the sprouting of white hair. Without steadfast conviction in the heart, one risks becoming mere dust in the world.

The Philosophy of the Moon’s Movement:

The moon traverses its celestial path (the "lunar palace" refers to its orbit), moving freely between the heavenly root (Tian Gen) and earthly foundation. Wherever it goes, it remains at ease, unconstrained in its journey. Each step follows its destined course, the heart brimming with the vitality of spring. Without poetry and fine wine to accompany life, what a regret that would be.

The Revelation of the Great Dao (the Way):

The essence of the Great Dao is emptiness, yet this emptiness is real and unfailing. Action arises entirely from the original mind, and response depends solely on virtue in speech (De). It embraces all things yet harbors no sorrow. Understanding this truth surpasses reading ten thousand books.

Illness and Emotion:

All ailments arise from emotional disturbances—when desires are light, suffering is slight. If one remains unburdened by external things, they find true support. The autumn moon illuminates a thousand mountains in stillness; spring flowers bloom, adorning countless trees in splendor. To speak of the true movement of the Dao—human effort cannot force its course.

Two Poems on the Garden of Imperial Physician Yang:

1.

When choosing a home, mountain views matter most—

How priceless is such scenery today?

Strange peaks encircle distant waters,

Tall trees gaze down through misty veils.

Passersby suspect they’ve strayed into a divine realm,

Those leaning on railings feel like immortals.

Always fearing a painter’s masterful hand

Might capture it on silk, spreading its fame far and wide.

2.

Who in Luoyang does not buy property?

Yet whose home could rival yours?

Its beauty seems beyond the mortal world,

With scenery like paintings through all seasons.

The rear garden’s rare flowers resemble the immortal isles (Langyuan),

The front courtyard’s peaks evoke Penglai.

If one could live out their days here,

Truly, they would be a great man of the world.

Portrait of the Unworthy:

The unworthy are bent on wandering—

Their bodies indoors, their minds outside.

The unworthy delight in empty boasts—

If they cannot even protect themselves,

How can they guard their households?

The Essence of the Yijing (Book of Changes):

Heaven and earth establish their positions;

Pi and Tai alternate in transformation (Pi and Tai are hexagrams).

Mountains and marshes share their breath;

Loss and gain reveal the Dao’s meaning.

Thunder and wind stir each other;

Constancy and benefit give rise to new insights.

Water and fire clash and merge;

Jiji and Weiji cycle endlessly (Jiji and Weiji are hexagrams).

The four images intermingle, forming sixteen hexagrams;

The eight trigrams (Bagua) shift, yielding sixty-four.

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Interpretation

Modern Interpretation of the Jiran Collection:

On Poetic Creation:

I've long intended to cease writing poetry, yet when inspiration suddenly arises, I cannot resist. Through quiet sitting, one comprehends the essence of all things; beyond words lies silent harmony with the Dao (the Way). Obtaining exquisite lines is no easy feat, and having composed a complete poem makes it even harder to discard. Who knows if millennia hence, another Confucius-like connoisseur might appear in the world?

The Revelation of Gold:

When one possesses golden qualities within (referring to moral cultivation), one won't drift with the tides. Deliberate pursuit often yields nothing, while true attainment comes unexpectedly. Eloquence doesn't signify understanding truth—embracing all things reveals enlightened nature. Only those who can play the stringless zither (symbolizing Dao realization) truly hear the world's music.

Lunar Reflections:

The moon cycles between mirror and hook—the Dao's operations are unfathomable, yet people rush to conclusions. All rejoice at full moon, all sorrow at waning. Every living being breathes in cosmic rhythm (the character "pant" signifies vital activity)—why wait for "Wu oxen panting at the moon" (allusion: groundless fears) to grasp this truth?

Weiqi (Go) Insights:

Before placing stones, competitive minds already stir—obsession with black and white victories persists. Yet there exists a path beyond contention, regrettably untraveled. This broad, even Way lies neglected, a profound pity.

Admonitions for Parenting:

True pearls bear no flaws, perfect jade shows no cracks. If gems are thus, how can humans be faultless?

The Essence of Cultivation:

The Dao (the Way) isn't distant—heaven and earth's mysteries dwell within. Who could leap beyond cosmos to seek another universe?

Winter Solstice Realization:

What are celestial secrets? The root of all things is exquisitely subtle. Standing at the threshold between passing year and dawning cycle, truth is clearest yet hardest to articulate. Understanding this, what remains obscure?

