"The Journey of Mind and Skill: Reshaping the Inner Self for Excellence, A Nine-Chapter Reflection Starting from 'Skill ≈ Mind-Image × Time'"

2025-09-06 78 min

Table of Contents

Prologue: A World in a Grain of Sand

Young potter Xuan Yi possessed hands of divine skill, capable of making clay blossom at his fingertips, yet the unknown wilderness within his heart was dragging him into the abyss of despair.

His pottery workshop was nestled beside a secluded bamboo grove on the mountainside. Inside, hundreds of pieces were displayed, each elegantly shaped, with a warm, lustrous glaze, enough to earn praise from any wealthy merchant in town. To outsiders, Xuan Yi was already a master craftsman; his hands seemed born to converse with clay, imbuing it with a life beyond the object itself.

But only Xuan Yi knew he was trapped.

In his mind, there was the shadow of a “divine masterpiece.” It was a teabowl he had glimpsed in a dream, its form indescribable, its color like the sky after a fresh rain, or a handful of crushed starlight. It was not merely an object; it was the embodiment of the “Dao,” the ultimate pursuit for him as a craftsman. Yet, year after year, he exhausted his efforts, burned thousands of failures, and drifted further and further from that dream’s shadow.

His technique was impeccable, his clay the best within a hundred-mile radius, his kiln fire controlled to perfection. He possessed all the “tangible” conditions, but the “divine masterpiece” remained elusive. What pained him more was that whenever he was at the potter’s wheel, feeling he was just a hair’s breadth from that perfect curve, an invisible resistance would rise from his heart, instantly stiffening his fingertips and disorienting his mind. It was an inner defeat, more despairing than any external failure.

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

On an autumn afternoon, he finally put down his clay, walked through the bamboo grove, and went to visit the old artisan rumored to live in seclusion on the mountaintop. People said the old man’s hands could shape stubborn stones into flowing water.

The old artisan’s dwelling was so simple it was almost shabby. In the courtyard, some seemingly rough pottery was casually stacked, yet each piece exuded a sense of peace and ease. Xuan Yi respectfully presented his proudest works and expressed his long-standing confusion and pain.

The old man did not look at the exquisite pieces. He listened attentively, his cloudy eyes showing no ripple. When Xuan Yi finished, he extended his hand, covered in wrinkles and clay marks, picked up a handful of sand from the ground, and slowly rubbed it in his palm.

“What you seek is not in the clay, nor in the fire, nor in your seemingly perfect hands,” the old man’s voice, like a mountain breeze, brushed past lightly but carried the weight of piercing insight.

Xuan Yi was perplexed and bowed respectfully, asking for guidance.

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

“Your skill is but the intertwining of mind-image and time.”

—Your skill is merely the interweaving and tempering of the landscape of your inner world and the time you invest.

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

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

At that moment, Xuan Yi’s true cultivation had just begun. And this collection of reflections 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 secret manual, but a journey of inward exploration, a personal chronicle of how to cultivate the invisible “inner cultivation” to attain the visible realm of “skill.”

Chapter One: The Power of Mind-Image – Reshaping the Myriad Hues of Experience

Section One: What is Mind-Image? – The True Material 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, yet incredibly real, “mind-image.”

It is not some mysterious concept, nor a philosopher’s empty talk. Mind-image is the true “material” of our inner experience. It is not a 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 “mind-image” of that memory be like? Perhaps its scene is bright, the sun warmly shining on your back, colors as vivid as newly washed silk; you might “hear” the energetic thumping of your own heart, and the clear cheers of friends from a short distance away; your body might “feel” a sense of upward-rising, light joy, like a warm current flowing from your chest to your limbs. This “mind-image” is warm, bright, and dynamic.

Now, try to touch upon the imprint of a failure. Perhaps it’s an awkward moment of public embarrassment. What is the texture of the “mind-image” of this memory? Its scene is likely dark, even black and white, blurry, as if shrouded in a mist; what you “hear” might be your own magnified, sharp self-criticism in your mind, or suppressed, whispering voices from others, which might feel very close to your ears, inescapable; what you “feel” might be a heavy sinking sensation in your stomach, or the burning, needle-pricking shame in your cheeks. This “mind-image” is heavy, dim, and filled with a sense of oppression.

Each of us is an unconscious inner painter. We use these “mind-image” materials—bright or dark, warm or cold, large or small—to daily depict and shape our entire perception of the world, others, and ourselves. Our so-called “personality,” our deep-seated “beliefs,” are ultimately grand canvases formed by the repeated superimposition and solidification of specific “mind-images.”

Understanding this allows us to truly grasp the first word of the old artisan’s maxim—“mind-image”—and to understand what it was that trapped our potter, Xuan Yi.

Section Two: The Invisible Shackles of Xuan Yi, the Potter

Xuan Yi’s shackles did not come from the mundane world, but from a constantly replaying, never-fading “mind-image” scroll in his inner world.

