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Capítulo 35 de 35
周易参同契
I, a humble person from below Mount Kuaiji, a decaying scholar like rotten wood in a deep valley, hold a simple and honest heart, taking no delight in power or glory. Dwelling in remote and crude places, I disregard fame and gain, uphold tranquility and emptiness, seeking only temporary peace. Living quietly at leisure, I have written this essay.
Using song and verse to narrate the principles of the great Yi (Changes), the surviving words of the three sages—Fu Xi, King Wen, and Confucius—I examine their essential meanings and unify them into a coherent discourse. The key lies not in smooth literary exposition, but in proclaiming and illuminating the inner spirit. When the spirit and numinous clarity are transformed and flow through, then the four seas naturally become peaceful. Expressing this principle through calendrical calculations, it can be followed for ten thousand generations; applying this order to governance, implementation is not burdensome; extending it to inner cultivation and nurturing life, it accords with the Huang-Lao natural way, holds deep virtue, returns to the root and restores life, returning to the primordial beginning.
The Way is near within one's own mind, never separate from this body. Embracing the One (focusing on the unified state of the Dao's origin) without abandoning it, one can achieve longevity and enduring existence. Coordinated with external elixir ingestion and nourishing practices, yin and yang, female and male, each find their proper place. Setting aside the cinnabar and lead ores of Wudu, discarding the eight miscellaneous minerals, one carefully applies what can complete the golden elixir—this is what the world should treasure. I lay out the three paths (governance, self-cultivation, elixir ingestion), like branches and stems connected. They share a single root yet bear different names, all issuing from the same gate. This is not merely piling up phrases or matching couplets; within it there is genuine meaning, like jade visible amidst gravel. If I were to put forth frivolous and false words, I would be adding sin to myself. Naming this work Can Tong Qi, a brief glance at its beginning reveals that its words are concise while its meaning is vast, and later students should honor it. Setting aside worldly affairs to avert harm, relying on mountains and hills for dwelling.
Wandering through the vast heavens and earth, dwelling as neighbors with ghosts and spirits. Transforming form to become immortal, falling into silent obscurity. A hundred generations hence, still roaming the human world. Spreading wings and feathers, flying to all directions. When Tang encountered calamity, floods and droughts alternated in harm. Branches and leaves withered and yellowed, losing their bloom and glory. Auspicious people, mutually supporting and carrying one another, may dwell securely and attain longevity.
This chapter is the concluding autobiographical preface of the Zhou Yi Can Tong Qi. Wei Boyang, presenting himself as "a humble person of Kuaiji, a decaying being of the deep valley," declares his standpoint in writing—retreat, simplicity, and indifference to fame and profit. Throughout the chapter runs a core logic: the Great Yi, Huang-Lao, and elixir alchemy all issue from the same gate. The so-called "laying out the three paths, branches and stems connected. Same origin, different names, all from one gate" refers to the three routes of calendrical governance, inner self-cultivation through Huang-Lao naturalness, and external elixir ingestion—all fundamentally being different unfoldings of the same "Way."
On a deeper level, this chapter conceals an exquisite structure: "Setting aside the times to avert harm, relying on hills and mountains. Wandering through the vast, dwelling with ghosts as neighbors. Transforming form to become immortal, sinking into silent stillness. A hundred generations below, roaming the human world. Spreading wings and feathers, tilting east, west, and south. When Tang met calamity, flood and drought were separated and combined. Boughs and leaves withered yellow, losing their bloom and glory. Auspicious people, mutually carrying, secure and able to attain longevity." These eight lines are not merely romantic imaginings of immortal wandering, but embed the author's name and identity through the hidden-character method—within them are concealed the characters "Wei Boyang" ("Wei" via "weishi," "Bo" via "baishi," "Yang" embedded in phrases like "Tang encountered calamity") [Translator's note: The ancients used cryptograms to conceal names at the end of texts, a method of authorship that combined humility with an air of mystery]. This both signs the name and implies the overarching style of the entire Can Tong Qi: meaning lies elsewhere while words reside here, conveying principle through images, revealing truth through concealment.
