"The Journey of Mind and Skill: Reshaping the Inner Self for Excellence, a Nine-Chapter Contemplation from 'Skill ≈ Mindset × Time'"

Prologue: A World in a Grain of Sand

The mountain mists are always most lingering in the early morning, like a lover’s gentle breath, winding through the woods and around the heart of the young potter, Xuan Yi.

His pottery workshop was nestled beside a secluded bamboo grove on the mountainside. Inside, hundreds of pieces were displayed, each elegantly shaped, with warm, lustrous glazes, enough to draw lavish praise from any wealthy merchant in town. In the eyes of others, Xuan Yi was an accomplished artisan; his hands seemed to inherently know how to converse with clay, imbuing it with a life beyond the mere object.

But only Xuan Yi himself knew he was trapped.

In his mind, there was the shadow of a “masterpiece.” It was a tea bowl he had glimpsed in a dream, its form indescribable, its color like the sky after a rain, or a handful of crushed starlight. It was not merely an object; it was the embodiment of “the Way,” the ultimate pursuit for him as an artisan. Yet, year after year, he exhausted himself, burning thousands of failures, only to drift further and further from that dreamlike shadow.

His skill was impeccable, his clay the best within a hundred-mile radius, his kiln fire controlled with masterful precision. He possessed all the “tangible” conditions, but the “masterpiece” remained out of reach. What tormented him more was that whenever he was at the potter’s wheel, feeling just a hair’s breadth from that perfect curve, an invisible resistance would rise from his heart, instantly stiffening his fingertips and throwing his mind into disarray. It was an internal defeat, more despairing than any external failure.

He knew what he lacked was not “skill,” but something deeper, more fundamental.

One afternoon, as autumn deepened, he finally put down his clay, walked through the bamboo grove, and went to visit the legendary old artisan who lived in seclusion on the mountaintop. People said the old man’s hands could sculpt flowing water from stubborn stone.

The old artisan’s dwelling was so simple it was almost shabby. In the courtyard, some seemingly crude pottery pieces were casually placed, yet each exuded a calm, self-possessed aura. Xuan Yi respectfully presented his most prized work and confessed his long-standing confusion and pain.

The old man did not look at the exquisite pieces. He simply listened intently, his cloudy eyes unruffled. When Xuan Yi finished, he extended a hand, wrinkled and stained with clay, and picked up a handful of gravel from the ground, slowly rubbing it in his palm.

“What you seek is not in the clay, not in the fire, nor in these hands of yours, which are close to perfect,” the old man’s voice, like the mountain wind, brushed past, yet carried the weight of penetrating all things.

Xuan Yi did not understand and respectfully bowed, asking for guidance.

The old man opened his palm, letting the sand slip through his fingers. He gazed at Xuan Yi and slowly said:

“汝之技艺，不过心象与时光之交织耳。”

—Your skill is merely the intertwining of your inner world’s imagery with the crucible of time you invest.

Xuan Yi was struck as if by lightning, standing motionless. He felt as though he had grasped something, yet the truth seemed as elusive as the mountain clouds.

The old man said no more, only motioned for him to sit and together observe the shifting play of light and shadow in the courtyard.

At that moment, Xuan Yi’s true cultivation began. And this contemplation is an attempt to break down that beam of light cast by the old artisan into words understandable by ordinary people. It is not a quick-fix manual, but a journey of inward exploration, a personal chronicle of how to cultivate the invisible “mindset” to achieve the visible realm of “skill.”

Chapter One: The Power of Mindset—Reshaping the Myriad Colors of Experience

Section One: What is Mindset?—The True Fabric of Our Inner World

Before we discuss the profound “skill” and “time,” we must first understand the foundation that constitutes our entire inner world—the formless, intangible, yet immensely real “mindset” (心象, literally “mental imagery” or “mind-image”).

It is not some mystical concept, nor a philosopher’s empty talk. Mindset is the true “fabric” of our inner experience. It is not vague imagination but the bones and flesh of our every thought, every memory. It possesses color, temperature, size, distance, sound, and touch. It is the bricks and timber we use to construct our entire mental world.

Close your eyes and recall a moment of true success in your life, perhaps that afternoon as a child when you first rode a bicycle. What might the “mindset” of that memory be like? Perhaps its image is bright, with warm sunlight on your back, colors as vibrant as newly washed silk; you might “hear” the vigorous “thump-thump” of your heart and the crisp cheers of friends nearby; your body might “feel” a rising, light joy, like a warm current flowing from your chest to your limbs. This “mindset” is warm, bright, and dynamic.

Now, try to touch upon the imprint of a failure. Perhaps an embarrassing moment of public humiliation. What is the texture of that memory’s “mindset”? Its image is likely dark, even black and white, blurry, as if shrouded in mist; what you “hear” might be your own infinitely amplified, sharp self-criticism, or the suppressed, whispered murmurs of others, a sound that might feel very close to your ears, inescapable; what you “feel” might be a heavy sinking sensation in your stomach, or the burning, needle-prick shame in your cheeks. This “mindset” is heavy, dim, and oppressive.

Each of us is an unconscious inner painter. With these bright or dark, warm or cold, large or small “mindset” materials, we daily depict and shape our entire perception of the world, others, and ourselves. Our so-called “personality,” our deeply ingrained “beliefs,” are, in essence, grand murals formed by specific “mindsets” repeatedly layered and solidified.

Understanding this allows us to truly grasp the first word of the old artisan’s proverb—“mindset”—and to understand what trapped our potter, Xuan Yi.

Section Two: The Invisible Shackles of Potter Xuan Yi

Xuan Yi’s shackles did not come from the mundane world but from a constantly replaying, never-fading “mindset” mural within his inner world.

