In our article on “The mystery of consciousness,” we examined the question of consciousness from the perspective of neurobiology and physics. In the articles on “Yi & Zhan Zhuang” and “What is Qi?”, on the other hand, the focus was on attempting to understand Daoist philosophical concepts in the light of modern science.
Now we would like to go one step further: we propose building a bridge between the Daoist worldview and modern neurobiology. In doing so, we transfer the Daoist view of personality and the world to the structures of the brain – thus opening a dialogue between ancient wisdom and current research.
Introduction – From the Dao to the Brain
When we hear terms such as “Dao,” “Yin and Yang,” or “Shén” today, many of us immediately think of ancient Chinese philosophy, perhaps temples, meditation, or martial arts. But there is more to these symbols than just historical symbolism. They are tools of thought that attempt to put into words the invisible, the fundamental, and at the same time the living. This is precisely where their modernity lies.
Twenty-first-century science has its own terms: quantum foam, vacuum fluctuations, symmetry breaking, neural networks, default mode network. At first glance, one might think that these terms belong to two completely different worlds—one poetic and pictorial, the other mathematical and measurable. But if you take a closer look, you realize that both languages aim at the same thing: the question of how formless possibility becomes ordered reality.
In Daoism, everything begins with the Dao: a void that is not absence, but pure potential. In modern physics, we find a strikingly similar concept. What John Wheeler called “quantum foam” is nothing more than a level below all particles and fields – a seething sea of possibilities. Here, virtual particles appear and disappear again before they become tangible. Space and time lose their continuity; they seem to dissolve into a fluctuating unrest.
But structure emerges from this unrest. Yin and yang, the Daoist concept of polarity, describes precisely this transition. In physics, we speak of symmetry breaking: from a seemingly uniform background, a difference suddenly emerges – plus and minus, spin up or down, matter and antimatter. It is these distinctions that make a universe possible.
The Taoist term Xìng (性) – essential nature – points to something that is astonishingly close to modern resonance research. Organisms are not passive machines that only respond to external impulses. They resonate, they form their own patterns, drawing order out of chaos. In biophysics, we find evidence of this in the vibrations of DNA, in the oscillating patterns of microtubules inside cells. The body is not just matter, but a resonance system.
But resonance alone does not explain why we experience, why we have self-awareness. This is where the concept of Shén (神) comes in. In Daoism, it refers to the spirit – not as a substance, but as a formative field. In modern neuroscience, we see something similar in brain waves: delta, theta, alpha, beta, gamma. These are coherent patterns produced by the brain at the system level. They organize perception, emotion, memory, and meaning.
In addition, there is the dimension of intention with Yì (意)—that which transforms us from mere beings of perception into actors. The prefrontal cortex, the default mode network, the basal ganglia: they all work together to shape concrete decisions out of possibilities. “I want,” “I choose” – that is the voice of Yì.
But intention remains ineffective without implementation. This requires Mìng (命), the life force, the bridge between intention and physiology. Breathing, circulation, hormonal control, motor coordination – all these are expressions of Mìng. And finally, at the end of the chain, Lì (力) appears, the physical force, the action in space. Muscles contract, bones move, the world changes.
One might ask: Why use these ancient words when we have modern technical terms? The answer is simple: because Daoist concepts not only describe processes, but also reveal their connections. Neuroscience dissects, analyzes, and measures. Daoism connects, interprets, and establishes relationships. Together, the two provide a dual perspective: the precise and the holistic.
This is precisely what we want to explore in the following chapters: how Dao → Yin/Yang → Xìng → Shén → Yì → Mìng → Lì can be understood as a chain of processes that makes sense both cosmologically and neurophysiologically.
Dao (道) – Potential in quantum foam
“The Dao that can be spoken is not the eternal Dao.” – this is how Laozi opens his Daodejing. By this he means: The Dao eludes definition. It is not a thing, not a quantity, not a place. It is that which underlies everything before form and name arise.
