The principles every reading rests on, each with its source.
105 rules
Chi rides the wind and scatters; it stops where it meets water.AlsoSchool consensus
A sleeper’s back wants a mountain; a window there gives only wind.
With nothing behind the bed, chi comes from every side and nothing holds the sleeper.
The door is the mouth of chi; in line with the bed, it rushes at the sleeper.
A beam across the bed bears down on the sleeper, night after night.
What hangs over the bed is read as a beam, a weight above the one least on guard.
A mirror facing the bed keeps a moving shadow in the room; the bedroom is never still.
A dark screen is a hidden mirror; the room asks for stillness, and it gives motion.
The bathroom is the damp of the house; its door facing the bed carries that damp to the sleeper.
Under a bed the chi should move; packed full, it stands still beneath the sleeper.
A corner aimed at the bed is a blade pointed at the sleeper; rest is set on edge.
A double bed wants both sides open; walled on one, one sleeper is always pressed to the side.
A bed should stand off the ground; on the floor, it lies in the lowest, dampest layer of the room.
A bedroom prizes quiet; many devices stir its chi, and tangled cords tangle the mind.
Plants are wood, the element of growth; where one sleeps, too much wood keeps the room from settling.
In feng shui, finding water comes first; sheltering from the wind comes next.
A bedroom lives by shelter; with bare light pouring in, the chi does not gather.
A room of rest leans to yin and wants soft color; deep red is too much fire, black too much cold water.
A sloping ceiling is read as a beam; a bed at its lowest point lies where the room is closest.
The air of a bedroom should circle the sleeper, never run straight at them.
A seat wants backing behind and open space ahead; turned from the door, the mind never settles.
Water moves and cools; a bedroom wants stillness and warmth, and water there brings damp to the bed.
A mountain behind the sleeper, the first principle of placing a bed.
The door in sight, its rush turned aside: the school calls this the commanding position.
Chi rides the wind and scatters; it stops where it meets water.
Chi enters the front door and runs straight out the far side; nothing pools, nothing stays.
The sofa is the seat of the house; with nothing solid behind it, the seat has no mountain.
Back to the door, the seat is open from behind; the school counts few things worse.
A door in line with the main seat: whoever sits there takes the rush of chi first.
The courtyard should be wide; deep and gathering is auspicious.
Inside the door lies the bright hall; blocked at once, the chi is stifled on the threshold.
The wealth corner wants to be clean and bright; heaped with clutter, the strongbox becomes a storeroom.
The ancients gathered it so it would not scatter, and guided it so it would come to a stop. That is why it is called feng shui: wind and water.AlsoCommon practice
The wealth corner is for keeping and gathering; empty, it holds nothing, and struck, it scatters.
A beam over the main seat or the table keeps the whole household under its weight.
A sharp corner aimed at a seat is a blade; glass adds a cold edge to it.
Water is wealth and motion; set wrongly, it scatters, clashes with fire, or hollows the mountain behind a seat.
Stairs are a channel for chi; aimed at the door, they carry it off before it rests in the room.
The space ahead should be bright and the backdrop solid; a screen against the window makes a wall of the light.
Chi moves where people move; where no one can walk, chi cannot pass.
The table and the bathroom should never face each other; the school reads it as a bathroom facing the stove.
A backed main seat is a backed household: the best a living room can show.
The courtyard should be wide; deep and gathering is auspicious.
A wide bright hall gives the chi a place to settle, and the house room to open out.
Door, bedroom and stove are the three essentials of a house; a stove seen from the door is wealth on display.
The stove is fire and the sink is water; side by side or face to face, they clash.
The fridge is water too; facing the stove, its cold falls on the fire.
A stove wants a wall behind it; with a window there, the fire’s warmth leaks and the flame wavers.
A beam over the stove keeps the fire under pressure, among the heaviest marks a kitchen can bear.
The source of the household’s food facing the bathroom door: few things the school guards against more.
Blades are metal at its sharpest; an open blade bares that edge, and a point toward a door or a person is worst of all.
The stove is the source of wealth; a clean stove is clean money, a dirty one a soiled strongbox.
Fire with nowhere to go smolders; a kitchen needs a mouth for its heat.
A stove on an open island has nothing behind it; the fire’s warmth runs in every direction.
Rice is the household’s portion; its bin is a granary, kept, never shown.
A clean stove against a wall: a clear source of wealth and a steady table.
The front door takes in the chi; opening onto the bathroom, its first stop is the dampest room in the house.
Two doors face to face clash; a bathroom door on a bedroom sends its damp to where one sleeps.
The toilet is the drain of the house; facing the door, it sends stale air out, and with the lid up, the chi leaks away.
A bathroom leans to yin already; dark and damp, the heaviness builds.
A mirror facing a door throws chi back; in a bathroom, it throws the stale air back into the house.
A bathroom asks for cleanness; what is blocked stagnates, what is broken runs down.
Standing water breeds damp, and damp deepens the yin.
A bathroom leans to water and yin; wood and warmth turn its damp toward life.
A bathroom is yin by nature, but kept dry, bright and closed, it troubles no one.
The door is where chi first arrives; opening onto the bathroom, it is soiled on the threshold.
The stove is the source of wealth; seen from the front door, that wealth stands exposed.
A mirror facing the front door turns the chi back out as it enters.
Stairs aimed at the door draw the chi up or down before it enters the home.
