Soul, No-Thought, and the Use of Emptiness
Good evening, everyone.
The lecture begins with the opening line of chapter 10 and first pauses over a disputed character. The lecturer says this word should not be misread: here it refers to the human *hun*, the soul. So the sentence is taken to mean: can you keep the soul and the *po* together, so that they do not separate?
Patriarch Lü Chunyang explains the line in this way: it is asking whether one can preserve the *hun* and *po* without letting them part from one another. For this reason Taoist cultivation speaks of the dual cultivation of nature and life (*xing* and *ming*): the work is precisely to keep soul and vitality from scattering.
The lecturer then gives philological notes. He says the graph has had more than one reading, but here it should be read as referring to the soul.
He explains the old phrase as meaning that what animates and manages the body is the *hun*. Without it, the body would be like a wooden puppet, unable to move. What makes the body function and act is this animating soul.
Next he explains *“embrace the One”* as simply meaning *“guard the One.”* The question of the chapter is whether one can truly hold this unity and bear it steadily, without letting soul and vitality separate.
He says Taoist texts therefore treat the work as one of preserving the *hun* and securing the *po*. He cites materials such as the *Jiuhuang zhenjing* and a cultivation text that say, in effect, that there is no mystery beyond this: one must refine the soul and secure the *po*.
The practical meaning is then spelled out. If desire and emotion arise, essence leaks away; once essence leaks away, original nature becomes dim. If one wants to preserve one’s life, one must first settle one’s nature. When the spirit is steady, qi does not burst out wildly; when qi is steady, the *po* can rest securely. This is the actual work of “refining the soul and holding the *po*.”
The lecturer then brings in Taoist correspondences from a dictionary of immortality studies. The *hun* resides on the left and belongs to wood; it is associated with yang spirit and with original nature. The *po* resides on the right and belongs to metal; it is associated with yin spirit and with embodied life or destiny. So in Taoist theory, *hun* corresponds to nature, and *po* to life.
He then turns to the five phases and uses them as a practical explanation of inner cultivation. This part of the OCR is rough, but the sequence is clear. Once the mind is stirred by external beauty, spirit becomes agitated; when spirit is agitated, qi becomes turbulent; when qi becomes turbulent, emotion and desire arise; then essence is lost, and original nature becomes obscured. This follows the logic of the generating cycle.
So if one wishes to preserve life, one must first refine and steady one’s nature. If nature is settled, one can see external forms without inner disturbance. Then spirit does not become chaotic, qi does not flare up, essence does not leak away, and life is not damaged. This, he says, is exactly the work meant by “refining the soul and securing the *po*.”
The next line discussed is “Can you concentrate the qi and attain such softness as a newborn child?”
Patriarch Lü explains it by saying that when essence is made single, it transforms into qi; when qi is made single, it transforms into spirit. The word here is understood as “returning.” So the line points toward a return to softness, symbolized by the newborn infant.
An infant is soft and free of harsh, rigid force. The question is whether the cultivator can return to that condition. This is not about becoming physically childlike in appearance, but about refining essence into qi, refining qi into spirit, and transforming coarse, violent energy into suppleness and harmony.
The lecturer continues by explaining “becoming like an infant” in more everyday terms. A cultivation text is quoted to say that if one can see sexual beauty without the heart being stirred, and hear seductive or obscene things without inner disturbance, then bodily essence naturally reverts to original essence. When essence is full, lust does not arise, and one returns to the condition of childlike purity.
So “infant” and “childlike” refer to a pure mind, not to outward appearance. The “heart of the child” means a heart unstained by contamination. The lecturer stresses that “returning to childhood” is a matter of inner state.
He even compares this with the Christian saying that unless one becomes like a little child, one cannot enter the kingdom of heaven. His point is that different traditions alike value this pure, uncorrupted state of mind.
The lecture then moves to the line usually rendered, “Can you cleanse the mysterious mirror and leave it without blemish?”
Because the OCR is much rougher here, the sense is best given in summary. Patriarch Lü explains that the human mind changes and moves in subtle ways beyond easy description. Once the mind is stirred by circumstances, deluded thoughts arise. Therefore the cultivator must cleanse and clear this inner mirror.
To “wash the mysterious mirror” means to remove the stains of false thought and emotional disturbance. The question “can it be without blemish?” asks whether one can bring the heart-mind to a state in which these faults no longer arise.
Next comes the line, “In loving the people and governing the state, can you do so through non-action?”
Patriarch Lü explains *wuwei* here as following Heaven’s way. In political terms, that means acting without selfishness, from impartial public-mindedness rather than private desire. If one truly loves the people and governs according to the natural principle, there is no reason the state will not be well ordered.
