Straw Dogs and the Valley Spirit
Now we turn to page five.
“The heavens and earth are not benevolent; they treat the ten thousand things as straw dogs.”
Patriarch Lü Chunyang explains that a *straw dog* is a dog-shaped figure bound out of grass and used in sacrifice. Once the rite is over, it is thrown aside and trampled.
So when Laozi says that heaven and earth are “not benevolent,” he means that natural calamities come without discrimination. Wind, flood, fire, earthquake, and other disasters do not spare the good and strike only the wicked. Good and bad alike may be swept away.
In that sense, heaven and earth at times seem to injure the ten thousand things, treating them like discarded sacrificial straw dogs.
“The sage is not benevolent; he treats the people as straw dogs.”
Patriarch Lü says that the “sage” in this chapter does not necessarily mean a morally perfect holy man. Sometimes *sage* can simply mean someone outstanding in a certain sphere.
He then gives the example of Robber Zhi from the *Zhuangzi*. Even thieves, it says, have their own “way,” and among them too there can be a kind of “sage.”
If a bandit can first know where valuables are hidden, that is called sagely insight. If he dares to lead the attack, that is courage. If he stays behind to protect his followers, that is righteousness. If he can judge whether a raid can succeed, that is wisdom. If after the robbery he divides the spoils equally, that is a kind of benevolence.
Without these five, one cannot become a great robber-chief.
The *Cihai* says that Robber Zhi was a man of the Spring and Autumn period and the younger brother of Liu Xiahui.
The older brother was a sage famous for virtue; the younger became a “sage” among thieves. The lecturer goes on to mention stories about Confucius visiting Liu Xiahui, and even traditions about Confucius confronting Robber Zhi and finding himself unable to answer him.
So the term *sage* cannot always be taken in a single exalted sense.
Robber Zhi’s followers ask him whether thieves also have a *dao*.
He says, of course they do.
To know beforehand what is stored in a house is “sagely.” To go in first is courage. To withdraw last and protect the others is righteousness. To know whether the theft can succeed is wisdom. To divide the goods evenly is benevolence.
The point of this example is that many lines of argument can sound reasonable on the surface, yet still fail to accord with true ritual and righteousness.
The lecturer next cites *Xunzi*: Robber Zhi was greedy like a tiger or wolf. His name was transmitted together with the great names of Yu and Shun and never died out, yet a gentleman does not honor him, because he does not stand within ritual and righteousness.
Ordinary people may praise such a figure as a righteous outlaw who robs the rich to help the poor. But a true gentleman still will not esteem him.
So even when people call someone a *sage*, one must ask: what kind of sage is meant?
The lecturer then cites the *Zhuangzi*: “When the sage is born, the great robber arises; when the sage dies, the great robber no longer arises.”
Here too, *sage* means someone who has reached an extreme in a certain line, not necessarily someone of perfect virtue.
So in Laozi’s line, “The sage is not benevolent; he treats the people as straw dogs,” one must first distinguish what kind of sage is being spoken of. Otherwise the line is easily misunderstood.
That closes the first part of the chapter’s explanation.
“The space between heaven and earth—does it not resemble a bellows? Empty, yet never exhausted; the more it moves, the more comes forth.”
Patriarch Lü explains that the *bellows* is the tool used in smelting: an outer box with an inner tube. Though the inside is empty, once it is worked, wind is produced; the more it is pushed and pulled, the more wind comes out.
Heaven and earth are like this too. They appear empty, yet once their qi moves, the ten thousand things are generated, and generation continues without rest.
That is why Laozi says: empty, yet not exhausted; in motion, producing ever more.
“Much speech leads to exhaustion. Better to keep to the center.”
Patriarch Lü says that excessive talk easily becomes exaggeration, boasting, and self-display—showing off one’s abilities and claiming one’s own merit. People then spend their whole day rushing about for fame and profit.
The “center” here means the middle way, the right course, the path of non-forcing.
So too much talking, too many tricks, and too much agitation only end in pointless exhaustion. It is better to guard the center.
There are methods of cultivation that are active and methods that are non-active, but what really matters is preserving one’s own heart and nature.
The lecture then opens into a long spoken digression.
The teacher says that people like pleasing words, miraculous claims, and stories of instant spiritual effectiveness, and so they are easily led around by the nose.
He gives a long folk example about “flower-changing” rituals used to pray for sons or daughters, arguing that many supposed miracles are really coincidence, selective memory, and human suggestion.
From there he advises the audience not to become overly attached to bearing a son or a daughter. Better to follow what comes naturally. Male and female births each have their own causes and conditions, and one should not sink into superstition and worry over them.
The whole digression returns to the chapter’s point: people wear themselves out in words, signs, and claims, while the wiser course is still to guard the center.