It was on a winter day three years ago when he attempted to fire a thin-walled plum vase, which at the time represented the peak of his skill. He poured half a year of effort into it, from selecting the clay, refining it, to throwing and glazing, every step meticulously, striving for perfection. When he opened the kiln door with eager anticipation, all he saw was a floor of cold shards. The plum vase had shattered during the final firing, unable to withstand the kiln’s heat.

That failure became an unhealed “imprint” in his heart.

This imprint was not a vague memory but a nightmare composed of extremely vivid, highly aggressive “mindsets” that tormented him day and night. Whenever he sat at the potter’s wheel, his hands touching the soft clay, trying to challenge that perfect form again, this “mindset” would intrude unbidden, instantly occupying his entire inner world.

Visually, he no longer saw the spinning clay in front of him, but a colossal image filling his entire field of vision: the moment the plum vase shattered, black, sharp-edged fragments rushing towards him, with an aura of destruction. This image was so clear that he could even see the distorted glaze cracks on the fragments caused by the high temperature.

Auditorily, a dull, enormous boom would sound in his ears—the sound of porcelain shattering in the kiln, as if exploding within his skull. Immediately following, was his own suppressed sigh of disappointment and pain from that time, a sigh that looped endlessly in his mind like a curse.

Physically, a burning heat wave would rise from his palms, as if he were touching not wet clay but scorching hot porcelain shards fresh from the kiln. Along with it came a choking sensation as if his heart were tightly gripped by an invisible hand, a cold feeling of “powerlessness” originating from his bones, quickly spreading to his limbs, instantly stiffening his hands and making them unresponsive.

This “mindset” was three-dimensional, all-encompassing, possessing overwhelming power. It was like a tyrant, who, whenever he tried to challenge “excellence,” would brazenly invade his inner kingdom, declare martial law, and imprison all his confidence, focus, and inspiration. His conscious mind knew it was just a past memory, but his body, his nervous system, reacted honestly to this incredibly real “mindset” again and again—stiffness, avoidance, surrender.

He was trapped. What trapped him was not the failure itself, but the “mindset” of failure within his inner world, repeatedly experienced and never “re-painted.” This invisible shackles was more solid than any real-world predicament.

Section Three: The Alchemist’s Palette—Ancient Wisdom for Mastering Mindset

On that afternoon at the mountaintop, the old artisan did not impart any specific “secret techniques” or “mantras” to Xuan Yi. What he did was simply guide Xuan Yi to begin an inner game, seemingly small but capable of shaking foundations—to “play with” and “tinker with” his inner “mindset” like a mischievous child.

The old man had Xuan Yi close his eyes again and return to the painful “mindset” of the shattered plum vase. But this time, the old man asked him not to immerse himself in it, but to observe this painting as an outsider, a painter holding a brush.

“Can you make the image of those fragments rushing towards you move farther away?” the old man’s voice was calm and gentle. “Try to push it away, further and further, until it becomes as small as a grain of sand in your palm. Then, change its piercing black color to a dull gray, like burnt charcoal.”

Xuan Yi did as instructed. He was surprised to find that as the aggressive image in his mind became small and distant, and its color dimmed, the choking sensation in his chest also lessened significantly.

“That booming sound of shattering in your mind, can you make it sound like it’s coming from a distant valley? Or, can you give it a funny sound, like the quack of a duck?”

When Xuan Yi mentally transformed the loud crash into a faint “quack,” he couldn’t help but smile. The fear and heaviness associated with the sound instantly dissipated.

“Now,” the old man continued to guide, “forget about those fragments. Seek another memory. In all your past days, there must have been a moment when you felt immense tranquility and completeness. Perhaps it was when you made your first tea bowl that your master praised, or perhaps it was just a summer night when you looked at the starry sky and felt integrated with heaven and earth.”

Xuan Yi remembered. It was when he was a teenager, successfully throwing a white porcelain bowl with walls as thin as a cicada’s wing for the first time. As he held it in his hands, an unprecedented, pure joy and focus filled his entire body.

“Very good,” the old man said. “Now, feel the ‘mindset’ of that moment. Make the image of that white porcelain bowl huge in your mind, like a bright moon, radiating a warm glow. Listen to your steady, powerful heartbeat from that time, let it be the background music of your inner world. Amplify the delicate touch of your fingertips on the smooth bowl wall, and that deep, warm, and powerful sense of accomplishment, let this feeling flow through your entire body.”

Under the old man’s guidance, Xuan Yi repeatedly and intentionally “tinkered” with the texture of these two “mindsets.” He made the memory of failure dim, distant, and silent; he made the experience of success bright, close, audible, and tangible.

This is the ancient wisdom of mastering mindset. It does not fight against pain, nor does it try to “delete” memories. It merely changes how we relate to memories, adjusting the “recipe” of our inner experience. It is like a skilled painter who, with the same set of pigments, can depict the gloom of hell and paint the splendor of heaven.

This seemingly simple inner game was the beginning of Xuan Yi’s liberation from his shackles. He began to understand that the true training ground for “skill” was not at the potter’s wheel, but within the square inch of his heart.

Chapter Two: Traces of Time—The Long Art of Deliberate Refinement

Section One: Two Kinds of Time: Wasted Passage vs. Focused Refinement

The old artisan’s proverb is like a double-sided seal, one side inscribed with “mindset,” the other with “time.” If “mindset” is the quality and direction of our inner world, then “time” is the sole medium through which we manifest this inner quality into reality and etch it onto our lives.

However, not all time is created equal.

We all have time; it flows like a mountain stream, day and night, impartially through everyone’s life. But ultimately, this stream carves magnificent canyons and polishes raw jade in some lives, while in others, it merely evaporates silently, leaving no trace.

