At the White Cloud Temple

CHAPTER ONE

The purpose of a fish trap is to catch fish, and when the fish are caught, the trap is forgotten. The purpose of a rabbit snare is to catch rabbits. When the rabbits are caught, the snare is forgotten. The purpose of words is to convey ideas. When the ideas are grasped, the words are forgotten. Where can I find someone who has forgotten words? I would like to talk to him.²

Meeting with a Daoist Master
We were three friends meeting up in Beijing, to explore how Daoism is practiced today in China. Reading books is one thing, but I had long ago realized that I would need a human encounter to give me an accurate sense of what Daoism could offer the spiritual seeker. So I contacted a couple of Chinese friends and asked them to join me on a journey to China, to help translate and make logistical arrangements. Our week in Beijing in September 2017 was an eye-opener in many respects, but most important is that we were able to have significant conversations with three Daoists: Master Meng Zhiling, a true Daoist master of the Longmen (Dragon Gate) Quanzhen lineage, who is living and teaching at the Bayun Guan (White Cloud) temple; the student and former priest Heven Qiu from the same temple; and the scholar Yin Zhihua, who lectures and publishes extensively. After our interviews, which took place at the Bayun Guan temple on three successive mornings, we transcribed the recordings and simultaneously translated them into English. This allowed us to continue our discussions into the afternoons. We’d get some lunch, rest a bit, and then continue.

To get more background on Master Meng before meeting him, I read Shi Jing’s interview with him in the United Kingdom in 2012, which was published in the UK periodical Dragon’s Mouth (2013). In it Master Meng gave a candid account of his arduous and austere spiritual search, which lasted for about thirteen years, until he found his master and embarked on the contemplative practice that he follows now.

Master Meng said that when he was twenty-four years old, in 1984, he left home to escape some personal problems, and was searching for spiritual direction and meaning. He wasn’t particularly religious then and didn’t know anything about Daoism, and just a little about Buddhism. At that time, he explained, people in China weren’t so familiar with Daoism, and it was considered an embarrassment, as society had become more materialistic. He went to a number of temples, including the famous Shaolin temple, the complex at Wudangshan (Wudang mountain), and many others, but none would accept him. He continued travelling and searching, ultimately passing through seven provinces of China including Sichuan, but still he could find no master or temple that would accept him as a disciple.

Finally someone took him to a remote temple where there was an old Buddhist nun. She allowed him to stay, but after a few days she told him that he should move on, as it had come to her in a dream that he really wasn’t meant to be a Buddhist, and that he should find a Daoist temple. He was feeling very frustrated and rejected by this time; he couldn’t understand why he had been searching for so long and no one would accept him. The nun agreed to help him find another place to stay, and he ended up at a very small temple that was difficult to reach on foot. He stayed there for perhaps a year, sharing the space with another man, but after a while an official from the government security department visited and said that since that temple wasn’t officially recognized, they would have to leave. He felt he had wasted another year!

By then Master Meng had decided to continue his search at the larger temples and mountains. He went to a number of famous temples but was turned down by all of them. He returned to Wudangshan, which still wouldn’t accept him, so he went to Taishan, another mountain range. On the way he passed through the Songshan mountains, where he found a Daoist temple called Zhongye Miao (Middle Peak temple). There the head priest, Meng Minglin, accepted him as a disciple, and he was finally ordained (initiated) by him into the Dragon Gate tradition. But after a while, Meng Minglin sent him to the Bayun Guan (White Cloud) temple in Beijing to get a deeper understanding of Daoism.

At Bayun Guan he enjoyed the company of other Daoists, and he stayed and worked with the Chinese Daoist Association and the Daoist College located there. For the first time, he immersed himself in the Daoist classics of Laozi and Zhuangzi, under the guidance of the old Daoists there. But he missed the peace and quiet he had enjoyed in the mountains and became fed up with city temple life. He was impressed that the older generation of Daoists he met at Bayun Guan spoke simply about the teachings while having deep insights into life, and he realized that intellectual education wasn’t so important – these people had a deeper wisdom despite not being educated. They told him that to gain this understanding he would need to engage in inner cultivation of the Dao. Then he also could become “a spirit immortal.” He was a bit skeptical about all this but decided to return to the mountains and meet some of the old Daoists there.

