Naming, Non-Being, and Paired Opposites
Good evening, fellow cultivators. We now return to the opening page. We begin again with: “The Dao that can be spoken is not the constant Dao; the name that can be named is not the constant name. The nameless is the beginning of heaven and earth; the named is the mother of the ten thousand things.”
Now we look at Patriarch Lü Chunyang’s explanation. He says that some people read the sentence as “the nameless” and “the named,” but if you read it that way, “the nameless” can indeed describe the beginning of heaven and earth, yet it is hard to say that it is the mother of the ten thousand things, because all things do in fact have names. So he prefers to read the sentence through the pair “non-being” and “being.” “Non-being” refers to the Dao-body as empty, formless, and without things. “Being” refers to the subtle first existent, the hidden seed of manifestation. Thus the *Qingjing jing* says, “The Great Dao has no name,” and the *Dao De Jing* also says that Dao gives birth to One. That “One” is being; being is the Supreme Ultimate. The Supreme Ultimate contains heaven and earth, so it can be called the beginning of heaven and earth. From that subtle One, the many things are born—one gives birth to two, two to three, three to the ten thousand things—just as a mother gives birth to children and grandchildren without end. Therefore it is said to be “the mother of the ten thousand things.”
The lecturer then explains the passage in detail: the better reading is not to stop at “nameless” and “named” as mere labels, but to see “non-being” and “being” as the real structure of the verse. “Non-being” points to the empty Dao-body; “being” points to emergence, generation, and the living source of the world.
The next phrase is “Therefore, constantly through non-being observe its subtlety; constantly through being observe its return.”
Patriarch Lü explains that “non-being” refers to the self-nature of all things—the formless Dao-body. In the language of the *Yijing*, this is what is “above form.” To “observe its subtlety” means to observe the wondrous functioning of Dao: how the one source disperses into the many.
“Being,” by contrast, refers to the world of manifest things, to visible forms and appearances. In *Yijing* terms, this is what is “below form.” To “observe its return” means to observe how the ten thousand things return at last to self-nature, how the many return to the one.
The lecturer pauses over the word usually read here as “subtle” or “minute,” noting that older commentary explains it as “returning to the end,” or returning to its home. So the point is not just to admire something fine or delicate. It is to see both movement outward and return inward: how original nature stays unmoving, yet through deluded thought branches into multiplicity; and then how multiplicity can be traced back to the root.
Thus “constantly through non-being observe its subtlety” means to observe the hidden, formless source. “Constantly through being observe its return” means to observe all manifested things returning to self-nature, mind returning to intention, intention returning to heart, and heart returning to the original nature.
The lecturer now explains the pair in terms of the *Yijing*: “being” is what is below form; “non-being” is what has no form. This is why the *Appended Remarks* says, “What is above form is called Dao; what is below form is called vessel.”
He then pauses to explain the background of the *Yijing*: it was not the work of one person alone. The trigrams begin with Fuxi; later developments are attributed to the Yellow Emperor, then King Wen, the Duke of Zhou, and finally Confucius, whose Ten Wings completed the text as it is commonly received. The point of this digression is that terms like “above form” and “below form” are classical and weighty, not casual inventions.
He then cites Chengzi and the phrase “one yin and one yang is called Dao.” These things must be understood quietly and carefully, because the same word “Dao” may be used in different senses. The opening line of the *Dao De Jing* speaks of the ultimate Dao; but ordinary human morality—benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, trustworthiness—belongs to a later, human-level dao. So “dao” is not only one thing in one sense.
From this, he gives a practical distinction. What is formless, traceless, and beyond sensory grasp belongs to the metaphysical, to Dao, to the innate or pre-heaven side. What appears in forms, rites, institutions, visible wonders, and outward religious displays belongs to the formed world of “vessels,” the post-heaven side. To speak of self-nature and inward cultivation is metaphysical; to build temples, stage ceremonies, and speak of miracles and signs belongs to the world below form.
So, in this chapter, “non-being” corresponds to what is above form, and “being” corresponds to what is below form. That is the distinction he wants the audience to keep in mind.
The lecturer now returns to the end of chapter 1: “These two arise together but differ in name; together they are called mystery. Mystery upon mystery—the gate of all wonders.”