The difference lies in those two distinctly different “times”—the wasted “passage” and the focused “refinement.”

“Passage” of time is passive and unconscious. During such time, our minds are scattered, our “mindsets” chaotic. We might be “doing” something—flipping pages without comprehension, repeating an action without paying attention. At such times, we are merely bodies dragged forward by time. Such time, even if accumulated for millennia, is no more than footprints smoothed by the tide on a beach, fleeting, unable to build into any true “skill.” It is merely a pure consumption of life.

“Refinement” of time, on the other hand, is active and focused. It demands that we pour our entire mind into the present moment. In this state, our inner world is clear and powerful, our “mindsets” clear and positive. Every practice, every attempt, is like the steady, precise strike of a blacksmith, each blow making the internal structure of the iron tighter, each leaving an indelible mark. This is the effective time that truly shapes “ability.”

Let’s return to our original formula: Skill ≈ Mindset × Time.

Now we can understand it more deeply. It is not a simple addition but a multiplication. Here, “time” does not refer to the days passing on a calendar, but to the “refined” and effective time we invest. And “mindset” is the crucial “coefficient” in this multiplication formula.

When our “mindset” is positive and resourceful (such as the tranquility and joy Xuan Yi experienced from that perfect white porcelain bowl), this “coefficient” is positive. Every minute of “refined” time we invest contributes solidly to the growth of “skill.”

However, when our “mindset” is negative and distracting (such as the fear and powerlessness brought by the shattered plum vase), this “coefficient” might approach zero, or even become negative. At this point, the more time we invest, the more we repeat and deepen the internal “sense of defeat.” We are not practicing “success” but repeatedly, skillfully practicing “how to fail.” This is not only a waste of time but a continuous erosion of confidence and courage.

Therefore, on any long journey of cultivation, true wisdom dictates that the first thing to learn is not the “technique” of diligent practice, but the “mindset” of constantly examining and adjusting one’s inner “mindset.” They understand that without a clear source, no water can be drawn to irrigate fertile fields. Before each practice, they will take a moment to “align their mind,” ensuring their inner canvas is bright, and then dive into focused refinement. This is the secret to maximizing the value of time.

Section Two: The Perseverance of Dripping Water and “Effective Refinement”

Dripping water can pierce stone—everyone knows this. This ancient idiom perfectly illustrates the essence of “refined” time. However, we often overlook an even more critical prerequisite behind this miracle: the water drop must consistently fall in the same place.

If the water drops sometimes here, sometimes there, then even after a thousand years, it cannot penetrate the stubborn stone; it will only leave a damp mark.

This “same place,” in the context of our personal growth, is the stable and continuous “effective refinement” conducted under the guidance of the correct “mindset.”

“Effective refinement” has two major characteristics:

First, clarity of direction. Every practice serves a clear goal, guided by a positive “mindset.” We clearly “see” in our minds the person we want to become, “hear” the desired outcome, and “feel” the joy of success. This positive “mindset” acts like a magnet, drawing every effort in the same direction, ensuring our energy is not wasted in aimless wavering and internal friction.

Second, stability of quality. It requires us to maintain a relatively positive, focused inner state for most of the practice time. This does not demand that we be like saints, always free from distractions, but rather that we possess the ability—when negative “mindsets” (such as frustration, doubt) surface—to consciously “tinker” with them, adjust them, not allowing them to occupy our inner stage, and then quickly bring our mind back to that positive, focused track.

This continuous, conscious refinement has unimaginable power. It is not just accumulating “proficiency”; it is, on a physical level, reshaping our mind and body. Every practice guided by a positive “mindset” adds a layer of “myelin” to a specific neural pathway in our brain. This is like wrapping a thicker insulating layer around an electrical wire, allowing signals to transmit faster, more stably, and with less loss.

Day after day, year after year, when this neural pathway is refined enough, “skill” is born. Actions that once required deliberate effort become effortless instinct; decisions that once required agonizing thought become flashes of intuition. We no longer need to “think” how to do it, because our body, our entire nervous system, already “knows” how to do it.

This is the leap from quantitative change to qualitative transformation, the moment when dripping water finally penetrates the stubborn stone.

However, the starting point for all of this stems from that seemingly simple choice, yet one that requires immense perseverance and wisdom: to let time pass idly in a chaotic “mindset,” or to pour it into focused “refinement”? This choice is before us every day, in our hearts every moment. It separates mediocrity from excellence and determines how deep a mark we will ultimately carve on the slate of life.

Chapter Three: The Compass of the Heart (Part I): Three Self-Evident Axioms

If “mindset” and “time” are the ship and oars we need for our long voyage, then before setting sail, we must calibrate our inner “compass.” This compass does not point to external cardinal directions but to the fundamental beliefs deep within us concerning possibility, reality, and growth.

These beliefs, like the earth supporting all things, are the cornerstone of our entire mental world. They are not knowledge to be “learned,” but truths to be “awakened.” For thousands of years, wise men, whether Eastern sages or Western philosophers, have sung these ancient songs repeatedly in different languages. They are self-evident axioms, the three pillars we must first establish in our hearts before beginning any inner cultivation.

Axiom One: Inner Abundance—You Already Possess All Treasures

In our seemingly scarce world, one of the most common and misleading myths is the belief that we “lack” certain things to succeed—lack talent, lack courage, lack confidence, lack opportunities. We are like a group of thirsty travelers, searching for an oasis of “resources” in the desert, completely unaware that what we are standing on is a deep and unfathomable underground water source.

This first axiom is to shatter this illusion: Each of us already possesses all the inner resources necessary to achieve any heart’s desire.