At this point it was 1992, and he had taken on numerous administrative duties at Bayun Guan. He was administrator of the Daoist Academy, and many of his colleagues wanted him to stay and even become a government official. But Master Meng wasn’t interested in working for the government; he wanted to get back to his practice of cultivating the Dao. So in 1993 he left secretly in order to travel around and search out more of the old Daoists, and find a quiet place where he could be a recluse and cultivate the Dao, which he had decided was the true path to follow.

He ended up in Dongbei (Manchuria), in remote northeastern China. It is very cold there, and he dug himself a cave where he lived as a hermit. He didn’t accept donations and used his own money for the few things he purchased, such as cooking oil and salt. Otherwise he ate the plants and vegetables he gathered. He rejected anything that would make his life easier; he even slept on the ground, emulating the early practitioners of Quanzhen Daoism. Eventually the villagers in the area started to visit him and ask questions about the Dao; he couldn’t get rid of them, so once again his tranquility was interrupted. He travelled farther and found a place even more remote, where he lived in an abandoned hut. Adopting this austere life, his clothes became rags; he undertook any task to make his life even more difficult. He spent all his time attending to his daily needs and meditating.

Master Meng had set out to use these hardships as part of his self-cultivation – overcoming them, he believed, was the means to reclaim his “original nature.” He wanted to follow the Dao, to achieve oneness with the Dao, and he used his hardships as a tool to purify his mind.

After a while he realized that even physical difficulties can be surmounted mentally and spiritually, and so there would be no end to this process. Eventually, through his contemplative practice and austere hard labor, he says he reached a state of total tranquility, and his mind stabilized. To put it in Daoist terms, he recovered his original nature by “removing the dust” of his thoughts and desires. As Master Meng explained:

Our original nature is connected to immortality, to the formless. It is like a glowing pearl, but through our day to day lives, with all our thoughts and desires, we accumulate dust which covers its original condition. But if we remove this dust, then the pearl will be able to shine again. The term for this method of cultivation is to stabilize our heart and transform our nature (xiangxin huaxing). To stabilize our heart means that we stay tranquil. When we stay tranquil we stop accumulating more dust. And by removing the old dust that we have already accumulated we transform our nature. So once we’ve removed all the dust from our heart then our true nature is revealed. And our true nature is Dao.

The cultivation is to gather our eyes, ears, mouth, and heart, and focus wholly on one point without being distracted or wandering from the focal point. If you cultivate this way for a long time then you will become stable and focused.

You’ll find this teaching in many stories connected to the Quanzhen masters. For example, there was a period when Qiu Chuji was living near a river. If anyone came along who needed to cross the river he would carry them on his back. It never bothered him who they were and he never asked for any reward; he just wanted to be of service. He kept his eyes, ears and heart focused. This is the real cultivation of xiangxin huaxing. Whatever we are doing, when our hearts are stabilized, nothing can distract us. This is when our innate wisdom can be revealed and our original nature can glow.

Master Meng continued describing how he would intentionally undergo physical hardships during the seven years he travelled around. He would go to the coldest parts of China and live outdoors, and then he would go to the hottest places during the summers. He ate only what he could find in the forest. He even survived an attack by wolves.

With this kind of life there are few unnecessary thoughts and the heart can become clear. I even forgot whether I was alive or dead. I went there without any food, without anything, and let nature take its course. Whether I would live or die was not for me to decide; I just left it to the immortals.

Ultimately, in 2005 people from the Chinese Daoist Association found him and, after many attempts, convinced him to return to Beijing, just for a little while, to teach some students. Finally he agreed, but the “little while” has become longer and longer and he is still there.

When I met Master Meng in September 2017, he was very welcoming, with a gentle, respectful demeanor. He was dressed in a traditional Daoist robe; his appearance was neat and orderly, as was his office. But more than anything, it was his smile and logical yet modest way of speaking that charmed and relaxed me enough to bring up the deep subjects I had been mulling over.

What impressed me most during the discussions was Master Meng’s emphasis on personal experience rather than mere reading of books and intellectual analysis. By experience he meant both meditation and the physical tasks his master had asked him to do.

First I asked him how he had found his master – and this is what he said:

The process of finding the master is very difficult. There are many people seeking Dao. Some never found a master their whole life. Some took twenty or thirty years to find one. Some took two or three years. It all depends on karma and the determination of the seeker. I once wrote a little poem, “I will seek Dao until (the bones in) my knees are exposed.” It often takes great refinement of the mind of the seeker, not just physical hardship. You must truly humble yourself, clear your mind, until nothing bothers the mind.