Wisdom for Life:

Promote good deeds, don't spread evil; remember kindness, forget grievances. Keep all hearts joyful—why fear lacking friends?

The Way of Sincerity:

Though heaven speaks not, humans voice its will; hearts may deceive themselves but never heaven. Heaven and human are actually near—only human hearts often misunderstand. The heart precedes heavenly will yet doesn't contravene the Dao (the Way); the body moves with celestial timing. The gap between heaven and humanity is small—the key lies in sincere communion.

Self-Portrait of Shao Yong:

By nature I'm simple—arriving without schedule, departing without pattern. Steady as mountains, flowing like rivers, fragrant as orchids, lingering like Shao music's resonance. Blossoming softness and icy rigor, cultured grace and heroic spirit combined.

Heaven-Human Relationship:

Heaven's path lies in cultivating heart; humanity's path in cultivating body. Only with tranquil, joyful heart-mind can heaven-human unity manifest. Truly, the distance between them isn't great.

(Note: Shao Yong, styled Yaofu, was a renowned Northern Song Neo-Confucian philosopher. His Jiran Collection blends Confucian cultivation with Daoist thought.)

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Interpretation

These poems from the Jirang Collection all convey wisdom for navigating human life.

Shao Yong (the renowned Northern Song Dynasty Neo-Confucian philosopher) observes that most people fail to grasp life's truths—truly understanding them is rare. The body is governed by the heart-mind (Xin), yet the heart-mind itself is influenced by the Dao of Heaven. If the inner self lacks joy, how can the body find peace?

The Song of Perfect Sincerity speaks of living with complete integrity. A truly perfected person does not rely on literary skill or fine appearance, but first cultivates their own being. Serve parents with devotion, treat siblings with sincerity, be loyal to one’s sovereign, and honor teachers by upholding righteousness. A hundred years may seem long, yet life passes swiftly—there is much to accomplish. To handle affairs well, one must first refine the self.

Birthday Reflections records Shao Yong’s birth in cyclical terms: the year Xinhai, month Xinchou, day Jiazi, and hour Jiaxu.

Year’s End Thoughts describes how old age sees through worldly glamour, leaving only a love for books. Hardships in youth teach the value of peaceful years in later life. Content that descendants will carry on the family legacy, one can retire in tranquility.

Spring’s Song paints the season’s beauty, noting how the cycles of nature follow their own order. Acting with a sincere heart shields one from external disturbances. The poet marvels at his good fortune—free from worldly entanglements.

Troubles’ Admonition offers proverbs: meddling invites worry, suspicion breeds vexation, excessive giving stirs resentment, and grasping too much incurs loss.

Observing Phenomena explains a method: view brightness from darkness, movement from stillness, complexity through simplicity, and weighty matters with lightness. Only by standing high can one see far.

Reply to Wu Chuanzheng is Shao Yong’s self-portrait: "This simpleton of Luoyang hasn’t touched books in ten years. An old heart’s mood defies words—like faint smoke and cold moonlight through pines. Loving quiet doesn’t mean being free of pain; fondness for leisure still harbors cares. Unlike those truly detached, who drift effortlessly with the world."

The Song of Right and Wrong urges transcendence over disputes, preserving inner serenity.

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Interpretation

The Jirang Ji passage expounds principles of self-cultivation. Shao Yong articulates guidelines for navigating life through concise verses:

On judgment and attachment: Humans constantly distinguish between right and wrong, yet true wisdom transcends such dualities. Only by relinquishing attachments can one perceive reality's essence.

On purifying the heart-mind: People often cleanse their bodies but neglect spiritual purification. While water removes physical grime, eliminating mental defilements requires higher cultivation (the "stringless zither" metaphorizes inner refinement).

On governance: Rulers must balance leniency and strictness. Excessive laxity breeds negligence, while undue severity harms the people. Equilibrium ensures stability.

On mastering skills: Even minor arts, when studied deeply, can attain sublime mastery. Regarding gain and loss: Both sages and fools experience fortune's fluctuations, but attainment proves arduous while loss comes easily—a reminder to cherish one's possessions.

On contentment: Easily acquired things slip away readily; over-strategizing often hinders great achievements. Virtue seeks no immediate profit, good deeds no empty fame.

On competitiveness: Striving for superiority invites humiliation; excessive pursuit begets anxiety. Such negative emotions obstruct moral cultivation.