This may sound like an empty platitude, but behind it lies a profound redefinition of the word “resource.” What we mean by “resource” does not refer to external wealth or status, but to those “qualities” and “states” already stored within our life experience, forming the basis of all our abilities.

I have a friend named Qing Jun, an extremely intelligent and kind woman who works at a bookstore. She is well-versed in ancient texts and has unique insights. However, in any slightly formal setting, such as a departmental discussion, she immediately becomes a quiet shadow, always looking down, never daring to speak up. She often sighs to me, “I’m just naturally ‘lacking in confidence’; I don’t have the ‘resource’ to speak eloquently in front of a crowd.”

One afternoon, as we chatted in a teahouse, I heard this familiar refrain again. I didn’t refute her; I just asked her a question: “Do you remember what you were like last week when you recommended that book about Song dynasty gardens to me?”

She paused, recalling, “Yes, I remember. That book was so wonderful; I was very excited and talked to you for over half an hour, from its structure and layout to its brushwork and artistic conception…”

“Yes,” I said, “in that moment, what you displayed was an undeniable ‘clear logic’ and ‘profound insight’ about what you were talking about. Isn’t that a resource?”

I then asked her, “What is your state of mind when you care for the orchid on your windowsill?”

She said, “It’s a state of complete immersion, focus, and tranquility. You need to feel its every breath, not a drop too much water, not a ray too little light. If you’re impatient or your hand shakes, you’ll harm it.”

“You see,” I smiled, “‘focus’ and ‘tranquility’—aren’t those two extremely precious resources?”

“And another time,” I continued, “when a few of us friends gathered, and Ah Chen told a very lame joke, everyone else didn’t laugh, but you burst into laughter, bending over backward. In that moment, you had a complete ‘relaxation’ and ‘joy.’ That, too, is a resource.”

Qing Jun fell silent, the confusion in her eyes gradually dissipating, replaced by a kind of illuminated light.

I told her, “You see, all the core ‘parts’ needed to form what is called ‘public speaking confidence’—‘conviction’ about the content, ‘focused tranquility’ during the process, and ‘relaxed joy’ when facing the audience—you lack none of them. They are not absent; they are just like gems scattered in various corners of your life’s garden, labeled differently by you. One is called ‘talking about books,’ one is called ‘caring for orchids,’ one is called ‘friends gathering.’ You just never thought that you could string these gems from different scenarios into a necklace called ‘confidence’ and wear it into that meeting room you fear.”

We feel “scarce” not because we truly have nothing, but because we are accustomed to defining our abilities with rigid “situational labels,” thereby restricting the free flow of our inner resources. We assume that our “work self” and our “life self” are two insulated individuals, unable to call upon each other’s strengths.

Awakening the axiom of “inner abundance” means breaking down these invisible walls. It invites us to become archaeologists of our own life experiences, to unearth forgotten, seemingly insignificant moments of success, to identify and name the “qualities” they contain—that “strength” you showed when you bravely comforted a disheartened friend, that “perseverance” you displayed when you tirelessly researched a difficult problem, that “courage” you exhibited when you spoke your truth under pressure.

These are all treasures you already possess, treasures that cannot be taken away. True growth is not about seeking what you lack externally but about exploring internally and learning to readily combine and utilize everything you already have in any situation where you need it.

This firm belief in your inner abundance is the cornerstone that supports all our “mindset” adjustments and “time” refinements. Without it, our inner world would be a barren wasteland, and any technique would wither for lack of water.

Axiom Two: The Map in Our Eyes—We Live Not in the World, But in Our Own Depiction of It

This second axiom is the starting point for all inner freedom. It rings like a morning bell, attempting to awaken us from our most deeply ingrained illusion. This illusion is: the world we perceive is the real world.

The truth is: We never directly experience the world; what we experience is always just a “map” that our inner mind has drawn of this world.

This “map” is drawn by our past experiences, beliefs, values, and current emotional states. It is not the world itself, but merely our “interpretation” or “depiction” of it.

Classical philosophers already grasped this. Plato, over two millennia ago, in his “Allegory of the Cave,” described prisoners who had lived in a cave since birth. They faced away from the entrance, seeing only the flickering, blurred shadows cast by external objects on the cave wall. They took these shadows as the only reality, naming them, arguing over them, unaware that they were merely distorted projections of the real world. Zhuangzi’s butterfly dream parable, in a more poetic way, blurred the boundary between reality and illusion, making us reflect: could the “reality” we firmly believe in also be a grand dream?

This axiom is not meant to lead us into nihilism but to empower us with an unprecedented, creative force. For if pain, fear, and limitation do not come from that unchangeable, rigid “objective world” (the territory), but only from our inner, modifiable “subjective interpretation” (the map), then we transform from a powerless “victim” into a “creator” holding a brush.

Let’s return to the story of the potter Xuan Yi. The shattered plum vase, in the objective world (the territory), was merely a physical event. A pile of clay and glaze underwent physical changes under high temperatures. It carried no emotion or meaning in itself.

However, in Xuan Yi’s inner world (the map), this event was drawn by his mental system into a “mindset” mural filled with immense pain and self-negation. The fragments rushing towards him were interpreted as a “devastating blow”; the boom was interpreted as “a judgment of your incompetence”; the feeling of powerlessness was interpreted as the ultimate verdict, “you will never reach that level.”

What he was fighting against was never the cold shards themselves, but this “map” in his own mind, repeatedly painted over and steeped in painful emotions. He mistook the horror of this map for the inherent horror of the act of throwing pottery.