In modern language, we would say: The Dao is pure potential. Not empty in the sense of absence, but empty in the sense of openness – the possibility of everything, without already being anything specific.
Physics has an image that comes remarkably close to this idea: quantum foam. John Wheeler, one of the great theorists of relativity and quantum mechanics, coined the term in the 1950s. He used it to refer to the smallest scale of reality, the Planck scale at around 10^{-35} meters. At this scale, space loses its apparent smoothness. It becomes turbulent, undulating, forming bubbles, curvatures, and fluctuations.
What we perceive as a “vacuum” in everyday life is not nothingness at this level, but a seething sea of virtual particles. Electron-positron pairs constantly appear, exist for a tiny moment, and then disappear again. Energy flows without us being able to measure it directly—only the effects are noticeable, for example in the Casimir effect, where two plates in a vacuum experience a measurable attraction because the vacuum is not empty.
This zero-point field is something like the modern version of the Dao. Both terms refer to a level that precedes all form. The Dao is the source from which Yin and Yang arise. Quantum foam is the stage on which particles and forces are born.
In Daoism, the Dao is often described using images: water, fog, emptiness, darkness. These are metaphors for something that cannot be grasped, only experienced. Physics also faces this problem: quantum foam cannot be observed directly. We infer its existence from its consequences.
Daoism emphasizes that the Dao is not divided. It is one, all-encompassing. Only in the movement to Yin and Yang does duality arise. We find a parallel in physics: the basic equations of many theories are symmetrical and uniform. Only when symmetry is broken—for example, in the early universe, when the strong nuclear force, the weak force, and the electromagnetic force separated from each other—do differences arise.
Dao is therefore unity before multiplicity. Quantum foam is unity before forces and particles differentiate.
Important for our model: Dao is not only the basis of matter, but also of consciousness. For if Dao is the source of all energy, then it is also the source of the vibrations that later produce resonance patterns (Xìng), brain waves (Shén), and finally intention (Yì).
One could put it this way:
• Dao is possibility.
• Yin and Yang are the first differentiation.
• Everything else is an unfolding of this original potentiality.
Of course, there are differences: Daoism speaks of Dao in a spiritual, even ethical sense. Physicists, on the other hand, mean a physical field. But both approaches are united by the realization that the foundation of reality is not a thing, but a process. Something that has always been there, but never remains in a fixed form.
The Dao as the energy of quantum foam thus forms the first stage of our model. It is the invisible matrix from which all further steps emerge – Yin and Yang, essential nature, spirit, intention, life force, and action.
Yin & Yang (陰陽) – Fluctuations of Energy
If the Dao is the origin, still without form or direction, then Yin and Yang are the first movement from it. Daoism does not describe them as opposites in the sense of black and white, good and evil, but as complementary poles that condition each other. It is the interplay of rest and movement, fullness and emptiness, inhalation and exhalation.
In Chinese cosmology, it is said: “From the Dao comes One, from One comes Two, from Two comes Three, and from Three comes ten thousand things.” Yin and Yang are this step from One to Two – the first differentiation within unity.
Physically, we can compare yin and yang to vacuum fluctuations. In quantum foam, there is never absolute calm. Fields fluctuate, particles appear and disappear. These fluctuations are not chaotic in the sense of “meaningless,” but form patterns: energy oscillates, moves in one direction, returns.
Just as Yin denotes the descending, condensing aspect and Yang the ascending, expanding aspect, we can understand fluctuations as a constant interplay: plus and minus, wave and counterwave, particle and antiparticle.
In modern physics, symmetry breaking refers to the emergence of structure from a homogeneous entity. In the early universe, for example, there was initially a high degree of symmetry in which all forces were united. It was only when this symmetry broke that individual interactions emerged: gravity, electromagnetic force, strong and weak nuclear force.