It was on a winter day three years ago when he attempted to fire a thin-bodied plum vase, which at the time represented the pinnacle of his skill. He poured half a year of effort into it, from selecting the clay, refining it, to throwing and glazing—every step was meticulously executed, striving for perfection. When he opened the kiln door with anticipation, what he saw was a floor covered in 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 “mind-images” 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 “mind-image” would intrude uninvited, 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 air of destruction. This image was so clear that he could even see the distorted glaze cracks on the fragments caused by the high temperature.

Audibly, a dull, massive rumble would echo 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 hot, newly fired porcelain shards. Accompanying this was a suffocating sensation of his heart being tightly gripped by an invisible hand, a bone-deep, cold feeling of “powerlessness” rapidly spreading through his limbs, instantly stiffening his hands and rendering them unresponsive.

This “mind-image” was three-dimensional, all-encompassing, possessing overwhelming power. Like a tyrant, it would storm into his inner kingdom every time he attempted to challenge “excellence,” 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 “mind-image” again and again—stiffening, avoiding, giving up.

He was trapped. What trapped him was not the failure event itself, but the “mind-image” of failure in his inner world, repeatedly experienced and never “repainted.” This invisible shackle was more solid than any real-world predicament.

Section Three: The Alchemist’s Palette – The Ancient Wisdom of Mastering Mind-Image

On that afternoon on the mountaintop, the old artisan did not impart any specific “secret techniques” or “incantations” to Xuan Yi. What he did was merely guide Xuan Yi to begin an inner game, seemingly small but capable of shaking the foundations—to “play with” and “manipulate” his inner “mind-images” like a mischievous child.

The old man asked Xuan Yi to close his eyes again and return to the painful “mind-image” of the shattering plum vase. But this time, the old man told him not to immerse himself in it, but to observe it as a bystander, a painter holding a brush.

“Can you make the image of those fragments rushing towards you move further 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 blackness to a dull gray, like burnt charcoal.”

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

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

When Xuan Yi mentally transformed the loud crash into a faint “quack,” he even felt like laughing. The fear and heaviness associated with that sound instantly dissipated by more than half.

“Now,” the old man continued to guide, “forget those shards. 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 teabowl that your master praised, or perhaps 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 boy, and he first successfully threw a white porcelain bowl with walls as thin as a cicada’s wing. When 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 ‘mind-image’ of that moment. Let the image of that white porcelain bowl become huge in your mind, like a bright moon, emanating a warm glow. Listen to your steady and powerful heartbeat from that time, let this sound become the background music of your inner world. Amplify the delicate sensation of your fingertips touching the smooth bowl wall, and that warm and powerful sense of accomplishment from within, letting this feeling flow through all your limbs.”

Under the old man’s guidance, Xuan Yi repeatedly and deliberately “manipulated” the texture of these two “mind-images.” 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 mind-images. It does not fight against pain, nor does it attempt to “delete” memories. It merely changes the way we interact with memories, adjusting the “recipe” of our inner experience. Like a skillful painter, it uses the same set of pigments to paint the gloom of hell or 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 what was called “skill” was not at the potter’s wheel, but within the square inch of his mind.

The old artisan’s maxim was like a double-sided seal, one side engraved with “mind-image,” the other with “time.” If “mind-image” is the quality and direction of our inner world, then “time” is the sole medium through which we translate 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, passing fairly through everyone’s life. But ultimately, this stream carves magnificent canyons and polishes raw jade in some lives, while in others, it simply evaporates silently, leaving no trace.

The distinction lies in two vastly different kinds of “time”—wasted “passage” and focused “refinement.”

“Passage” of time is passive and unconscious. During such time, our minds are scattered, and our “mind-images” are chaotic. We might be “doing” something—flipping through pages without comprehension, repeating an action without engagement. At such times, we are merely bodies dragged forward by time. Even if accumulated for millennia, such time is just footprints smoothed by the tide on a beach, fleeting, unable to build into any true “skill.” It is simply a 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 “mind-images” are distinct and positive. Every practice, every attempt, is like a blacksmith’s steady and precise hammer blow, each strike tightening the internal structure of the iron, each leaving an indelible mark. This is the effective time that can truly shape “ability.”

Let’s return to our original formula: Skill ≈ Mind-Image × 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 effective “refinement” time we invest. And “mind-image” is the crucial “coefficient” in this multiplication formula.

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

However, when our “mind-image” is negative and full of interference (like the fear and powerlessness brought by the shattered plum vase), this “coefficient” can approach zero, or even be negative. At such times, the more time we invest, the more we are repeating and deepening the inner “sense of defeat.” We are not practicing “success,” but repeatedly and skillfully practicing “how to fail.” This is not only a waste of time but also 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 “inner cultivation” of constantly examining and adjusting one’s inner “mind-image.” They understand that without a clear source, no irrigation channels can be drawn to water fertile fields. Before each practice, they will take a moment to “tune their minds,” ensuring that their inner canvas is bright, and then immerse themselves in focused refinement. This is the secret to maximizing the value of time.