What the old artisan did was precisely to guide him to discern the difference between the “map” and the “territory.” The old man did not deny the occurrence of the failure but guided Xuan Yi to change his “way of depicting” that failure. When Xuan Yi darkened and pushed away the image on that “map,” and made the sound comical, he severed the incorrectly established connection between the “event” and the “painful emotion.” He did not change the “territory,” but he completely redrew the “map.”

Once we truly comprehend this axiom, the entire appearance of the world changes.

A public criticism is no longer “public humiliation for me” (Map A), but can be redrawn as “a valuable, albeit poorly packaged, gift” (Map B). A difficult task is no longer “an insurmountable mountain” (Map A), but can be redrawn as “an excellent training ground for my character and abilities” (Map B). An inner fear is no longer “a dragon dwelling in my heart” (Map A), but can be redrawn as “a loyal but overly vigilant guardian reminding me to proceed cautiously” (Map B).

This is the entire mystery of “mindset” adjustment. Its power to “turn stone into gold” stems precisely from this profound axiom: we always have the freedom to redraw our inner map. We may not be able to choose what kind of “territory” we encounter in life, but we can always choose what kind of brush and colors to use to depict its reflection in our hearts.

This freedom is the ultimate goal of all inner cultivation and the sole credential for us to break free from past constraints and move towards the future.

Axiom Three: The Echo in the Valley—Nothing is “Failure,” Only “Response”

This third axiom is the talisman that allows us to maintain the courage to move forward on the path of “time” refinement. It aims to transform one of the most destructive concepts in our culture—“failure.”

In traditional contexts, “failure” is an endpoint, a period, a negative judgment of personal worth. It is heavy, cold, and filled with shame. Countless people, paralyzed by the fear of “failure,” hesitate and abandon the possibility of trying.

This axiom, however, attempts to offer us a new perspective: In this world, there is no such thing as “failure”; there is always only “response.”

You shout into an empty valley, and the valley returns a clear echo. This echo is not a “judgment” of whether your shout was good or bad; it is merely the most faithful physical “response” to the sound waves you emitted. If the echo is too faint, it is responding to you that your shout was not loud enough; if the echo becomes fragmented, it is responding to you that the shape of the valley you chose is not suitable for sound gathering.

All our interactions with the real world are like this.

Potter Xuan Yi’s plum vase shattered in the kiln. This was not “failure”; this was the vase’s wall thickness, material composition, and kiln temperature curve providing the most honest, most accurate physical “response” to the firing conditions. It told him, through shattering, “This combination does not work.” It was not negating Xuan Yi’s “worth” as an artisan but providing an incredibly valuable set of data on “how it didn’t work.”

A chess player makes a wrong move in a game and loses completely. This is not “failure”; this is his opponent providing the most precise, most merciless “response” to the flaw in that move. This “response” clearly points out his blind spots in thinking, offering the most direct lesson plan for his next game.

A passionate declaration of love is met with a gentle refusal. This is not “failure”; this is the other person’s entire life system providing the most truthful, most complete “response” to the self you presented, the timing, and the manner you chose. This “response” might contain rich information about the other person’s values, emotional state, and the positioning of your relationship.

When we begin to use the word “response” to replace “failure,” the entire energy field of the world changes.

“Failure” is a heavy, past-oriented, emotionally charged “label.” It activates negative “mindsets” within us about “I can’t do it,” “I’m terrible,” plunging us into a mire of self-attack and thereby losing the courage to try again. It closes the door to learning.

“Response,” on the other hand, is a light, future-oriented, information-rich “data point.” It naturally invites us into a curious, calm, analytical “mindset.” Faced with a “response,” our first thought is no longer “I’m so bad,” but “Oh? Interesting. What is it telling me? What can I learn from it? What different attempts can I make next time?” It opens the door to learning.

A true “refiner” must be a master at interpreting “responses.” He regards every setback, every obstacle, every disappointment as a secret letter written to him by the real world. His task is not to lament in pain upon receiving the letter because its content doesn’t meet his expectations, but to calm down and become a skilled decoder, deciphering the valuable intelligence hidden in the letter about “how to do better.”

This perspective requires practice. It requires us to consciously, gently, and firmly tell ourselves, every time the thought “I messed up” arises: “Stop. This is not failure; this is just a response. Let’s see what this interesting response wants to teach me?”

Over time, this mindset will become instinctive. You will no longer fear trying, because in your eyes, there is no risk of “trial and error,” only the opportunity to “get a response.” Your life will transform from a difficult journey filled with the fear of “failure” into a lighthearted and interesting exploration filled with curiosity about “responses.”

These three axioms—“Inner Abundance,” “The Map in Our Eyes,” and “The Echo in the Valley”—together form the base of our inner compass. They are the tenets we must repeatedly recite until they are ingrained in our very being before we set out. They transform our inner world from a scarce, rigid, fear-filled battlefield into an abundant, fluid, possibility-filled playground.

Only on such firm and fertile ground of the mind can we truly begin to sow the seeds of “change” and be confident in watching them take root, sprout, and grow into towering trees.

Chapter Four: The Compass of the Heart (Part II): Three Laws for Navigating the Inner World

If the three axioms in the previous section provided us with a stable worldview foundation, then the following three laws are the “traffic rules” that guide our specific actions within this inner territory. They are dynamic, practical, and serve as guidelines to prevent us from getting lost or going astray when facing the most stubborn “enemies” and complex “systems” within ourselves. Mastering these three laws allows us to truly transform from a student who “understands” philosophy into a practitioner who “applies” wisdom.

Law One: The Inner Guardian—Making Peace with Your Most Stubborn “Enemy”

Deep within each of us, more or less, resides a “self” we dislike, even despise. It might be the “lazy self,” the “cowardly self,” the “short-tempered self,” or the self that is always “procrastinating.” We regard it as an enemy, a stumbling block preventing us from becoming better. We expend countless amounts of energy trying to whip it, eradicate it, and root it out with the lash of “willpower.”