This moment is similar to the Daoist idea that polarity (yin/yang) arises from unity (Dao). Polarity is not static, but a process: yin transitions into yang, yang back into yin. Just as a pendulum moves, just as ebb and flow follow each other.
We also find yin and yang as a dynamic interplay in the organism. Neurons, for example, do not fire constantly, but rhythmically. Membrane potentials fluctuate, action potentials follow periods of rest. Muscles contract and relax. The heart beats systolically and diastolically.
These rhythms are an expression of the same principle: life does not arise from uniformity, but from fluctuation. Yin and yang are the fundamental vibrations that set the pace.
From a purely physical point of view, one might ask: Aren’t fluctuations just “noise”? In fact, noise is often the source of new information. Carlo Rovelli, one of the leading quantum physicists, describes quantum processes as relational events: They arise from differences, from relations. Without fluctuations, there would be no differences – and therefore no information.
In the Daoist image: without yin and yang, there would be no world. Only through their interplay can something appear that is distinguishable from something else.
The well-known black-and-white symbol, the Taijitu, visually sums up this idea. Yin contains the core of Yang, Yang contains the core of Yin. No pole exists without the other. Arranged in a circle, they show that both movements together form a closed process.
Applied to physics, one could say: Every fluctuation in a vacuum carries the seed of its counter-movement within it. An electron does not appear without its positron, a quantum field does not oscillate in only one direction.
So far, we have traced the transition from formless unity (Dao) to the first differentiation (Yin/Yang). But Yin and Yang are still abstract: they are movement, but not yet form. Only when these vibrations couple with matter do specific patterns emerge. We call these patterns Xìng – the nature of being.
Xìng (性) – Essential nature as resonance of matter
If Yin and Yang represent the first differentiation from the Dao, the question remains: How does this become something concrete, something individual? This is precisely where the concept of Xìng (性), the “essential nature,” comes in.
In classical Daoism, Xìng describes the inner disposition, that which makes a living being what it is. Not in the sense of an unchanging core essence, but as the resonance pattern that emerges from cosmic vibrations and takes concrete form in the organism.
While Western tradition has long understood organisms as machines, the Daoist view emphasizes that living beings are resonance systems. They absorb vibrations from the environment, respond with their own vibrations, and in doing so form an individual pattern.
We find astonishing parallels in modern biophysics. Molecules are not just chemical compounds; they have their own frequencies. DNA, for example, exhibits collective vibrations in the terahertz range. These vibrations are not insignificant; they influence how DNA interacts with proteins, how genes are read, and how repair processes take place.
Microtubules—tiny tubes in the cytoskeleton—are also more than mere supports for the cell. They form complex lattices that can themselves carry vibrations. Roger Penrose and Stuart Hameroff have speculated in their “Orchestrated Objective Reduction” theory that microtubules could even carry quantum coherence. Whether this is the case remains controversial. But it is undisputed that microtubules play a central role in the organization of the cell interior – a kind of resonance network.
One could say: Yin and Yang provide the beat, Xìng turns it into a melody. Every DNA, every nerve network, every organism forms its own signature. This signature is not arbitrary, but born from the resonance of internal structure and external fluctuation.
A simple image: imagine a guitar string. It hangs over a sound box. When you strike it, it vibrates at its fundamental frequency – but also in overtones that depend on the material, the tension, and the construction. The same is true of Xìng: the fundamental vibrations (Yin/Yang) are universal, but each material constellation generates an individual pattern from them.
In modern systems theory, we talk about self-organization: complex, orderly patterns emerge from simple rules and fluctuations. One example is Bénard cells: when a liquid is heated from below, it suddenly forms regular vortex patterns once it reaches a critical temperature. Order emerges spontaneously from instability.
Xìng is the biological analogue of this. The body draws phase-stable patterns from the turbulence of quantum foam and the fluctuations of the environment, which become its own unique characteristics.