He then mentioned the Daoist belief that there are several masters on inner planes – immortal beings – who monitor the seeker’s progress. Ultimately, however, a person’s own master will appear. As Master Meng explained:

When a seeker begins, many masters know and pay attention to his progress. They don’t have to meet each other or know each other. When the student is ready by making himself a true, great vehicle of Dao, any one of the masters appears and can guide and teach the student. Once the human mind dies, the mind of Dao appears. So it’s not a disciple looking for the master, but the master is looking for the disciple.

In other words, I thought, as long as we have an active mind, entrapped by the impurities of this physical human level, then our higher or refined mind, which Master Meng calls the Dao mind – the mind activated by Dao – is suppressed. The master will appear once these base tendencies, which Master Meng called the human mind, are controlled. Then he continued:

Very few people can find a master and have the technique. Once they find the master and have the technique, they need to find a solitary place or monastery to put it into practice. I can explain with my own experience what it is like in the beginning, to show that it is not a path for the people of the world.

The first thing I did is to stop reading books. It’s an obstacle, as are all ways of intellectual thinking and even remembering friends. So in twenty-four hours, except for a short time for sleep, all I did was to focus the mind. To help focus the mind, I only did two things:

One was sitting in meditation to still the thoughts and calm the mind. Of course, there’s a method to do that. The practice of meditation leads to a change in the normal physical functions of the internal organs. The initial change is that the physical functioning of the body stops. The medical world may consider this as a sickness, but it is not. By using a certain technique, one blocks the physical functions of the body. This is the same for male and female, until they return to the physical state of a baby. This is the initial stage of the practice. The purpose of sitting in meditation is to still the mind, because our mind throughout the day is not under our control. The practice is in order to keep the mind controlled. It takes a long time to get into the state.

The second thing I did was hard work (austerity). There’s a saying that the practice must come from “the field of bitterness.” This is not like the passive acceptance of bitterness in life. This is actively looking for bitter, hard work. You do the hard work without asking any questions. For example, our ancestral master Qiu would roll a stone up the mountain and then roll it down and back up again. This is the method of refinement to help focus the mind – just control the mind and focus on the actual work you are doing.

Seeking out such difficulties and austerities to control the mind is considered by many Daoists as a necessary mental discipline as well as a way of inculcating obedience to one’s master – ultimately a foundation for developing humility and giving up consciousness of self. Now Master Meng shared his own experience.

Sitting in meditation is to separate our spiritual consciousness from our physical body, because the spiritual nature is independent of the body. Our ancestral master says that the practice is 70 percent work on xing (human nature or character), and 30 percent on ming (inner life; the inner world). So meditation is 30 percent of the work. The other is on the temperament of the mind, which cannot be refined through meditation. One needs the right environment to help cultivate the mind, in the mountains, where you don’t have any resistance. Once you develop the resistance, you can return to the mundane world. At that point, you blend in and conceal your practice.

Then he shared what he did to refine his xing – his human nature or temperament. He did all kinds of physical work in the mountains in order to control the outward tendencies of his mind and make it focus without surrendering to distractions.

For example, I went to look for hard work. During the cold winter, I’d go into the mountains to look for firewood. The wood must be from dead trees, and I’d pull them over. So I just did the work without asking any questions. There were other tasks, like digging a well without my even having the knowledge or skills or physical strength to do it. So during the years that I was in the mountains, I have done almost all kinds of work – wood work, roof work, and the like. During that work I focused all my senses, including my ears, eyes, etc., on the task I was doing, without minding anything surrounding me, until I reached the state of not considering or being bothered by anything around, and the mind not being disturbed by anything. A true saint or true human being would not move in front of a crumbling mountain.

I asked him why he had adopted this technique – whether it was on instructions from his master – and he answered in a way that echoes much of what I heard not only from Master Meng, but from several other Daoists during my visit to China: that the practice is extremely individual and secretive. It cannot be shared or discussed with others because it exists solely between master and disciple. He explained:

There’s no need to discuss the details of the instruction, because everyone’s technique is different. What you are seeing is the manifestation of the technique.