However, the results are often counterproductive. The more we fight it, the stronger its power seems to become; the more we suppress it, the more it resurfaces in a more destructive way when we least expect it. This protracted internal battle consumes a vast amount of our life energy, yet yields little effect.

This first law offers a completely different path to peace: Behind all the “bad habits” or “negative emotions” you try to eliminate, there is a positive motive to protect you. It is not your enemy, but a loyal yet clumsy “guardian.”

In understanding this law, I was deeply moved by a story about a painter named Mo Yan.

Mo Yan was a highly talented young painter, whose brushwork captured myriad scenes, earning him the reputation as the most inspired artist in the city. But he had a “fatal” flaw: procrastination. He could spend months conceiving and preparing, drawing countless drafts, but whenever it came to actually putting brush to the final rice paper, he would, for various reasons, delay day after day. He suffered greatly from this, blaming himself, feeling guilty, believing this “demon of procrastination” was devouring his artistic life.

In a conversation with a Zen master, the master did not teach him any methods to “overcome” procrastination, but simply asked him to calm down and talk to that “procrastinating self.” The Zen master guided him to ask that “part” a question: “By so stubbornly preventing me from completing my painting, what benefit are you trying to bring me? What harm are you trying to protect me from?”

At first, Mo Yan found the question absurd. But as he truly quieted his mind and repeatedly asked in silence, a faint voice, almost ignored by him, emerged from the depths of his heart. The voice said, “I’m afraid… I’m afraid that once you complete this painting and show it to others, it will be compared to everyone else’s work, it will be carelessly judged by those who don’t understand. Your heart is so sensitive, you’ll suffer for days because of a thoughtless criticism. As long as this painting is never ‘finished,’ it will always be perfect, always belong only to you, and will never be harmed.”

At that moment, Mo Yan burst into tears.

He finally understood that the procrastination he had always considered an “enemy” was not a demon trying to destroy him, but a clumsy “guardian” who deeply loved him. Its core motive was to “protect its owner from the pain of judgment.” To achieve this noble, loving goal, it adopted the only method it could think of—to prevent “completion” from ever happening.

This internal war instantly transformed into profound understanding and compassion.

Mo Yan no longer tried to “eliminate” this guardian. He began to “negotiate” with it. He said to it in his heart, “Dear friend, thank you for protecting me so diligently all this time. I feel your love. Now, we have grown, and we need to find a better way. Can we make a new agreement? You allow me to complete this painting, and I promise you that no matter how the outside world judges it, I will learn to protect myself in a more mature way. I will regard criticisms as ‘responses’ rather than ‘attacks,’ and I will communicate more with those who truly understand me. This way, my talent can be displayed, and our heart can be equally well, or even better, protected, okay?”

It is said that after that conversation, Mo Yan’s procrastination quietly dissolved without any “willpower” being used. Because the protracted internal war had ended.

This law invites us to approach every “bad” part of ourselves with such curiosity and compassion.

When you are “lazy” and don’t want to work, ask that “lazy self”: “Are you trying to remind me that my body is overly tired and needs rest? Or do you feel that what we are doing does not align with our true inner values?” When you “lose your temper” with a loved one for no reason, ask that “angry self”: “Behind this immense energy, is there a deep longing to ‘be seen,’ to ‘be understood’ that is not being met?”

Reconciliation is always more powerful than war. When you begin to understand and respect the positive motives of every part of your inner self, you no longer need to use “willpower” to suppress them. You can, like Mo Yan, reach new, more constructive “cooperative agreements” with them. You will transform from a constantly self-conflicting “battlefield” into a harmonious and unified “team.” This is the essential path to inner strength and peace.

Law Two: The Ripples of the System—Any Change is a Chain Reaction

Our lives are not made up of isolated modules pieced together. They are complex, intricate, and dynamically balanced holistic systems. In this system, your “career,” your “family,” your “health,” your “relationships,” your “financial situation” are like different interconnected bodies of water in the same lake. If you cast a stone into any one part, the ripples it creates will eventually spread across the entire lake.

This second law reminds us to adopt a “systemic” perspective when considering any “change” we plan: Before making any change, a comprehensive “ecological assessment” must be conducted to evaluate the potential long-term impact of this change on other parts of your entire life system.

This law aims to prevent us from falling into a “treating the symptom, not the cause” short-sighted behavior, preventing us from “solving one problem only to create three more serious ones.”

I once heard a story about a merchant named Ji Tong. He was diligent but gentle-natured. In fierce market competition, he always felt that his “lack of assertiveness” and “inability to refuse” caused him many disadvantages. So, he resolved to change himself, learning and imitating to become more “aggressive” and “decisive.”

His change was significant. In business, he became unyielding, sharp-tongued, and learned to use tough tactics to secure profits. His career indeed saw some improvement because of this.

However, when he returned home with this new “mask,” disaster struck. He unconsciously brought the “aggression” from the marketplace into his interactions with his wife and children. He became impatient with his wife’s concerns and severely critical of his children’s studies. He thought he was demonstrating the authority of a “head of the household,” but he didn’t see that the gentleness in his wife’s eyes was gradually extinguishing, and an invisible wall had been built between him and his children. His family, which was originally his most cherished haven for warmth and strength, was becoming cold and distant in the storm he himself had created.

It wasn’t until one day when his wife tearfully told him, “I’d rather we be a little poorer than see you like this,” that he woke up as if from a dream, realizing what a terrible mistake he had made. In order to cast a stone named “assertiveness” into the “career” body of water, the ripples it created almost overturned the entire ecological system of his “family.”