For us humans, this means that our Xìng is what defines our individuality – genetically, epigenetically, neuronally. But it is not rigid. Resonance changes. Experiences, environmental conditions, traumas, learning processes – all of these modulate our Xìng.
In Daoist terms: our essential nature is like a riverbed. It gives it a direction, but the watercourse can expand, shift, change.
So far, we have seen how Dao → Yin/Yang → Xìng describes the path from pure possibility to polarity to individual patterns. But all of this is still “raw” – a vibration in the material world. Only when these resonances are integrated at the systemic level, when they form a coherent field in the brain, does something new emerge: Shén – the spirit.
Shén (神) – Spirit as a brainwave pattern
With Shén (神), we enter the realm of experience. While Xìng describes the individual resonance of an organism – its inner signature, which arises from DNA, microtubules, and biophysical patterns – Shén refers to the emergent wholeness that arises on this basis: the spirit.
In Daoism, Shén is not “soul” in the dualistic sense, but rather the field of gestalt formation that arises from the vibrations of the body. It is spirit as a process, not as a thing.
Modern neuroscience provides a vivid counterpart: brain waves. With the EEG (electroencephalogram), we measure electrical vibrations that arise from the interaction of millions of neurons. They can be roughly divided into frequency bands:
• Delta (0.5–4 Hz): deep sleep, regeneration, unconscious processes.
• Theta (4–7 Hz): dream states, meditation, creative intuition.
• Alpha (8–12 Hz): relaxation, calm alertness, inner composure.
• Beta (13–30 Hz): concentration, thinking, problem solving.
• Gamma (>30 Hz, often 40 Hz): connection of different areas of the brain, integration into coherent consciousness.
These patterns are not “background noise,” but rather shape how we perceive, feel, remember, and act. Shén is precisely this system level: the coherent shaping of vibrations in the nervous system.
Neuroscientists such as Walter Freeman and Karl Friston have emphasized that the brain does not work locally, but rather through coherent patterns that are synchronized across large regions. Gamma oscillations, for example, connect visual, auditory, and emotional areas, creating a unified perception: the famous “binding problem” of consciousness.
In Daoist terms, one could say that shén is the field that forms a whole from individual vibrations (xìng). Like an orchestra that creates a piece of music from many instruments.
Shén is not just “thinking.” It also encompasses emotion, memory, and meaning. The limbic system, hippocampus, and cortex are closely interconnected here. When we remember, it is not by retrieving a file, but by reactivating a network pattern. This is precisely what Shén is: the dynamic pattern formation that structures experience.
It is interesting to note that Daoist texts often refer to Shén in the plural form: there are several “spirits” – heart spirit, liver spirit, kidney spirit, etc. This reflects the fact that there are different levels of coherence: vegetative, emotional, cognitive. Modern neuroscience would say: different networks (default mode network, salience network, executive networks) form their own dynamics, which together make up the overall spirit.
The crucial point is that with Shén, consciousness comes into play. Not just neural activity, but a coherent field that we subjectively perceive as “experience.” If Xìng is the vibration of matter, then Shén is the shaping of this vibration into fields of experience.
This also explains why changes in brain waves lead to altered states of consciousness: Meditation shifts activity toward theta and gamma; propofol anesthesia suppresses alpha and gamma coherence; psychedelic substances trigger hyperconnectivity in the default mode network. These are all examples of how Shén can be modulated.
But consciousness alone does not make us active beings. We can perceive, remember, feel—but that does not mean a decision has been made. Only with Yì (意), intention, does the element that directs the Shén pattern in a certain direction come into play: “I want,” “I choose.”
Yì (意) – Intention / Self-Awareness (Operator)
So far, we have seen how Dao (potential) develops via Yin/Yang (polarity) and Xìng (individual pattern) to Shén (coherent brain wave field) into an organism that perceives, remembers, and feels. But one crucial step is still missing: active choice. This is precisely what Yì (意) refers to – intention, will, directed attention.
