Ji Kang and the Theory of Health Preservation

Ji Kang, a member of the Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove during the Three Kingdoms period, was both a renowned zither player and a proponent of health preservation. He advocated a way of life that “transcends conventional morality and embraces nature.” His celebrated work, “On Nurturing Life,” articulates a philosophy of health rooted in “clarity, emptiness, stillness, and tranquility,” while drawing upon the Daoist principle of “wu wei” (non-action). In his daily life, he sought to nourish himself by “steaming with lingzhi mushrooms, moistening with sweet spring water, basking in the morning sun, and soothing himself with the five strings of the zither,” thereby cultivating a state of mind that is “spontaneously at ease through non-action, with a body subtle and a heart profound.” With spirit, intention, mind, and body all at rest, and with the self and external things dissolved into one another, he believed that true qi could circulate unimpeded, free from the assaults of the six pathogenic factors outside and the disturbances of the seven emotions within—conditions conducive to recovery from illness.
    Appendix: The Complete Text of Ji Kang’s Treatise on Health Preservation
    Some may assert that immortality can be attained through learning, and that deathlessness is within the power of human effort; others maintain that a maximum lifespan of one hundred and twenty years is universally acknowledged, and that anything beyond this is nothing but superstition. All such views miss the mark; let us briefly examine them.
Though immortals and sages are not seen with the eyes, the records of ancient texts and the accounts handed down through history, when carefully examined, leave no doubt that they exist. It seems they are endowed with an extraordinary vital essence, naturally bestowed from birth—something that cannot be attained by mere study or cultivation. As for nurturing one’s life in accordance with principle, so as to fully realize the span of existence, it is indeed possible to live for over a thousand years at the highest end, and for several hundred years at the lower; such outcomes are attainable. Yet most people lack true understanding, and thus fail to achieve them. Why is this? When one takes medicine in hopes of inducing perspiration, sometimes the desired effect eludes him; but when a feeling of shame arises, it dissolves all resistance, and the body becomes light and free. If one goes an entire morning without food, his mind grows restless, yearning for sustenance; yet Zengzi, overwhelmed by grief, went seven days without hunger. When one sits late into the night, drowsiness weighs upon him, urging sleep; but if deep anxiety dwells within, he remains wide awake till dawn. Only through vigorous brushing of the hair and the gentle warmth of fine wine can one bring forth a radiant complexion; and the anger of a mighty warrior, though fierce and striking, may even cause his hair to stand on end. From this it follows that the spirit is to the body as the ruler is to the state: when the spirit is agitated within, while the body languishes without, it is as if the ruler were muddled above and the realm fell into chaos below.
In the days of King Tang, even a single act of irrigation—though it may ultimately lead to withering and ruin—will nonetheless ensure that the plant irrigated first perishes last. Thus, the benefit of that one watering is indeed undeniable. Yet people commonly hold that a single outburst of anger cannot harm one’s nature, nor a single sorrow wound the body; they treat such emotions lightly and indulge them freely—this is like failing to recognize the value of that single watering and expecting a bountiful harvest from parched seedlings. Therefore, the noble person understands that the body depends on the spirit for its existence, while the spirit relies on the body to endure; he perceives how easily vital principles may be lost and knows that even a single lapse can bring harm. Hence, he cultivates his nature to safeguard the spirit, steadies his mind to preserve the whole self, keeps love and hate from taking root in the heart, and allows neither sorrow nor joy to linger in the mind. Remaining serene and unattached, he maintains a harmonious balance of qi. Moreover, through regulated breathing, the practice of inhaling and exhaling, and the mindful consumption of nourishing substances, he nurtures the body and enlivens the spirit, so that form and spirit remain in close communion and both exterior and interior are brought into proper equilibrium.
As for cultivated fields, one mu yields ten hu; such land is called good farmland—this is the common designation throughout the realm. Yet who knows that with pit‑seed cultivation, a single mu may yield over a hundred hu? Though the method of sowing is the same, differing practices in planting and nurturing lead to vastly divergent results. To claim that merchants cannot hope for tenfold profit while farmers cannot expect a hundred hu per mu—that is clinging to the status quo without change. Moreover, beans make one heavy, elm induces sleep, the cassia tree dispels anger, and daylily banishes sorrow—these are truths known to both the wise and the foolish. Pungent fumes harm the eyes, and swine and fish do not thrive—such facts are widely recognized. Lice dwell upon the head and turn it black; the musk deer feeds on cypress and becomes fragrant; a goiter forms at the perilous neck; teeth grow yellow in Jin. Extending this reasoning, every kind of food we consume, through its vapors and qualities, permeates our nature and leaves its mark upon our very being—how could it be otherwise? Is it not so that steaming makes one heavy rather than light, smoldering renders one dim rather than clear, smoking turns one yellow rather than firm, and perfuming bestows fragrance rather than lasting grace? Therefore, when Shennong said, “Superior medicines nourish life, while middle‑rank medicines nurture one’s nature,” he truly understood the principles of life and destiny, and sought to harmonize and sustain them. Yet the people of this world fail to perceive more deeply; they see only the five grains and indulge solely in sights and sounds. Their eyes are beguiled by dark and bright hues, their ears crave licentious clamor. Savory flavors scorch their internal organs, and sweet wine corrupts their bowels. Fragrances and perfumes rot their marrow, while joy and anger betray their true qi. Thoughts exhaust their spirit, and grief and pleasure bring ruin to their natural composure.