He explains that “these two” are non-being and being: one belongs to the pre-heaven side, the other to the post-heaven side, yet both come from the same Dao. Non-being gives rise to being, and being returns again to non-being. Because this process is deep and hard to fathom, both are called “mysterious.” “Mystery” here means what cannot be fully measured, pictured, or exhausted in words. The deepest subtlety is called “wonder,” and this “mystery upon mystery” is the gateway of all wondrous transformations.
From there the lecture moves into a comparative religious explanation. Many groups say they teach the “pre-heaven Dao.” So what does “pre-heaven” really mean? In Buddhist terms, he loosely maps it onto states before the heaven-realms and beyond ordinary rebirth; in Taoist language he compares them to ranks such as scattered immortals, middle immortals, and higher immortals. Below these are the heaven gods, then the six paths of rebirth.
The practical point is this: if a teaching only talks about miracles, manifestations, and visible spiritual responses, that still belongs to the post-heaven side. The true pre-heaven teaching concerns self-nature, mind-method, and release from birth and death. So there is a pre-heaven dao and a post-heaven dao: both are called “dao,” but they do not point to the same level.
With that, he says his explanation of chapter 1 is complete.
He now enters chapter 2: “When everyone in the world knows beauty as beauty, ugliness is already there.” Everyone loves beauty, men and women alike, but much of what people chase is artificial beauty, not real beauty. Real beauty is natural; once someone rises, washes, and appears as they truly are, beauty and ugliness become clear enough.
Natural beauty takes many forms. Fairness has its beauty, a broad forehead has its beauty, different features have their own kind of beauty. But if beauty is forced, fabricated, or manufactured, it is no longer real beauty.
So when people know beauty only as something to be admired, they start to alter their original faces. Some go for cosmetic surgery; some succeed, many fail, and some are left disfigured. Some try to sharpen the nose and make it crooked instead; some pull the skin to remove wrinkles and end up looking worse. Unscrupulous merchants prey on the human desire for beauty, selling cosmetics and medicines of uncertain kind. The same now happens with men. But such methods still cannot produce true beauty.
Patriarch Lü’s point, as the lecturer explains it, is that “beauty” means outward loveliness, but if a person lacks compassion, then even if outwardly beautiful, others will recoil. He explains several terms from the dictionaries: “beauty” means pleasing appearance; “ugliness” here means physical unattractiveness, not moral evil.
He stresses that a person may be physically plain or even ugly and still be fit to stand before Heaven, if the person is upright, clean, and good-hearted. By contrast, someone may be beautiful in face and deeply vicious within. What matters first is beauty of heart, not beauty of appearance.
He then explains the story of Li Ji / Li Ji-like beauty from older texts and from the *Zhuangzi*: a famous beauty before whom fish dive down, birds fly high, and deer flee away. He expands the example with the historical figure Lady Li of the Spring and Autumn period, whose face was beautiful but whose heart was cruel. She harmed the crown prince and drove away rival sons. What use is outward beauty, he asks, if the heart is vicious?
So the meaning of Lü Chunyang’s passage is this: “beauty” means a beautiful face, and “ugliness” means an ugly one—but when people know only to pursue outward beauty, they end up ruining it by artificial means.
What is really needed is compassion toward living things. If one’s heart is benevolent, even fierce animals can become gentle. The lecturer gives anecdotal examples of wild or dangerous creatures responding to kindness and familiarity. The lesson is that all things should be treated with mercy.
Thus the world praises beauty, but the beauty people manufacture is not true beauty. True beauty is seen in the state of the heart. A person may be physically unattractive yet morally good and clean, and such a person is worthy before Heaven.
He continues with the next line of chapter 2: “When everyone knows good as good, not-good is already there.”
Its meaning, he says, is that once “doing good” becomes a public label, some people borrow that label to deceive society. Patriarch Lü says that people then use goodness to deceive the world and steal a reputation, and in that case goodness is no longer true goodness.
He explains the term “false goodness”: pretending to do good, borrowing the name of goodness while lacking the reality. He says such people are common in society—charity groups and religious causes can become excuses for fraud. So one must be cautious when giving. His own principle, he says, is “speak of Dao, not of money.” If people donate, there should be receipts and accountability. Blind giving without wisdom can feed corruption.