Another example is that when I prepare my food and I’m cutting the vegetables, I put all my attention on the cutting. Even if the pot is burning, I would not be disturbed until I finish cutting the vegetables. Or if a box of matches drops on the floor, I would not let my mind be disturbed; I’d pick up the matches one by one and put them nicely and neatly back into the box, with an undisturbed peaceful mind; the same example with rice falling on the ground. That’s why our ancestral master says that 70 percent of the practice is to refine the mind (xing, human nature).

To give you an example of the initial effects of the practice, the Zhuangzi says, “Observe the opening, then in the room of emptiness, there appears bright, pure light.” It means that after practicing the technique for a long time, there appears daylight even if you are in a dark room. This is similar to the section of the Zhuangzi that discusses “fasting of the mind” (which, he said, is very basic). At the later stages the effects of the practice get much broader, deeper and greater.

Master Meng explained how these practices led to inner visions of light, which have always accompanied him.

You will understand this only when you experience it yourself. In the mountains, I didn’t sleep in the evenings. I sat through the evening, but maybe dozing off here and there. All of a sudden, the room would be lit by daylight. I opened my eyes, but it was dark outside. Later, there were more and more of these instances. So then I understood what it means. When one of my masters taught me the practice of refining my nature, he said that once you are done with this practice, there will be no dark nights. The daylight later turned into a vision, and it became constant.

He described other inner visions of future events that he experienced as a result of both his meditation and ascetic practices.

One day I had a vision of a mountain and water, and at the foot of the mountain there appeared a young Daoist monk dressed neatly and looking smart. The next morning, someone called me outside, and the same person walked up towards my vegetable garden. This also happened when I was seeking Dao – those masters all knew in advance that visitors were coming. Later I understood these are very basic initial effects of the practice. This cannot be explained by science or philosophy.

Trying to find spirituality by intellectual means is futile, Master Meng emphasized. Yet this is the path that most modern people attempt. He said:

If you are looking for how modern people are practicing Daoism, you’ll be hugely disappointed, because the traditional Daoism and what modern people think is Daoism are very different, even from the Daoism of twenty or thirty years ago. In this college (at the Bayun Guan temple, which is the top Daoist college among the nine Daoist colleges in China), there are graduates and post-graduates. These young folks have no idea of what traditional Daoism is.

The only one who can talk about traditional Daoism is me, because of my background, interests, and personal experience of seeking to understand traditional Daoism by visiting the traditional Daoists. So I have been invited to this and other colleges to explain and teach the traditional Daoism.

I don’t think Master Meng was saying this out of pride or arrogance; he was simply stating a fact – that most people today do not understand what Daoism is. He continued:

Young people nowadays are much more intellectual and have much stronger capabilities to read and study than we older generations did. They are also very devoted and enthusiastic about Daoism. But because the method has changed, their understanding of Daoism has changed too. Traditional Daoism begins with the actual practice. And then, with the understanding gained from the practice, the students confirmed that understanding by reading the classical books and writings. To bolster their experience, they took guidance from the classical books and writings to help with their further practice.

The young people’s study of Daoism today is based on books and becomes an understanding of a culture rather than actual practice.

Dr Yin Zhihua, an academic and scholar of Daoism whom we met a few days later, expanded on Master Meng’s observation, pointing out that even the physical practices like taiji and qigong don’t represent the deepest level of Daoism. “The Daoist practices have two levels. One is internal alchemy, internal practice to become immortal. The other is for the common people; it is a physical practice, a series of physical exercises, which originated from daoyin in ancient times. They are practices of breathing and physical exercise for physical well-being. These are for ordinary people. But the fundamental practice of Daoism is not that.”

In my conversations with Master Meng, we explored the basic concepts and practices of Daoism that he teaches his students and disciples, focusing on the idea that the Dao exists of itself, emulating nothing else, based on nothing else.

I would cover the two key basic concepts of Daoism, ziran (self-existent, of its own nature) and wu-wei (non-doing), as taught by Laozi and Zhuangzi. The academic world’s understanding of these terms is different from the way those of us who practice Daoism understand them.

The Western cultures, including Chinese culture, are focused on human beings. They consider human beings as the center of the universe; Daoism is the opposite. The ziran and wu-wei are the core characteristics or intrinsic nature of Dao, and everything comes from that. Dao is the origin of everything (in the creation). We human beings and everything in the creation have their own intrinsic, original nature, i.e., ziran. “The Great Dao exists in myriad things,” says the Daodéjing. This is the meaning of it. (The all-pervading intrinsic nature of everything is the Dao.)