Tonight the lecture moves into chapter 6.
“The valley spirit never dies; this is called the mysterious female.”
Heshang Gong says that *valley* means nourishing: if a person can nourish the spirit, it does not die. The mysterious refers to heaven; the female refers to earth.
Human beings take in the five qi of heaven through the nose, and the five flavors of earth through the mouth.
Patriarch Lü, however, explains the “valley spirit” as human original nature itself.
Human life depends on heaven and earth: air is taken in by breathing through the nose, and food and flavor are taken in through the mouth. In this sense, “the valley spirit never dies—this is called the mysterious female.”
“The gate of the mysterious female—this is called the root of heaven and earth.”
Heshang Gong says that the gates of nose and mouth are the place through which the primal qi of heaven and earth comes and goes.
Patriarch Lü says that *gate* means the place of passage in and out, and *root* means that which gives rise.
Nose and mouth are both among the six roots. The nose connects upward with heaven through breathing, while the mouth connects downward with earth through eating and drinking. That is why they are called the gate of the mysterious female.
The lecturer then briefly explains the six roots in Taoist and Buddhist language alike: eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind.
“Continuous, as though barely there; use it, and it is never strained.”
Heshang Gong explains that breathing through the nose and mouth should be light and subtle, as though present and yet almost absent. One should use the breath calmly and comfortably, not forcefully.
The lecturer then gives a story about Upāli cutting the Buddha’s hair. If his mind was too coarse, that was wrong; if too finicky and over-controlled, that too was wrong.
The lesson is that cultivation should be natural. One must not be overly tense, yet one must also not put on an artificial performance of spirituality.
Patriarch Lü’s explanation now turns inward.
Original nature does not arise and does not perish. It endures eternally, yet it cannot be directly seen.
Ordinary people do not understand this, so the text says only “continuous, as though it were there,” leaving room rather than forcing a crude statement people would only argue about.
Once the mind stirs, intention arises; once intention arises, wandering thoughts multiply, and the more they are shaken, the more they come forth.
Whatever is done with deliberate, grasping effort is called *strained activity*. A cultivator, however, should respond and act with a mind that does not abide anywhere. That is why Laozi says: use it, but it is not strained.
The lecturer then summarizes the whole chapter: human original nature does not die; the nose communicates with heaven and the mouth with earth; and cultivation must be carried out through a non-abiding mind rather than through forced contrivance.
Now the lecture turns to chapter 7:
“Heaven is long-lasting and earth endures. The reason heaven and earth can endure so long is that they do not live for themselves; therefore they can long endure.”
Hanshan Dashi explains that heaven and earth do not exist for their own private sake, and therefore they can last.
This is then used as a comparison for the sage, who forgets his own body and self-interest.
Ordinary people, by contrast, are always plotting for their own private advantage, hoping thereby to secure permanence—yet precisely because of that self-concern, they fail to endure.
The lecturer then explains the saying from the *Analects*: “The benevolent person is long-lived.”
He says this does not merely mean living for some decades in the human world. Real long life means “to die and yet not perish.”
Shakyamuni, Confucius, and Laozi all died in the bodily sense, yet their spirit and influence remain, and their names are still transmitted.
So too the *Baopuzi* says: if one does not cultivate virtue, but only busies oneself with techniques and arts, one cannot gain true long life.
Methods alone are not enough. Without cultivated virtue, there is no real enduring life.
People in the world, he says, are always struggling for themselves and for their descendants.
Qin Shihuang wanted a dynasty of ten thousand generations, yet the Qin collapsed with extreme speed. So worldly calculation does not guarantee endurance.
Hence the proverb: children and grandchildren have their own fortune; do not become an ox or horse for them.
One should not commit immoral acts for the sake of one’s descendants. Better than leaving wealth is leaving them virtue.
The source then moves into a long spoken expansion of the same theme.
The teacher urges parents not to spend their whole lives merely hoarding wealth for their children. Better to educate them, train them, and let them become independent.
He says that leaving a craft is better than leaving money, and leaving moral character is better still, because virtue lasts the longest.
He then talks about old age: one should ideally have an old companion, old friends, and some savings of one’s own.
He tells a story of a man whose three sons were all unfilial. Before dying, the father arranged his coffin, grave, and funeral in advance, and directed his remaining money toward charity instead of leaving it to unfilial sons.
All of this is meant to illustrate the line: what is driven by private self-interest cannot truly endure. Heaven and earth endure precisely because they are not self-serving.
The lecture closes this section by saying that the next line will explain how the sage is compared to heaven and earth.
This literal version consolidates the lecture’s English material into continuous notes, keeping close to the spoken sequence while preserving explanatory detail.