With but a frail body, one faces assaults from many quarters; with a life that can be easily exhausted, to be attacked both inside and out—how could such a body endure? Those who overindulge in self‑care suffer countless ailments from immoderate eating and drinking; those who never tire of sensual pleasures bring about depletion and exhaustion; exposed to wind and cold, wounded by myriad poisons, they perish midway amid numerous perils. The world laughs at and laments this, calling it poor management of one’s own life. As for the way one places oneself in disarray, losing one’s way through the tiniest oversights—when small neglects accumulate into loss, and losses grow into decline—then from decline comes gray hair, from gray hair old age, and from old age, death, all without apparent cause. To the mediocre and below, this is called “naturalness.” Even if some awaken slightly, they merely sigh and regret their circumstances at the very outset, yet fail to guard against hidden dangers before they manifest. Thus it was that Duke Huan, already bearing an illness that would soon take his life, flew into anger at Bian Que’s foresight, mistaking the day he felt pain as the very beginning of his sickness. Harm arises in the minute, yet is sought to be remedied only when it has become manifest; hence there is governance that yields no results. One roams freely within the bounds of ordinary human life, and so attains a lifespan that encompasses all things. Whether we look up or down, observe near or far, all follow this pattern. Relying on abundance to prove oneself, finding solace in sameness, one concludes that the principles of heaven and earth are exhausted here. Even when hearing of practices for nurturing life, one dismisses them out of hand, declaring them untrue. Next come doubts; though some may come close, none knows whence they arise. Then there are those who, relying on their own efforts, take medicine for half a year or a year, laboring without seeing any effect, their resolve worn down by the weariness of decline, only to abandon their course halfway. Some add remedies through minor channels, yet drain away their vitality through the lower gate. As for those who hope to sit back and await conspicuous rewards, they either suppress their emotions and restrain their desires, severing ties with worldly honors, while their cravings remain ever before their eyes, their hopes deferred for decades—yet fearing they may lose both, they harbor inner hesitation, torn between inner conflict and external temptations, trading debts for favors, and thus, time and again, fall short.
Indeed, the most subtle things may be understood through reason, yet they elude direct perception—like a riddle that only becomes clear after seven years. Now, with a restless, competitive mind, one ventures upon the path of serene stillness; intentions are hasty while actions lag, hopes for near‑term results yield distant responses, and thus no end is ever truly attained. Those who are lax in their pursuits fail to seek what remains unfulfilled, while those who strive without focus lose their way; the one‑sidedly devoted achieve nothing, and those who chase mere techniques drown themselves in trivial paths. In such cases, none of those who crave can ever bring their desires to fruition. But the true cultivator of life proceeds otherwise: keeping the mind clear and empty, tranquil and at ease, with few personal attachments and scant desires. Knowing that fame and rank corrupt virtue, he passes them by without striving—not out of aversion, but because he does not cling to them. Recognizing that rich flavors harm the nature of the spirit, he renounces them without a second thought—not from greed that he seeks to suppress, but from a deeper awareness. External things no longer weigh upon the heart; his vital energy remains pure and unclouded, standing alone in its clarity. With boundless openness, he knows no anxieties; in utter silence, his thoughts dissolve. Moreover, he guards this state with single‑mindedness and nurtures it with harmony; as harmony and reason grow ever stronger, he aligns himself with the great flow of nature. Then, steamed with the essence of lingzhi, moistened by sweet spring water, warmed by the morning sun, and soothed by the sound of five strings, he attains effortless ease, his body exquisite and his mind profound. Having forgotten joy, he finds full contentment; having laid down life, he preserves his being. If one continues thus, how could one not live as long as Xianmen, or vie with Wang Qiao for longevity? Why then should such a life be deemed lacking?
      Accompanying items: Ji Kang’s “On Nurturing Life” book; accompanying illustration of Ji Kang.