The term ziran appears in Chapter Twenty-five of the Daodéjing, where the text gives us a sense of the order of the creation – each level is dependent upon the one higher – but the Dao is the origin of all, self-existent and pervading all:

The human being emulates earth.
Earth emulates heaven.
Heaven emulates the Dao.
The Dao exists by virtue of itself, self-existent.

Master Meng explained the deeper level of meaning of the term ziran:

Zi means self, ran means so. It means just so, just is, just the way it is, self- existent (“suchness,” as it is called in Buddhism). In Daoist terms, it is also called ben lai mian mu, the original way, the original nature. Our physical appearance is not what we are; ziran is what we originally look like. In essence, it is the spiritual consciousness in us. It is our true self.

The first thing to know is that Dao is formless. Ziran is formless. The formless does not mean air but is beyond the physical world.

The Daoist view of the universe is that it consists of two parts: one is the physical world (which we can perceive through our senses), and the other is the non-physical world. The world of Dao is beyond the physical world, and it is the original state of man, heaven and earth, and the myriad things (the multiplicity of creation). Our physical body belongs to the physical world. It is a vehicle. But our original, true nature is not this physical body, and is formless. The formless part is the spiritual part.

The Yijing (I Ching, Book of Changes), says, “That which is beyond the forms is called Dao. That which has a form is called a vehicle.” Dao dominates the vehicle. The vehicle is the carrier of Dao. Human beings and everything else are the vehicle or container of Dao. This is the fundamental principle of Daoism.

The formless part of the human being is absolutely harmonious and universally connected with everything else. Our connection or commonality with plants and animals is at the formless level (which our conscious awareness or intellect cannot reach), and is harmonious. The uniqueness of Daoism is that it puts great emphasis on the universal, original nature (ziran) of human beings and everything else at the formless level, which is Dao. At the level of the formless Dao, all things in the creation, including human beings, are unified and in harmony.

He continued:

The vehicle has forms. All disharmony is caused by leaving the source, the root, which is the formless, and entering the physical world of forms, which are the branches. Within the creation, all disharmony is due to forms. Where there is no form, there is harmony. For example, if we humans deal with things only at the physical level, we see some beautiful people and some not such beautiful people; we see people with wealth and poor people. This is how and where discord happens. But at the formless, spiritual level (because there is a connection at that level), there is harmony. This is why Daoism strives to let the formless dominate the form.

The harmony in the formless realm is eternal. The harmony in the realm of forms cannot last long. For example, due to the physical forms of tigers and lions, they are in conflict with us. But if you raise them from a cub, and you establish a certain connection, you are in harmony with them. It’s the same with a society – if the formless dominates, there is harmony in the society. If the formed dominates, there is chaos and discord in the society. The highest concept of the formless is Dao and dé. (Dé is the Dao as manifested in the individual.)

All activities of human beings must obey, follow, and submit to the harmonious relationship, instead of putting human beings ahead of everything else; this state of harmony is not only the true nature of human beings but also the universal nature of the creation, the nature of Dao. This is the concept of wu-wei (non-doing) from Laozi. Dao is the principle of overall harmony in the creation.

To do that, human beings must first become aware of their own original nature, i.e., ziran, and then follow and submit to that nature, which is the act of wu-wei (non-doing). Non-doing means not to act according to our own desires and opinions, which are limited. So Laozi tells us to abandon our smartness and cleverness. Anything you do without thinking is with nature. The more thinking you do, the more problems there are.

That concluded Master Meng’s discussion of the basic principles of Daoism: ziran – “of itself” – inherent original nature; and wu-wei, “non-doing.” He said:

As long as we follow our own original, inherent nature, instead of viewing ourselves, us human beings, as the center of the universe and controlling the universe, we should be submissive to our own inherent nature and let that nature be in control of us, so that we have harmony.

The second part of my meeting with Master Meng was focused on Daoist practice. Master Meng introduced the subject by emphasizing the necessity of beginning one’s practice in the mountains, seeking out a monastery or quiet place where one can follow the life of a recluse.