In Daoism, Yì is considered an inner compass. It is what sets the direction without itself being an action. While Shén is still like a mirror that reflects the world, Yì is the force that decides which image the mirror follows.
In modern brain research, we find several structures that perform this function:
• Prefrontal cortex: The center for planning, self-control, and future orientation. This is where the ability to design scenarios and evaluate actions arises.
• Default Mode Network (DMN): A network closely linked to self-model and autobiographical memory. It provides the “history of the self” in which new intentions are anchored.
• Salience network: Decides which stimuli are important, what we pay attention to. It is like a filter that controls focus.
• Basal ganglia: Circuits that work like gatekeepers – “Go/No-Go” mechanisms that determine which impulses may be translated into action.
• Thalamus: The central relay that selects and coordinates information.
• Pedunculopontine nucleus (PPN): Controls the global level of activation and acts as an amplifier for implementation.
Together, these systems form the operator that selects from many possibilities those that we experience as “my decision.”
While Shén is the entire pattern field of the brain, Yì acts like a spotlight. It directs attention, amplifies certain vibrations, and inhibits others. In neuroscientific terms, Yì creates a top-down bias, a pre-control of neural activity.
An example: you are reading this text right now. Your visual system perceives many details—letters, colors, shapes, the environment around you. But Yì directs your attention to the words and their meaning. Everything else fades into the background.
Yì also gives rise to self-awareness. Because in order to choose, you need a model of who is choosing. The prefrontal cortex and the DMN build precisely this model: a history of the self, embedded in space and time.
Interestingly, studies show that people with lesions in the prefrontal cortex still have perception and emotion (Shén is therefore present), but have difficulty making coherent decisions and pursuing long-term goals. This clearly illustrates that Yì is a separate level.
In Daoism, Yì is often described as the link between the heart and action. “Where Yì goes, Qì follows,” it is said. This means that intention directs the flow of energy. Modern research confirms that attention can measurably influence bodily processes – from heart rate variability to pain perception.
But even the strongest intention remains ineffective if it is not implemented. This requires Mìng (命), the life force that bridges the gap between mental decision and physical execution.
Mìng (命) – Life force as implementation/control
If Yì (意) is the intention – the “I want” – then a bridge is needed to translate this decision into the language of the body. This is exactly where Mìng (命) comes into play. In Daoism, Mìng refers to the purpose of life, but also to the concrete life force that sustains our existence. In our model, it is the operative instance that turns will and intention (Yì) into orderly implementation.
While Yì still operates in the realm of the mind, Mìng is already more closely connected to the body. It is the network that transforms intention into functional processes: breathing, circulation, motor programs, hormonal control. Without Mìng, Yì would remain a mere idea.
One could say: Yì is the architect, Mìng the construction manager.
Several systems of the nervous system work together here:
• Brain stem: It controls the basic rhythms of life—breathing, heartbeat, alertness. These functions are largely automatic, but they form the basis on which every action is based.
• Cerebellum: It calibrates the time dimension. Movements are finely tuned, errors are calculated in advance, and balance is maintained. Without the cerebellum, we could initiate movements, but we couldn’t coordinate them precisely.
• Basal ganglia & thalamus: This is where programs are selected and sequences are organized. Whether an impulse is translated into a motor action is decided at this interface.
• Pyramidal tract: Controls conscious, precise motor skills – for example, when we guide a pen or press a key on the piano.
• Extrapyramidal pathways: Control posture, muscle tone, and automatic movement patterns.
• Autonomic nervous system & endocrine axes: They set the environment – the sympathetic and parasympathetic nervous systems balance alertness and rest, hormones modulate energy, stress, and reproduction.
These levels mesh together like gears. Together, they are what Daoism means by Mìng: the life force in action.
In Chinese medicine, Mìng is inseparably linked to Qi (氣) and Jing (精). Qi is the flow of function – that which moves and permeates processes. Jing is the substance – the reservoirs that store energy (genetic material, physique, essence).