He even warns against the careless use of anonymous donations. Though intended humbly, anonymity can create opportunities for greedy people to lie about amounts received. If one truly wants to conceal one’s name, he says, even a false name is better than creating a temptation for theft.
He then explains “deceiving the world and stealing a name”: outwardly looking virtuous, speaking sweetly, but in truth using deception to obtain a false reputation.
After that he argues that the great religions all teach the same principle. From the Buddhist *Upāsaka Precepts Sutra* he cites the idea that the wise give without seeking repayment, without wishing their good name to spread, and without ulterior motives. He then quotes the *Diamond Sutra*: vast material giving produces worldly merit, but receiving and practicing even a four-line verse, and teaching it to others, is greater. Why? Because merit alone does not end birth and death; true giving must be done with a mind that does not abide anywhere—“practice giving without attachment.”
He then turns to Christianity. From the Gospel of Matthew he cites the warning not to perform good deeds before others in order to be seen. From the Gospel of Mark he cites the warning against hypocrites who love honor, seize the property of widows, and make long public prayers. So although religions differ in form, their principle here is very similar: goodness performed for display is not true goodness.
He restates the main point: when someone has no sincere heart for goodness, but only performs goodness outwardly to be praised, that is not real goodness.
He then turns to Islam and cites the Qur’an: believers should do good, for God loves those who do good; but when giving, they should not do so for fame. He explains the term “seeking fame” as treating charity like a market exchange—giving something in order to buy reputation, public praise, or newspaper recognition.
So again, the meaning matches the *Dao De Jing*: “When all know good as good, not-good is already there.”
He next turns to Confucianism, saying that Confucius especially disliked false goodness. He cites the *Book of Rites*: if someone is emotionally distant but outwardly affectionate, that person is like a petty thief who digs through walls and climbs over them.
What does that mean? It means offering smiles and warm manners without real sympathy. To do good properly, he says, one should feel: “All elders in the world are my parents; all children in the world are my children.” Charity should arise from that heart, not from excitement at being seen helping the unfortunate.
So he criticizes public acts of charity done only for display—for example, people who ordinarily never give, but rush forward when there is a public charity auction and applause to be gained. That is surface behavior, not true goodness.
From there he explains Confucius’s phrase, “The village worthy is a thief of virtue.” The so-called “village worthy” looks honest, cautious, loyal, and clean, but all of it is borrowed appearance. Outwardly he is called good; inwardly he may be false. That is why Confucius calls him a thief of morality.
He ends with the standard that true goodness is not measured by universal applause. If all sorts of people praise someone alike, that proves little. Better that the genuinely good approve him and the genuinely bad dislike him. Good and evil must be judged from the heart, not from public reputation.
He now continues with the next part of chapter 2: “Being and non-being give rise to one another; difficult and easy complete one another; long and short define one another; high and low incline on one another; tone and voice harmonize with one another; front and back follow one another.”
All these, he says, are paired opposites. They are given as examples of relative terms. This matches the principle of yin and yang and also what the Sixth Patriarch Huineng later discussed in his “thirty-six pairs”: once one understands paired opposites, many teachings become easier to penetrate.
So if you know one side, you must also know the other. If you say heaven, you must also understand hell; if you say evil, you must also understand good. Without this principle of relational pairing, scripture is hard to interpret.
Patriarch Lü explains the line as a doctrine of complementarity. Non-being gives rise to being, and being returns to non-being—this is natural in heaven and earth. Difficulty and ease complete one another: with diligence, what is hard becomes easy. Long and short define one another: without shortness, longness cannot appear. High and low lean on one another: what is high stands only by relying on what is low. Tone and voice cannot be separated: voice is vibration, transmitted through air as sound-waves and received by the ear; in practice, “tone” and “sound” belong together. Front and back also depend on one another: without a back, there is no front.
So the whole passage teaches a single principle: apparent opposites arise together, depend on one another, and reveal each other.
This literal version consolidates the lecture’s English material into continuous notes, keeping close to the spoken sequence while preserving explanatory detail.