The practices all take place in the mountains. Some go to monasteries to practice for eight to ten years, and when they come back to the mundane world, they have developed good resistance, as they have been keeping their mind constantly calm. The students here in the college do not do this kind of practice; they only study books.

I asked him to tell me more about the practice. He said:

The first step of the three steps is to realize our original nature. This is different from intellect or smartness. They (practitioners) must give up the intellect, intellectual knowledge gained through the senses, so that they appear dumb, and enter the silent state by means of some techniques, in order to experience the formless realm of Dao.

I asked if their techniques include zuowang, “sitting in forgetfulness,” which is discussed in many Daoist texts. He emphasized that it is difficult to talk about, as “only those who practice can discuss technique.”

Conceptually, it is to practice the “silence” mentioned in the Daodéjing, to be silent and still (qingjing), and non-doing (wu-wei)…. Laozi says, “You can know everything under heaven without leaving the house.”… Just now you mentioned “sitting in forgetfulness,” zuowang – that is a very limited technique, very basic. But there is a secret technique that has been passed along over thousands of years. Through this technique, another world is discovered.

Compared to that world, we realize how simple this physical world is. It is like the world of ants or bees. Their worlds are wonderful but not without limitations. It is the same with our world of the senses; there are limitations to our world. The realm of Dao is much beyond our world, beyond our senses. It is also like the fish in the water. To the fish, the water does not exist, but we can see the water. To us, the air is nothing, but to the world of Dao, it is the substance of Dao. This is why the realm of Dao, which is clear and empty, cannot be understood with the senses.

So you must let go of anything physical, including the self and the physical body – as Laozi puts it, “I have a great ailment because I have a physical body” – to be unobstructed in the formless realms.

I have had many masters (teachers) who are illiterate. Their knowledge and wisdom are not from books but from the practice of abandoning the physical senses. Their knowledge and wisdom are much superior, which is called the attainment of Dao. When you are internal and one with Dao, you become universal with everything, and become knowledgeable and conscious of everything. This knowledge does not come from books.

Master Meng continued to explain that the technique has been taught by masters for thousands of years, even before Laozi appeared.

Since ancient times – we have had saints before Laozi – and even before there was written language – there is a secret technique that has been passed along since then. Not to mention that if you come and ask about the technique, even if you’re a student, a disciple, when it is not the right time, you cannot get the instruction from the master. The technique is not a business. It is like a precious sword; only the one (who is worthy) can be given it. So they are very careful in giving out the secret technique. There is a rule that you must give the technique to the right person and you must not give it to the wrong person. That is why it cannot be discussed. But I can discuss on the outside what the techniques appear to look like, what they (practitioners) do in the mountains, to give you some ideas of the technique.

Does it mean that the student must be prepared? I asked.

The preparation is not what you imagine. They don’t have to do any preparation. Without having the technique, regardless of how good they may be, they won’t have the Dao. For example, regardless of how good a person’s car is, if they don’t find the right exit to the right path, however good the car is, they won’t find the path.

So this is the difference between Daoism and other religions. In Daoism, it is believed that our human destiny is in our own hands, not in heaven (with God). Anyone can become an “immortal.” Western religions dare not say that. Daoism has a huge system of immortals, a status attained from being human.

Master Meng emphasized that the Western worldview looks at human beings as having a role in the transformation of the world. This is not the Chinese viewpoint. The Chinese view destiny and nature as carrying everything along, and that human beings need to act in accord with nature, becoming part of the flow, not trying to impose their will.

When someone asked him what advice he could give those in the West who wished to follow Daoism, Master Meng replied:

This might seem basic, but the most important thing is to keep your heart simple and clear. This is the same for everyone, whether you are cultivating the Dao in the East or the West. Don’t get caught up in too many theories about cultivation; that just creates more ideas. Just keep your heart simple and clear. There are many ways to cultivate the Dao but this is the important point.