Translated into modern biology, one could say:
• Qi corresponds to dynamic regulation (nerve impulses, blood flow, metabolic cycles, the electron transfer potential of ATP).
• Jing corresponds to the substance basis (DNA, hormonal stores, energy reserves such as ATP molecules and glycogen).
Mìng is the junction where these two aspects come together and intention (Yì) is translated into functional movement.
Let’s take a seemingly trivial example: You decide (Yì) to grab a glass of water.
1. Yì activates prefrontal networks: “I want to drink.”
2. Mìng takes over: motor programs in the premotor cortex, fine-tuning by the cerebellum, go/no-go signals in the basal ganglia.
3. Vegetative adaptation: minimal changes in circulation and respiration to stabilize movement.
4. Hormones such as adrenaline modulate the overall level of activation.
5. The whole process takes place in a fraction of a second – and appears effortless.
In Daoism, Mìng is considered to be what “carries” our life. A weak Mìng means listlessness, illness, decay. A strong Mìng means vitality, resilience, endurance. Interestingly, modern medicine confirms that many clinical pictures are based precisely on dysregulation in these systems – whether vegetative (e.g., cardiac arrhythmia), hormonal (e.g., thyroid disorders), or motor (e.g., Parkinson’s disease, basal ganglia disorder).
But Mìng remains in the realm of control and regulation. Ultimately, however, something must become visible in the outside world: movement, action, power. This is the level of Lì (力) – physically measurable implementation.
Lì (力) – Physical Power / Action
At the end of the chain – Dao → Yin/Yang → Xìng → Shén → Yì → Mìng – stands Lì (力): the visible force, the action, the tangible result. Everything that was previously abstract – potential, vibration, resonance, intention, regulation – condenses here into concrete movement in space.
In Daoism, Lì refers not only to raw muscle power, but to any form of energy that has become effective. In everyday life, we see it when someone lifts an object, takes a step, or wields a sword. But in a broader sense, Lì is the level at which everything that came before manifests itself.
For a thought to become a movement, a whole chain of precise processes is required:
1. Motor neurons in the spinal cord fire.
2. Acetylcholine is released at the motor end plate.
3. The signal depolarizes the muscle cell, calcium ions (Ca²⁺) flow into the cytoplasm.
4. Actin and myosin filaments begin to slide against each other.
5. ATP (adenosine triphosphate) is split and provides the energy for contraction.
6. Millions of such microprocesses add up to a visible movement—a step, a stroke, a gesture.
This is Lì in its physiological form: electrical impulses, biochemical reactions, and mechanical implementation.
But strength is not just a local process. Muscles work in chains and synergies. The biceps do not contract in isolation, but in interaction with the forearm flexors, shoulder stabilizers, and trunk muscles. The nervous system coordinates this cooperation so that strength is optimally applied in space.
This is precisely the difference between raw and intelligent strength: an experienced martial artist generates maximum effect with minimum muscular effort because he makes optimal use of his muscle chains. In the language of Daoism: Lì does not arise from effort, but from the harmonious implementation of Qi and Mìng.
In classical Chinese medicine and martial arts, a distinction is made between brute force (Li) and inner strength (Jìn, 勁). Li is raw, direct muscle power. Jìn, on the other hand, is cultivated strength that arises from structure, timing, and resonance.
Our model places both on the same level: Lì is the visible manifestation, whether raw or refined. But the quality of Lì depends on how harmoniously the previous levels – Xìng, Shén, Yì, Mìng – interact with each other.
• A person with clear intention (Yì), a regulated nervous system (Mìng) and a coherent mind (Shén) generates purposeful, elegant power.
• A person with poor coordination or internal blockages generates scattered, inefficient power.
Lì is more than muscle work. It is the visible expression of life. Every animal, every plant, every human being shows its vitality in movement: the beating of a bird’s wings, the growth of a plant toward the light, the smile of a child.