On self-discipline: First govern your heart-mind, then your body; master yourself before influencing others.

On lifestyle: The author depicts his simple, unconstrained existence—rustic reclusion marked by serenity, detachment from worldly strife, and days spent amidst fragrant grasses and poetic texts.

On internal-external cultivation: Eyes, ears, mouth, and nose are external senses; heart, gall, spleen, and kidneys form the internal foundation. When inner cultivation succeeds, outer demeanor naturally rectifies. Harmonizing both achieves perfected character.

On trust: Neither credulity nor excessive suspicion serves well—both bring trouble.

On winter solstice philosophy: As yang qi first stirs at midwinter and all things prepare to sprout, the finest wine tastes subtle and supreme music sounds faint. This manifests cosmic principles.

Concluding with water and cord metaphors: Water levels but cannot straighten; cords straighten but cannot level. This implies ideal conduct should synthesize both qualities, attaining harmonious non-contention.

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Interpretation

The Jirang Ji poetry collection reveals the Daoist attitude of spontaneous natural living and worldly wisdom.

The first section describes the joy of drinking wine—Shao Yong (courtesy name Yaofu) enjoys drinking but never seeks drunkenness, only the pleasant haze of mild intoxication. In this state, he feels like early spring when all things begin to stir between heaven and earth, unable to distinguish himself from the world around him, merging into oneness with all existence. This reflects the Daoist pursuit of unity with nature.

The verses on movement and stillness speak of stopping when it is time to stop and going when it is time to go, following the natural course of events without forcing anything. In peaceful times, gardens, pavilions, and villages all exude leisure, with plants, trees, wind, and mist embodying tranquility. Staying indoors more in winter and summer, occasionally encountering fine scenery, even a simple stroll in one’s own garden brings contentment.

On the distinction between noble and petty individuals: the noble rejoice upon hearing virtuous words and delight in meeting wise people, while the petty do the opposite—they despise good words and grow angry at the sight of worthiness. This reflects the Daoist perspective on self-cultivation.

Using shadows as a metaphor for innate nature: the nature resides within the body, just as shadows follow form. Without this nature, neither form nor shadow would exist. This illustrates the Daoist principle of "the unity of form and spirit (Shen)."

The "Kui Kai Yin" sections express insights after seeing through the nature of things and human affairs: once one truly understands, all things are seen as one, and the body’s fatness or thinness no longer matters. It is like using a single clay pellet to block the Hangu Pass—the Dao (the Way) is supremely simple. Or like a parched traveler encountering fine wine, or a sick man meeting a skilled physician—all are manifestations of the natural Dao. Yet, after seeing through, one also sighs at the foolishness and absurdity of worldly people.

The way of handling affairs lies in observing how others respond when matters are unsettled and circumstances difficult. In the light, there are the sun and moon shining; in the dark, there are spirits (Shen) watching—light and darkness complement each other. Without distinctions between self and others, there is no separation between light and dark.

The final sections express the Daoist view of the unity of heaven and humanity: though the body is born after heaven and earth, the mind exists alongside them. Heaven, earth, and I share the same origin—nothing else matters. Four things must never be violated: do not speak recklessly, do not act rashly, do not disregard fate, and do not oppose the Dao (the Way). These are essential principles of Daoist self-cultivation.

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Interpretation

Plain Language Interpretation of Jirang Ji:

When you look in the mirror, you'll notice: those with exceptional bone structure possess radiant Shen (spirit), yet often enjoy fewer worldly blessings.

To speak the most profound words, one must first cultivate the loftiest thoughts; to become the most remarkable person, one must accomplish the most extraordinary deeds.

Luoyang's spring surpasses all other seasons—no scenery compares to its splendor, and nothing equals the wonder of springtime. Only those with leisure can truly appreciate the essence of this beauty.

At sixty-seven, I stand as an ordinary man at the very center of heaven and earth, embodying all creation within myself. Though external joys may be few, spring eternally blossoms in my heart.

Coins (quanbu) travel the world without feet—they voice what people dare not say and bring smiles to stern faces. Repaying debts prolongs life, while relieving distress works like the Golden Elixir (Jindan). Only hermits like the Four Elders of Shang Mountain truly understand the value of leisure.