A truly wise changer, before acting, will, like an experienced project manager, pull out an invisible checklist and conduct a thorough “ecological assessment” of himself. He will ask himself:

• Impact Assessment: “If I successfully make this change (for example, I become extremely disciplined, sleeping only five hours a day, using all my time for work), what specific impact will this have on my physical health, my intimate relationships, my mental state, my friendships, in one year, in five years?”
• Cost Assessment: “What might I ‘lose’ to achieve this goal? Is it leisure time, the joy of spending time with family, or inner peace? Is the value of what I ‘lose’ less than what I ‘gain’?”
• Consistency Assessment: “Is this new ‘me’ compatible with my deepest core values (e.g., ‘family harmony,’ ‘physical and mental health,’ ‘honesty’)? Is it consistent with my ultimate definition of my ‘ideal life’?”

Through such careful self-questioning, Ji Tong might not have chosen to become an “aggressive” person, but would have adjusted his goal to a more ecologically wise version, such as: “I hope to learn to clearly and firmly express my boundaries and gracefully refuse unreasonable requests, while maintaining my inner gentleness and sincerity.”

This is a more refined, more balanced change. It seeks not a “mutation” in a single dimension, but a “cooperative evolution” of the entire life system.

This law reminds us that any healthy growth should be like trees in spring, where all branches and leaves unfurl together, and the roots simultaneously extend deeper into the earth. It is an organic, harmonious, and holistic growth process. Changes that only pursue the frantic overgrowth of a single branch often lead to the wilting of the entire tree due to unstable foundations or nutrient imbalance.

Every time you conceive a desire to “change,” please pause and quietly listen to the echoes of your entire life system. Ensure that every step you take forward allows all parts of your inner self to play a harmonious symphony, rather than conflicting noise.

Law Three: The Wisdom of Water—The Softest Drives the Hardest in the World

The Tao Te Ching says: “Nothing in the world is softer and weaker than water, yet for attacking the hard and strong, nothing can surpass it.” This third law borrows this ancient Eastern wisdom to reveal the highest strategy for gaining ultimate control in any complex system: In any system, the element that is most adaptable to change and most flexible will often ultimately become key to controlling the entire system.

This law advocates not for the confrontation of “strength,” but for the wisdom of “flexibility.” It tells us that on the path to our goals, the most valuable quality is not the rigidity of “sticking to one’s guns,” but the resilience of “conforming to circumstances.”

Let’s imagine two different mountain climbers.

The first type of climber, we’ll call him the “rigid one.” Before setting out, he creates a minute-by-minute climbing plan, with the route, rest stops, and speed all rigidly defined. He is determined and resolute, believing any deviation from the plan is unacceptable.

However, mountain weather changes rapidly. A sudden downpour washes away the path he planned. What is the “rigid one’s” choice? He might fall into anger and frustration because his plan is disrupted, or he might stubbornly and dangerously try to force his way through the now perilous path. His “rigidity” at this moment becomes a fatal “inflexibility.” He uses powerful willpower to confront the entire mountain forest, a huge and unpredictable “system.” The result is likely exhaustion, or even danger.

The second type of climber, we’ll call him the “flexible one.” He also has a plan, but he deeply knows that this plan is merely a “reference,” not a “law.” His attention is more focused on feeling the current wind, humidity, light, and his body’s state.

When the heavy rain comes, he calmly accepts this “response.” He doesn’t complain but immediately starts looking for new possibilities. He sees local herb gatherers easily descending an unfamiliar, winding grassy path. He then sets aside his original plan, talks to the herb gatherers, and chooses to follow the safer path that adapts to the current conditions. He also finds that the mountain forest after the rain is fresh, with a unique beauty, so he slows down and enjoys this unplanned gift. His “flexibility” makes him an adapter within the entire climbing “system.” He doesn’t expend energy fighting the system but adapts to its changes, utilizes its energy, and ultimately reaches the summit easily and safely.

In our personal growth journey, we face a system as complex and changeable as a mountain forest—it includes our fluctuating emotions, others’ reactions, and various unpredictable external events.

A “rigid one” might tell himself: “I’ve set a goal, I must practice two hours every day, no matter what!” When he is unable to do so one day due to illness or an unexpected event, he falls into deep self-blame and frustration. This negative “mindset” might even lead him to completely abandon the entire plan.

A “flexible one,” on the other hand, will tell himself: “My goal is continuous improvement. If I’m in good shape today, I’ll practice a bit longer; if my body is tired today, I’ll use this time to review and reflect, or simply rest well, which is also a kind of ‘practice.’” He has at least three or more ways to solve problems and can always choose the most effective and energy-efficient method based on the current “response.” His goal is firm, but the path to the goal, like water, can take countless forms.

This law is not advocating “giving up” or “lacking principles.” The essence of water is always to flow to the lowest point; this is its unwavering “goal.” But the way it achieves this goal is through extreme “flexibility.” It does not contend with stubborn rocks but embraces them, flows around them. Over time, it can shape the hardest rocks into smooth pebbles.

This is a higher dimension of power. It requires us to let go of our attachment to “plans” and “control” and instead cultivate a keen awareness of the “present” and creative adaptability. It invites us to stop being a “craftsman” with a hammer, seeing everything as a nail, and instead become an “artist” with a myriad of landscapes in their heart, capable of shaping according to the object.

On your long journey to the pinnacle of skill, constantly remind yourself to think like water, act like water. In the face of change, maintain your softness, maintain your flexibility. Because that seemingly weakest part precisely contains the most powerful force capable of penetrating all hardness and reaching the ultimate shore.