From a Daoist perspective: if Dao is the root, then Lì is the blossom. It is what makes the invisible processes visible.
Lì marks the end of the linear part of the process chain. But in experience, it is not a conclusion, but a reconnection: every action affects the environment, creating resonances that in turn modulate Yin and Yang anew. Thus, the process remains dynamic and circular.
Feedback – Dynamics instead of linearity
When we look at Dao → Yin/Yang → Xìng → Shén → Yì → Mìng → Lì step by step, it seems like a linear sequence. In reality, however, this process is circular. Each step affects the previous ones, each output becomes input.
• Action (Lì) generates sensory impressions: When we grasp, run, or speak, proprioceptive and sensory feedback flows into the brain. This information modulates Shén and shapes future intentions (Yì).
• Mìng not only responds to Yì, but is itself influenced by bodily states: Fatigue, stress, and illness change how actions are possible.
• Shén is not stable, but is modulated by every experience. Learning means that brain wave patterns reorganize themselves.
This creates a cybernetic cycle: perception → intention → implementation → feedback. It is precisely this loop that keeps life in motion.
In Daoism, this circle is self-evident: Dao gives birth to Yin and Yang, Yin and Yang create the ten thousand things, which in turn return to Dao. Everything is a cycle, not a linear arrow.
Famous classics such as the “I Ching” also emphasize that change is cyclical: blossoming follows germination, decay follows growth, rest follows movement.
Modern neuroscience describes something similar: sensorimotor loops form the basic pattern of the brain. Every action is based on predictions (predictive coding). When an action is performed, the brain immediately checks whether the prediction matches the feedback. If the two match, the pattern stabilizes. If they differ, it is adjusted.
These feedback loops are nothing more than modern variants of the Daoist principle: everything that goes out returns as resonance.
Synthesis – A modern, unifying model
We have embarked on a journey: from the Dao as formless potential, through Yin/Yang as polarity, Xìng as intrinsic pattern, Shén as coherent field of mind, Yì as intention, Mìng as operational bridge, to Lì as visible action.
• Dao – Quantum foam: invisible potentiality, zero-point energy.
• Yin/Yang – Fluctuations: polarities, vacuum fluctuations, symmetry breaking.
• Xìng – Resonance patterns: DNA vibrations, microtubules, self-organization.
• Shén – Mind field: brain waves, coherence, connection between perception and emotion.
• Yì – Intention: prefrontal cortex, default mode network, basal ganglia.
• Mìng – Implementation: brain stem, cerebellum, autonomic nervous system, hormone axes.
• Lì – Action: motor skills, muscle work, visible force.
Each of these terms forms a bridge between poetic metaphor and neurobiological function.
Why this model is relevant today:
1. Holism: Neuroscience tends toward decomposition, Daoism toward integration. Together, they show that both are necessary: analysis and synthesis.
2. Coherence: Consciousness does not arise from individual cells, but from coherence. Daoism has intuitively grasped this principle, and neuroscience is beginning to measure it.
3. Feedback: Life is a circle, not an arrow. This understanding is crucial for medicine, psychology, and ecological systems.
4. Practical relevance: Daoist exercises such as Qigong or Bagua-Zhang train precisely this flow: Yì guides, Mìng implements, Lì manifests itself – and the whole returns as resonance.
Perhaps it is no coincidence that Daoist images and modern science complement each other so well. Both attempt to make something invisible tangible: How does form arise from formlessness? How does consciousness arise from matter?
The answer is not definitive. But the model we have outlined here offers a language that builds bridges: between East and West, between philosophy and science, between poetic depth and empirical precision.
In the end, the essence of Daoism remains valid: “The Dao that can be spoken is not the eternal Dao.” Every description remains an approximation, a hint. But there is value in this approximation: it allows us to recognize patterns that help us see the mystery of life and consciousness a little more clearly.
