The Elusive Form of the Ancient Dao
Good evening, everyone. The lecture turns to page fourteen, chapter 14.
The text begins: “Look at it and it cannot be seen — this is called *yi*; listen to it and it cannot be heard — this is called *xi*; grasp at it and it cannot be obtained — this is called *wei*. These three cannot be fully examined, and so they are merged into one. Above it is not bright; below it is not dark. Subtle and unbroken, it cannot be named. It returns again to no-thing.”
Patriarch Lü Chunyang explains that “above” refers to sages and “below” to ordinary foolish people. The numinous light of self-nature is originally the same in all, so sages cannot add brightness to it, and ordinary people cannot truly make it dark. When self-nature withdraws and hides itself, it remains suchness, unmoving; when it folds itself inward, it returns to the hidden and silent, and so it is said to “return to no-thing.”
He then explains in more detail that every person has an unchanging and undying nature. In Taoist terms this is called self-nature. It is unborn and undying, and everyone possesses it.
The problem is that it is obstructed by the seven emotions and six desires. Because of these passions, the inner light cannot shine forth. Human beings stir up the “three minds” and cling to the “four appearances,” adding fuel to the fire until the light is covered over.
He says that when people look at images of Buddhas and bodhisattvas, they often see the full round halo and think of perfect brightness. But this brightness is not something added from outside. It is like the sun hidden behind dark clouds: once the clouds are brushed aside, the sun is seen again. The sun was already there in the sky.
Citing the Sixth Patriarch Huineng’s explanation of the *Diamond Sutra*, he says ordinary people fail to see self-nature and wrongly divide it into bright and dark. But from the Buddhas above down to sentient beings below, there is fundamentally no difference. All dharmas are equal, so where would “brightness” and “darkness” truly come from?
He uses the image of an airplane: on the ground, in dark weather and heavy cloud, you may not see the sun at all. But once the plane rises above the clouds, the sun is bright and unchanged. In the same way, Buddhas and sentient beings are not different in essence. What hides the light is only the cloud-cover of the seven emotions and six desires.
He next explains the phrase “subtle and unbroken, it cannot be named.” The word *shengsheng* is taken to mean something continuous, without gap, endlessly moving and operating, boundless and inexhaustible.
He also notes that “hidden” here does not mean secret in the ordinary sense, but quiet and soundless. Self-nature itself is neither bright nor dark; it only seems so when obscured or unobscured. That is why Laozi says, “Above it is not bright; below it is not dark.”
He says *shengsheng* suggests something with no break in it, something that can expand and fill heaven and earth. Yet one still cannot give it a proper fixed name. So, as elsewhere in the *Daodejing*, one can only reluctantly call it “the Dao.”
“To return to no-thing” means that it is not a formed object. “Thing” refers to something with shape and substance; therefore Laozi calls it “no-thing.”
The teacher then links this to the lines about “the formless form” and “the image of the imageless,” and to “meet it and you do not see its head; follow it and you do not see its rear.” The Great Dao cannot be seen with ordinary fleshly eyes. Only the dharma-eye can glimpse it. It is the source of all Buddhas — Buddha-nature itself. If you say it exists, you cannot point to it as a visible object; if you say it does not exist, it is nevertheless truly there.
He then turns to several glosses, beginning with the “dharma-eye,” which is the eye capable of seeing through to principle completely.
The word translated as “vague” or “dimly perceptible,” he says, refers to something whose shape cannot be clearly identified, something without boundary, measure, or edge.
He quotes the *Infinite Meaning Sutra*: after attaining unsurpassed perfect awakening under the bodhi tree, the Buddha used the Buddha-eye to view all dharmas, but could not directly speak the ultimate truth because the natures and desires of beings differ. Therefore he used skillful means and taught many kinds of doctrine.
The teacher dwells on this point. Truth cannot always be stated plainly. If one speaks it too directly, people cannot bear it. So sages use expedient examples, stories, and comparisons to lead the confused toward awakening.
For that reason, the Dao cannot be measured, grasped, or touched like an object. It seems at once present and absent. You cannot find its head when you face it, nor its tail when you follow it. So teachers use subtle metaphors to help people awaken to it.
He concludes that ultimate truth is absolute, while ordinary doctrinal explanation is often only a method for leading people in. Real cultivation cannot rest on dependence on another. In the end, each person must cultivate and awaken for himself.
In the next session he returns to the lines: “This is called the formless form, the imageless image. Meet it and you do not see its head; follow it and you do not see its rear.”
He says that although the wording is different, the meaning is close to a famous passage in the *Analects*, where Yan Yuan sighs over Confucius: “The more I look up to it, the higher it seems; the more I drill into it, the harder it becomes. I see it before me, and suddenly it is behind me.”
This, he says, describes the Way well. The more one studies it, the higher it seems and the deeper it becomes. The more one tries to penetrate it, the more inexhaustible it is. And just when one thinks one has it in front of oneself, it has already slipped behind.
He adds that scriptural language often works this way. For example, the *Universal Gate Chapter* says that if one sincerely recites Guanyin’s name, fire will be extinguished. At a shallow level this sounds like literal fire. But on deeper reflection it can also mean the fires of the heart: lust, anger, ignorance, greed, and inner agitation. The same words can carry different levels of meaning.
So with the Dao as well: what seems straightforward at first becomes deeper and subtler the more one investigates it.
He then explains the closing lines of chapter 14: “Hold fast to the Dao of old in order to manage the realities of the present. To know the ancient beginning — this is called the guiding thread of the Dao.”
Patriarch Lü says that the “Dao of old” is the Dao that models itself on nature — the Dao of non-action. To hold to this non-forcing Way is to have the right principle for responding to the beings of the present age.
He pauses over several terms. “The present age” simply means the current world, this very society now. “Sentient beings” means living beings, a point he says Taoist and Buddhist usage share. “The ancient beginning” means the root or origin.
So the teacher concludes that a cultivator must receive and preserve this Way of non-action. With it, one can respond properly to people in the present world. To know the origin and root of the ancient Dao is to know the regulating pattern, the guiding thread, of the Way itself.
With that, he says, chapter 14 is complete.
This literal version consolidates the lecture’s English material into continuous notes, keeping close to the spoken sequence while preserving explanatory detail.