Chapter Five: Shu, Ha, Ri—The Three Stages of Skill Mastery

The cultivation of any skill, from swordsmanship, tea ceremony, calligraphy, to the development of any ability in our lives, must inevitably pass through a path from “having rules” to “having no rules,” from “deliberate” to “unconscious.” Eastern sages long ago condensed this path into three profound words—“Shu,” “Ha,” “Ri” (守, 破, 离, literally “Guard,” “Break,” “Separate”).

These three stages depict a clear map of growth for us. It is not just a path of technical advancement, but a journey of profound inner transformation. It tells us that at different stages, our learning focus, mindset, and even our relationship with “rules” should vary. Understanding and following this path allows us to find our current position in the long “time” refinement and clarify where to go next.

Stage One: “Shu” (守)—The Apprentice’s Loyalty: Copying and Replicating

“Shu” (守) is the starting point of all learning. It means “to observe,” “to guard,” “to imitate.” In this stage, the apprentice’s core task is not “creation,” but to precisely replicate.

Imagine a calligraphy apprentice newly entered into the master’s school. The master would give him an ancient calligraphy model and ask him to copy it day after day. The master would tell him how to start a stroke, how to move the brush, how to end a stroke; which character should have a compact structure, which should be open and expansive. All of this constitutes “rules,” “methods” to beauty painstakingly summarized by predecessors over their lifetimes.

The most important quality of the apprentice at this stage is “loyalty”—loyalty to the master’s teachings, loyalty to the rules of the model. He must set aside all his wild ideas, set aside the impulse to eagerly express his “self.” His task is to be like the clearest mirror, reflecting and replicating the existing perfect model without any distortion.

In this stage, our previously discussed “mindset” and “time” refinement have their most specific application scenarios.

The apprentice uses “mindset” by copying. He must clearly “see” every brushstroke of the master in his mind, repeatedly “rehearse” the perfect form of the character from the model, and use this clear “mindset” as his inner guide for the next stroke.

He invests “time” through repetition. Thousands upon thousands of repetitions, tedious, boring, and even frustrating. But each repetition, faithful to the “rules,” lays a solid path for his arm muscles and his nervous system towards “precision.”

The “Shu” stage is the stage of laying the foundation. The depth and solidity of the foundation directly determine the height of the future edifice. Many people are eager for quick results, stopping short at this stage, always wanting to “find alternative paths,” which often results in an unstable foundation, causing them to wander in low-level “creation” throughout their lives, unable to reach true heights.

Therefore, when you want to learn any new ability—whether public speaking, a foreign language, or a musical instrument—first find your “model.” It can be an excellent mentor, a classic textbook, or a set of proven effective behavior patterns. Then, put aside your “self,” and like the most devout apprentice, faithfully, patiently, and without compromise, “Shu.”

This process may be long and arduous, but it will provide you with the most valuable assets: a solid “core,” a “safety net” to withstand future storms, and a set of “fundamentals” to establish yourself. The end of “Shu” is when you can effortlessly and precisely replicate that “standard answer.” At this point, you are a qualified “craftsman” and stand at the threshold of the second stage.

Stage Two: “Ha” (破)—The Wanderer’s Rebellion: Melting and Recasting

When the “rules” have become ingrained, and the apprentice can effortlessly write characters identical to the model, he will reach a new bottleneck. He will find that although his skill is exquisite, his work lacks something—“soul.” He is merely a perfect replicator, not a true creator.

At this point, the master might tell him: “Now, try to ‘break’ it.”

“Ha” (破) is the inevitability of growth. It means “to break through,” “to destroy,” “to melt down.” In this stage, the practitioner’s core task is no longer “replication,” but conscious experimentation.

He begins to question the “rules” he once held sacred. “Why must this stroke be written this way? What effect would it have if I tried a different way?” “Why is this structure considered beautiful? Can I explore a different kind of beauty?”

He is no longer a blindly following apprentice but has become a “wanderer” traveling far and wide, drawing from diverse sources. He will study other schools of calligraphy, seek inspiration from the wind, rain, thunder, and lightning of nature, and the growth and decay of all things. He will clash and merge these newly absorbed external elements with the “old rules” he already knows by heart.

This process is full of risks and uncertainties. Many characters he writes might become “neither fish nor fowl,” or even “uglier” than during his apprenticeship. He will experience confusion, bewilderment, and even self-doubt. But each conscious “breakage” and “experimentation” is about breaking down that solid “core,” melting it, and attempting to recast it into something truly “his own.”

In this stage, the application of “mindset” shifts from “copying” to “exploration.” He will mentally graft and combine different brushstrokes and structures, rehearsing the various effects they might produce. His inner world transforms from a “classroom” into a “laboratory.”

The investment of “time” also shifts from “repetition” to “trial and error.” He no longer pursues correctness in every instance but cherishes the “responses” brought by every “mistake.” From these “non-standard” responses, he learns the vast world beyond the rules, slowly finding his own unique artistic language.

The “Ha” stage is a painful transformation, a phoenix’s nirvana. It requires the practitioner to possess immense courage to break out of the “comfort zone” that has brought him security and accomplishment; at the same time, it also requires great wisdom to ensure that this “breaking” is not blind, nihilistic destruction, but a directed, conscious exploration built upon a solid foundation of “Shu.”

Those who fail to successfully “Ha” will remain excellent “craftsmen” their entire lives. But those who successfully melt down myriad methods in the crucible of fire and ultimately forge their own unique style open the door to the realm of mastery.

Stage Three: “Ri” (离)—The Master’s Clarity: Unconscious and Unified

“Ri” (离) is the highest realm of skill. It means “to transcend,” “to detach from form,” “to act without deliberate effort.” In this stage, the practitioner no