Shao Yong (Yaofu) reflects on his philosophy: "All Luoyang is my home. I claim no superior De (Virtue), only unwavering sincerity toward all things. Most chase after fame and fortune (tianjue), blind to time's passage. Beyond spring's comings and goings, flowers bloom perpetually in my heart."

Human connection is essential—without it, self-cultivation remains incomplete. Emperor Shun treated all equally; Emperor Yao maintained family harmony. Discord in hearts breeds sickness, while understanding brings peace. The mind governs the limbs, and the limbs connect the whole body.

The mystery of the primordial Dao (Xiandao)—those who practice it don't speak of it; those who speak of it don't practice. If the primordial Dao could be explained, where would it reside beyond fundamental relationships like ruler-subject and father-son? Superficial skills are common knowledge, but heart-mind cultivation eludes most. Though heaven, earth, and our bodies transform, our true selves remain unchanged since Fuxi's time.

Passing years don't alarm me—only old friends see this clearly. I sit quietly admiring the bright moon, drinking fine wine not to drown sorrows. Without inner awakening, even youth feels immature. Whom should I invite as company? Better to sail rivers and lakes alone.

Between heaven and humanity, not a hair's breadth of error is permitted—the supreme Dao (Dadao) needn't be sought afar. Malice burns fiercer when fed, while kindness seeps deeper when nurtured. Frontier soldiers yearn for home; drought-stricken peasants pray for rain. Fortune and misfortune shift as swiftly as turning one's palm.

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Interpretation

Reflections on Jade: True jade never boasts of its own worth—its value lies in people discovering its pure essence. Like uncut jade hidden within rough stone, it requires a skilled artisan's careful polishing to reveal its brilliance. The ancients long grasped this truth, and their simple words remain trustworthy even today.

The Relationship Between Humans and All Things: All beings possess qualities like sound, color, energy (Qi), and flavor, while humans are endowed with the organs—ears, eyes, mouth, and nose—to perceive them. Upon closer observation, one realizes that the essence of heaven, earth, and all things is actually contained within the human body.

Leisurely Dwelling in the Wild Pavilion: This retreat, named "Wild Pavilion," lies far from worldly clamor, where the cool breezes of Mount Song mingle with mist and clouds. Here, the passage of sun and moon belongs solely to oneself—why seek any celestial paradise beyond?

Wisdom in Living: Avoiding the world like Xu You, who washed his ears to escape worldly noise, may not be the highest wisdom. What truly matters is maintaining inner tranquility. Once this state is attained, worldly disturbances naturally lose their power to intrude.

The Joy of an Afternoon Nap: A daytime rest is a rare pleasure, best enjoyed by following nature's rhythm as in the ancient days of Fu Xi. When the heart is at peace, strolling through the garden after a meal, listening to orioles sing, and gazing upon flower-lined paths undisturbed—such leisure is beyond the grasp of those entangled in worldly busyness.

Advance and Retreat in Life: Whether advancing or withdrawing, both are natural choices—there is no need for excessive deliberation. With age comes the understanding that retreat to mountain forests preserves vitality. Act with a clear conscience, and neither glory nor disgrace can sway you.

Essentials of Nurturing Life: To nurture life, one must be as naturally focused as an infant’s clenched fist and as steadfast in preserving essence (Jing) and energy (Qi) as a warrior. Yet both require long cultivation. The heart governs the body, and the will commands primordial Qi (Yuanqi). Nourish body and mind as if submerging a luminous pearl into deep waters.

Insights from Illness: After fifty years of peaceful health, a sudden grave illness struck—bedridden for a hundred days through midsummer, with no cure in sight. Only then did I realize: entrusting life to heaven brings unexpected inner peace.

The Bond Between Heaven and Humanity: The human body is born of heaven, and lifespan is decreed by heaven. The difference between heaven’s will and human effort is slight—forcing matters only creates opposition.

Accepting Heaven’s Will: Since life and death are both arranged by heaven, what harm is there in serene acceptance?

The Dao of Attaining Oneness (得一): Heaven maintains its natural essence (attaining oneness), and humans should emulate this pure state. When heaven and humanity unite, all distinctions dissolve.

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Interpretation

I once held views that differed from Heaven (referring to natural laws or cosmic principles). This passage expresses the author's independent thinking about natural laws, suggesting that humans should not blindly submit to heavenly mandate but maintain their own understanding and judgment. Like the legendary Elder Jirang (a recluse said to live in harmony with nature), one should both follow natural rhythms while preserving an independent spirit.

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