In writing this chapter, Wei Boyang is essentially answering an eternal question: "Why did you write all this?" His answer is: I do it neither for fame nor profit, neither for power nor glory, but solely to record the unifying Way realized from the "surviving words of the three sages." This offers a tremendous reminder for our age of information overload—the true meaning of creation and learning lies not in piling up rhetoric or technical display, but in whether the spirit can "flow through."
The line "not in smooth ordering of reason, but in proclaiming the spirit's radiance" is especially worth savoring for contemporary people. Today many pursue logical coherence and fluent expression while overlooking whether authentic life experience stands behind the words. Wei Boyang says the key lies not in smooth prose but in whether the spirit is genuinely illuminated and transmitted. This coincides remarkably with modern communications theory: sincerity matters more than technique.
"The Way is near in my mind, never separate from my own body" delivers a powerful blow to contemporary people. We are accustomed to seeking externally—signing up for courses, finding mentors, scrolling through information—yet we forget that the most fundamental thing resides within ourselves. Daoism never speaks of remote shores; the Way exists in this moment, in this very body.
Wei Boyang's self-description—"dwelling in remote and crude places, disregarding fame and gain, upholding tranquility, hoping for peace"—provides an exceptionally clear template for mental postures: reduce dependence on external evaluation and make tranquility an intrinsic state rather than something to strive for.
"Living quietly at leisure, then composing this text" tells us that genuine creation arises from leisure—not the emptiness of idleness, but a state of ease where the mind is not driven by external things. Contemporary people equate busyness with productivity, yet Daoism reminds us: leisure is the soil of creation.
The most practically applicable inspiration is "embrace the One and do not abandon it." In an age of fragmented information and endlessly divided attention, "embracing the One" can be understood as: finding a core value or foundational principle amidst multifarious affairs, unshaken by changing circumstances. Whether you are committed to a career direction, family relationships, or personal cultivation, so long as you hold fast to the most fundamental "One," you can maintain stability within turbulence.
"Setting aside the times to avert harm" also presents a practical strategy for living: some things, once they should be let go, must be let go; some environments, once they should be left, must be left. Daoism never advocates stubborn perseverance through grinding hardship; rather, it speaks of "knowing when to stop"—knowing when to retreat is true wisdom.
This chapter ultimately settles on "Auspicious people, mutually supporting, dwell securely and attain longevity." But what exactly does "longevity" (changsheng) refer to here? If interpreted solely literally as physical immortality, one falls into attachment. Combined with the preceding "transforming form to become immortal, falling into silence," Wei Boyang's notion of longevity approaches more closely a continuity of spirit and transformation of existence—when a person becomes one with the Way, their influence can "lovely roam the human world after a hundred generations," just as Laozi and Zhuangzi continue conversing with us today.
"Dwelling with ghosts as neighbors" is an extremely tension-filled expression. Ghosts (gui) signify return (gui). In Daoist philosophy, death and life form one body; yin and yang share the same source. Daring to "dwell with ghosts as neighbors" means transcending the binary attachment to life and death, entering a state of harmonizing life and death, roaming together with creation. This is not passive pessimism; rather, it is the deepest affirmation of life—when you cease to fear extinction, you can truly live fully in the present.
There is another paradox worth pondering: Wei Boyang emphasizes "simplicity" and "disregarding fame" throughout the chapter, yet hides his name in coded characters at the end. This implies a subtle philosophical proposition: true namelessness lies not in erasing one's name, but in the name itself ceasing to become an object of attachment. Concealing rather than displaying the name, retreating rather than abandoning the world—this is the precise Daoist posture of "non-action" (wuwei): do what must be done, yet never claim the self as the doer.
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This content is based on a classical Daoist text for traditional cultural study and life reference only, and does not constitute religious, medical, or investment advice.