To illustrate this, the lecturer retells the story of Qi Huangyang. When asked to recommend a man for office, he recommended Xie Hu, even though Xie Hu was his enemy. Later, when asked for a judicial official, he recommended his own son. The point was not favoritism, but fitness: outwardly, he did not avoid recommending an enemy; inwardly, he did not avoid recommending his own son when his son was truly suited.
This is held up as an example of public-minded impartiality. The lecturer says that if officials governed in this spirit, the country would be at peace.
The lecture then turns to, “When the gate of Heaven opens and closes, can you remain the female?” The explanation given is strongly shaped by later religious interpretation.
Patriarch Lü says the “gate of Heaven” refers to the gate by which one connects with original nature. The lecturer maps this through a scheme of consciousness: the first five consciousnesses are eye, ear, nose, tongue, and body; beyond these are further levels of mind, culminating in the original nature linked to Heaven. He cites Mencius’s saying, “If one knows one’s nature, one knows Heaven.”
In practical terms, when the mind opens outward and moves, desire and agitation arise; when it closes and returns to stillness, one comes back to nature. So the line is taken as asking whether one can abide in receptive stillness and hold to a state of no wandering thought.
The lecturer immediately warns that “no-thought” does not mean blank emptiness or the total absence of consciousness. That would be a mistake.
The lecturer now spends considerable time defining “no-thought.”
According to the Taoist material he cites, no-thought means the absence of mixed and deluded thoughts, not the absence of awareness itself. If there were no awareness at all, one would be like wood or stone. So genuine no-thought means having right thought but not crooked thought.
He then brings in Buddhist support for the same point. Zen texts are quoted to say that no-thought is freedom from false thought, not freedom from proper awareness. Right thought is called no-thought because the mind is not split and scattered.
He gives a very plain practical definition: when eating, just eat; when sleeping, just sleep. One mind, not two minds.
He continues by saying that Confucianism, Taoism, and Buddhism all agree on this principle. “No-thought” means no false thought; it is another name for right mindfulness.
He then tells the story of the monk Huihai. When asked what his practice was, Huihai answered simply: when hungry, I eat; when tired, I sleep. The difference, he said, is that ordinary people do not really eat when eating and do not really sleep when sleeping—they are busy with a hundred thoughts. The lecturer says this is the true work of no-thought.
He adds a Buddhist example about the Buddha’s abiding in right mindfulness: when beings believe, the Buddha does not become excited; when they do not believe, he does not become worried or resentful. In more colloquial language, the lecturer says: when people come, there is no delighted attachment; when they go, there is no clinging regret.
The next line is explained as “Open in understanding and reaching in all directions—can you remain without [clever] knowing?” The lecturer interprets this as asking whether one can understand broadly without becoming trapped in self-made cleverness.
He distinguishes three kinds of knowing.
First is the knowledge of moral nature, identified with *liangzhi*—innate knowing, or conscience. This does not depend on outer learning. He gives the example that if a child falls into danger, one spontaneously knows to save the child. This is innate moral knowledge.
Second is the knowledge gained from hearing and seeing: learning, scholarship, and broad capability. This is useful, but it is not the same as moral wisdom.
Third is self-made or opinionated knowledge, a narrow and distorted cleverness. This kind of knowing not only misleads oneself but can also mislead others.
He also distinguishes worldly truth from true principle: visible, conventional facts belong to the worldly side, while the unseen rational and moral principle belongs to the deeper side. The line, then, asks whether one can be broadly informed yet not become inflated with merely worldly or self-made knowing.
The lecturer says this completes that line, and then he begins chapter 11 proper.
Chapter 11 opens with the familiar image: “Thirty spokes share one hub; in its emptiness lies the use of the cart.”
Patriarch Lü explains that the spokes are the straight wooden pieces of the wheel, and the hub is the center where they all meet. Although there are many spokes, they gather into one hub. Yet the wheel is useful not because the center is solid, but because there is an empty space there through which the axle passes and the wheel can turn.
The lecturer dwells on the physical structure: each spoke joins at the center, and the wheel moves because the axle passes through that hollow. In Buddhist terms, he says, one might call this *emptiness* or *voidness*—but his main point is simply that usefulness depends on the empty center.
He closes by noting that this is only the first of three parallel metaphors in the chapter, and that their fuller meaning will emerge in what follows.
This literal version consolidates the lecture’s English material into continuous notes, keeping close to the spoken sequence while preserving explanatory detail.