Meeting with a Disciple
The day after meeting with Master Meng, we had a very pleasant interaction with Heven Qiu (Qiu Qing), a student of the Daoist college at Bayun Guan temple. Qiu originally had been a priest at the temple and has lived there for twenty-one years. Qiu explained that he took the English name “Heven,” intentionally misspelling the word “heaven,” because he is not perfect. Also, to him the letter “a” represents his master, He Yongziang, who had passed away some time earlier, so Qiu chose the name Heven as a tribute to his master. While He was alive, Qiu would visit him once a year. Qiu explained that his master was from the eighteenth generation of the Quanzhen Dragon Gate lineage, which makes Qiu from the nineteenth generation. He commented that Master Meng is also of the Dragon Gate lineage. Qiu explained:

There are many teachers. But at this college, only Master Meng is a Daoist. Other teachers are professors from outside the college from other universities. Master Meng is also my teacher. But a teacher is different from a master. A Daoist master is a Daoist father. Master Meng is not my Daoist father. A teacher can have many students. I’m one of his students, but not his disciple, as He Yongziang is still my master.

Our discussion with Qiu covered many of the same subjects we had broached with Master Meng, although more briefly. Concerning meditation, he echoed what we had heard from others, including Master Meng:

I can talk about meditation, not the method. The method of meditation is not publicly discussed, just as Master Meng said. There’s a saying that among six ears (three people), Dao must not be transmitted. It is only transmitted one to one between the disciple and the master. Because everyone is different, their methods are also different.

So everything seems to boil down to the individual relationship between master and disciple. Yet the master won’t spell out everything for the disciple, who has to come to realizations by himself.

Qiu then elaborated on the most desirable times and postures for meditation, and the way to create the best atmosphere for meditation. He said that the best times to meditate are midnight, midday, morning and evening, i.e., 12:00 am, 12:00 pm, 6:00 am, and 6:00 pm. These are the special times for meditation when yin and yang alternate, he said. Daoists generally meditate each time for about 30 minutes to one hour, sometimes sitting cross-legged or in a lotus position. Qiu prefers sitting straight in a chair, with his hands on his knees. He stated that the technique differs from person to person because each person is different, and even his state of mind differs from day to day. He said, “Dao changes; your own thoughts, your own body, and your own state all change.” One can focus one’s meditation and breathing on any one of the three “elixir fields,” which are non-physical centers in the body located in the abdomen, heart, and brain. He also said that one can count one’s breaths or focus one’s eyes on an outer object or focal point. One can burn incense or practice qigong.

Concerning karma and reincarnation, Qiu acknowledged that Daoists believe in reincarnation but don’t emphasize it. Instead of focusing on the next life, as in Buddhism, they would rather focus on their purpose in this life – to attain Dao and not have a next life. Qiu stated that most people are concerned about the future or their destiny. He said that Buddhism and Daoism share many common beliefs about karma, but Daoists believe that our future is in our own hands. Destiny is the result of cause and effect from the past life. This cannot be changed, but we can change our future.

I asked about devotion, or love for their master. Qiu connected devotion and love to external prayer as a way of translating love into action. He also spoke of the Daoist belief in the “immortals” – advanced souls, no longer in the physical body, who embody the Dao. The purpose of his life is to become an immortal.

About his prayers, he said that practitioners of Dao recite and chant certain scriptures, including Qingjingjing (“The Scripture of Clarity and Stillness”). Every day they publicly chant a daily scripture. Their own chanting is done in the morning and evening and includes singing with tones and music. Qiu explained:

The master initially would go through the scripture by having us kneel down in front of the statues of the immortals, to teach us how to chant. There are some terms that are taboos, so we need to use substitutes…. This chanting method is passed on by master to disciple by word of mouth. The master only teaches me how to read or chant, but he does not explain the meanings of the scripture. It is up to the individuals to understand the scriptures.

Qui similarly elaborated on the need for the understanding of Daoist principles to come from one’s individual practice. He said:

The understanding of Dao and other terms all depends on individual practice and awareness. When they get on the path, their masters don’t explain to them what these terms mean. It’s up to individuals to read the scriptures many times to get their own understanding. Daoism puts emphasis on cultivation of life and nature.

Meeting with a Daoist Scholar
The third person we interviewed during this research trip was Dr Yin Zhihua, mentioned earlier, a noted scholar of Daoism. Mostly we discussed many of the same subjects we had discussed with Master Meng, but Dr Yin offered a more historical and academic perspective.

Concerning the need to keep the actual practices secret, he confirmed that the practices differ among individuals and depend on guidance from the master. He said:

The appearance of Daoism may have changed, but the actual practice has not changed since ancient times. It differs from Buddhism, in that Buddhism focuses on stillness and observation, while Daoism focuses on qi (the energy), and congealing (merging) of jing (vital essence), qi, and shen (spirit) into one. Also, Daoism is more focused on the individual practice. They say that my life is in my own hands, not in Heaven’s (God’s) hand, and does not depend on destiny.