The end of a wall aimed at the gate: the household is often talked about.AlsoSchool consensus
A sharp edge aimed at the door is a wall blade, as if the door were being cut.
Two doors facing each other are two mouths in dispute.
The entry is the face of the house and the first stop of chi; cluttered, it trips the chi on the way in.
Where chi enters should be bright; a dark entry takes in dim, heavy chi.
People make the house their home. If it is settled, the family flourishes for generations; if it is not, the family line declines.AlsoCommon practice
The front door is the face of the house; a worn face shows a house in decline.
The ancients gathered it so it would not scatter, and guided it so it would come to a stop. That is why it is called feng shui: wind and water.AlsoSchool consensus
A clear mouth and a turning path: chi is taken in and not let go.
The balcony is a mouth for light and chi; packed full, it is a door half shut.
Laundry across the light half closes the mouth of the house.
Chi rides the wind and scatters; it stops where it meets water.
Front door and balcony door in one line: the chi passes through and does not stay.
High hills, tall buildings, towers, tall houses and tall trees: tall forms come in many kinds. A tall form on the exposed side should be near, not far. Near, it can turn the wind back and bring back thriving chi, and it can also stop the harsh chi and hold it still.
A neighbor’s corner aimed at the house is a blade from outside, the pointed form the classics warn against.
High hills, tall buildings, towers, tall houses and tall trees: tall forms come in many kinds. A tall form on the exposed side should be near, not far. Near, it can turn the wind back and bring back thriving chi, and it can also stop the harsh chi and hold it still.
Between two towers the wind rushes through the gap, as if the sky were split: the sky-cut.
High hills, tall buildings, towers, tall houses and tall trees: tall forms come in many kinds. A tall form on the exposed side should be near, not far. Near, it can turn the wind back and bring back thriving chi, and it can also stop the harsh chi and hold it still.
A road aimed at the house is a road rush, one bending away a reversed bow, both forms the school guards against.
High hills, tall buildings, towers, tall houses and tall trees: tall forms come in many kinds. A tall form on the exposed side should be near, not far. Near, it can turn the wind back and bring back thriving chi, and it can also stop the harsh chi and hold it still.AlsoSchool consensus
Tall, pointed things aimed at the house are read as an edge turned toward it.
A clear mouth and strong living chi: a blessed place in the house.
A tree before the door plugs the mouth of the house.
The trees around a house should all face toward it: facing the house is auspicious, facing away is inauspicious.AlsoSchool consensus
A withered tree is decline standing in plain view, worst before the door or beside the house.
A road aimed at the door brings chi straight on, too fast to gather.
The courtyard should be wide; deep and gathering is auspicious.
Before the door lies the outer bright hall; it asks to be wide and clear.
High hills, tall buildings, towers, tall houses and tall trees: tall forms come in many kinds. A tall form on the exposed side should be near, not far. Near, it can turn the wind back and bring back thriving chi, and it can also stop the harsh chi and hold it still.AlsoSchool consensus
Water belongs before a house, not behind; behind is the backing, and water there leaves it hollow.
A wall towering over the house holds its chi still; the school calls such a house imprisoned.
A wall guards the house; broken, it guards nothing, and chi leaks through the gap.
Sharp things aimed at a house are edges turned toward it, and debris holds the chi still.
A house low in front and high behind brings forth heroes in every generation; high in front and low behind, old and young alike are muddled.
A house should sit low in front and high behind; reversed, the backing turns hollow and the bright hall is pressed.
In feng shui, finding water comes first; sheltering from the wind comes next.
Open ground before to take chi in, a steady mountain behind to shelter it: the best a house can show from outside.
A seat with its back to the door has lost command of the room; what moves behind it goes unseen.
A window behind the chair lets chi pass at the sitter’s back, with nothing there to lean on.
A seat wants a bright hall before it; facing a bare wall up close, it is pressed from the front.
A beam over the desk brings a pressing weight; long hours beneath it wear the spirit.
Chi rushing from the door at a seat arrives fast and scatters; whoever sits there is never still.
When the ground underfoot is not clear, every step meets resistance.
A mountain behind and a bright hall ahead: the seat of command.
The house is the root of the person.AlsoSchool consensus
A house lives by its chi; wherever clutter piles up, the chi stands still.
Plants are the gauge of a room’s living chi; withered, they put decline on show.
The beam is the bone of the house; over where people sit and sleep, it is pressure from above.
What is sharp should not point at a person; a corner aimed at one is a blade turned toward them.
A mirror belongs to the side, not face-on; hidden rather than shown.
The house is the root of the person.
A house of the living prizes light; where it fails, yin grows and the chi sinks.
People make the house their home. If it is settled, the family flourishes for generations; if it is not, the family line declines.AlsoCommon practice
Broken things stand for things going wrong; kept on, they keep that sign in the house.
A snarl of cables is tangled grass; what is tangled keeps snagging.
The five elements ask for balance; a room all red runs to fire, a room all black to water.
Chi rides the wind and scatters; it stops where it meets water.
Ample light and moving air: yang strong, chi clear, the best sign a home can show.
The house is the root of the person.AlsoSchool consensus
Chi follows the paths people walk; clear paths, moving chi.
Feng shui guidance for arranging a space; not medical, financial or legal advice. Classical lines are given in translation; how the school applies them is marked as school consensus, and widely followed customs as common practice.