“Do you carry your destiny from your previous life?” I asked him.

“Yes,” he answered, “but what you do in this life can change it.”

“So you have some free will?” I asked. With great conviction, he answered:

Yes, because human beings have the ability to understand the mystery of the universe. If they can grasp the mystery of the universe, they can transcend their destiny. Daoism has a high regard for human beings, because they don’t have to passively accept destiny. They have the ability to discover the natural law and have it serve their own purpose. The Daoist classic “Scripture of the Harmony of Seen and Unseen,” also translated as “Classic of the Yin Convergence,” says, “Observe the Dao of heaven; then you can have a grasp of the way the divine works, through practice.”

Dr Yin stressed several times that the path of Dao is natural, and one shouldn’t try to intellectualize what will naturally be revealed to you at the right time. He recommended cultivating an awareness of breathing. I did ask him further about visions, inner sounds of thunder, and the “stringless melody” mentioned in the tenth-century poem Baizibeh. He emphasized that certain states of consciousness will envelop a person, but this doesn’t come from the mind but from the soul.

Those are descriptions of the state, or advancement, of the practice. When you reach a certain stage of practice, these will happen. It is not what you are pursuing, but it is what will happen when you are at a certain stage. It does not necessarily come from within the mind nor is it a psychological phenomenon. It is when the consciousness and awareness are at a certain level that these are revealed to you, and you are part of it, and you experience it, and you are not separate from it.

I found it interesting that he described inner experience as something that you become part of, which you merge into, not something achieved through any intellectual or psychological process. This means that it is purely a spiritual experience, not something that one’s mind projects.

In Daoism there is a lot of discussion about “internal alchemy,” and I asked Dr Yin whether it signifies a form of meditation. In his view it is not a form of meditation. It is actually a refining of our coarse physical being into energy, and ultimately into spiritual light.

The internal alchemy is the transformation of life, from coarse physical form to a purer and finer entity, by refining and congealing the qi (energy) and consciousness into one, as if you are producing a new baby within yourself out of nothing. This new baby is formless, till it comes out of the top of your head (dingmen), which is called yang spirit (the pure positive spirit). Then it is further refined to merge back with Dao, which is the original source and ocean of life.

A simple way to explain what “internal alchemy” means is that it is a way to reconstruct or reproduce the (true or real) self. Our life is in this physical form. We need to exist in another form of life, as the qi – energy. The highest state of that life according to Zhuangzi is to exist in the form of light – to be transformed from a coarse being into a refined being, and then into light. The highest state of attainment is to exist in the form of light.

Dr Yin had spoken of the dé as the Dao manifesting in an individual, as that person’s inherent intrinsic nature. I asked him if he would say that love is our essential dé – not love as an individual quality but as a universal power. Yin replied:

There is difference between the Chinese and Western culture and religion. Love is a concept in Christianity; in Daoism, the basic principle is life or creation – it is to allow life in the creation, for example the producing of a plant. The core of the creation is probably the same as the power or force of love. The Daoist view of creation is to welcome the life of everything. The Chinese culture’s view of the Dao as mother has not so much to do with love but with the creative power.

There are two levels of practice in Daoism – one is the actual practice with techniques. The other level is awareness or enlightenment to Dao – that does not need language. Only experience is required to raise awareness. So it doesn’t matter if the practitioner is a Chinese or Westerner.

The ancient Daoist master Laozi said in the Daodéjing that the Dao is so boundless that it is beyond the limitation of words. It is indefinable. To try to give precise meanings to Daoist terminology is futile and would result in confusion, because to do so falsely assumes that one can portray the Daoist experience in words. Yet, despite these limitations, through meeting with a Daoist master and through an appreciation of the beauty of ancient and modern Daoist literature, we can at least open ourselves to the vastness of the experience. We can recognize a hint of our inner spiritual nature, mirrored in these sublime teachings. Boundlessness is intrinsic to the profound nature of the Dao and how human beings can embody and reflect the Dao in their life – in their very being.

By purifying the mind through meditation and transforming it into a still, clean mirror, we allow the ultimate clarity and light of the Dao to emerge.