Dripping water wearing away stone is a universally known concept. This ancient idiom perfectly illustrates the essence of “refinement” time. However, we often overlook a more crucial prerequisite behind this miracle: the water droplet must consistently fall in the same place.

If the water droplets occasionally fall here and there, then even after thousands of years, they cannot penetrate the stubborn stone, leaving only a damp mark.

This “same place,” in the context of our personal growth, is the stable and continuous “effective refinement” guided by the correct “mind-image.”

“Effective refinement” has two major characteristics:

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

Second, stability of quality. It requires us to maintain a relatively positive and focused inner state for most of the practice time. This does not demand that we be like saints, perpetually free of distractions, but rather that we possess the ability—when negative “mind-images” (such as frustration, doubt) arise—to consciously “manipulate” them, adjust them, not let them occupy our inner stage, and then quickly pull our minds back to that positive, focused track.

This continuous, conscious refinement possesses unimaginable power. It is not merely accumulating “proficiency,” but physically reshaping our body and mind. Every practice guided by a positive “mind-image” is adding “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 sufficiently, “skill” is born. Actions that once required deliberate effort become effortless instincts; decisions that once required arduous thought become flashes of intuition. We no longer need to “think” about what to do, 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 stubborn stone.

However, the starting point of all this lies in that seemingly simple choice, yet one requiring immense perseverance and wisdom: to let time pass idly in a chaotic “mind-image,” or to pour it into focused “refinement”? This choice faces us daily, within us constantly. It distinguishes mediocrity from excellence and determines how deep a mark we will ultimately carve on the slate of life.

Chapter Three: The Compass of the Mind (Part One): Three Self-Evident Axioms

If “mind-image” 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 directions but to the fundamental beliefs deep within us concerning possibility, reality, and growth.

These beliefs, like the earth supporting all things, are the bedrock of our entire mental world. They are not knowledge to be “learned,” but truths to be “awakened.” For thousands of years, wise individuals, both Eastern sages and Western philosophers, have sung these ancient songs in different languages. They are self-evident axioms, three pillars that must first be firmly established 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 pervasive and misleading myths is the belief that we “lack” certain things to succeed—lack talent, courage, confidence, or opportunity. We are like a group of thirsty travelers, searching for an oasis called “resources” in the desert, completely unaware that we are standing on an unfathomable underground water table.

This first axiom is to break through this illusion: Each of us already possesses all the inner resources necessary to achieve whatever our heart desires.

This might sound like an empty comfort, but behind it lies a profound redefinition of the word “resource.” What we refer to as “resources” does not mean external wealth or status, but rather the “qualities” and “states” already stored within our life experience, constituting all our abilities.

I have a friend named Qing Jun. She is an extremely intelligent and kind woman who works in a bookstore, deeply knowledgeable about texts, with 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 confidence’; I don’t have that ‘resource’ to speak eloquently in front of others.”

One afternoon, as I chatted with her in a teahouse, I heard this familiar refrain again. I didn’t refute her, but simply asked her a question: “Do you remember how you were last week when you recommended that book on Song Dynasty gardens to me?”

She paused, recalling: “Of course, that book was so fascinating, 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 a ‘clear logic’ and ‘profound insight’ that was absolutely confident in what you were saying. 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 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, if your hand shakes, you’ll harm it.”

“You see,” I smiled, “‘focus’ and ‘tranquility,’ aren’t these two extremely valuable resources?”

“And another time,” I continued, “when a few of us friends gathered, and Ah Chen told a very bad joke, everyone else didn’t laugh, but you were delighted, laughing heartily. In that moment, you had a complete sense of ‘relaxation’ and ‘joy.’ This, too, is a resource.”

Qing Jun was silent, the confusion in her eyes gradually fading, replaced by a kind of awakened light.

I told her: “You see, all the core ‘parts’ required to constitute what you call ‘public speaking confidence’—‘conviction’ about the content, ‘focused tranquility’ during the process, and ‘relaxed joy’ when facing an 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 simply never thought that you could string these gems from different contexts into a necklace called ‘confidence,’ and wear it into that meeting room you fear.”

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

Awakening to 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” contained within them—the “strength” you showed when you held back tears to comfort a disheartened friend, the “perseverance” you exhibited when you tirelessly delved into a difficult problem, the “courage” you displayed when you spoke your truth under pressure.

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

This firm belief in one’s inner abundance is the cornerstone supporting all our “mind-image” adjustments and “time” refinements. Without it, our inner world would be a barren wasteland, and any technique would wither for lack of a source.

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

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

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

Classical philosophers already understood this. Plato, in his “Allegory of the Cave” over two millennia ago, described prisoners who had lived in a cave since birth. With their backs to the entrance, all they ever saw were the flickering, blurry shadows cast by external objects on the cave wall. They took these shadows for the sole reality, naming them, arguing over them, unaware that they were merely distorted projections of the real world. Zhuangzi’s butterfly dream allegory, in a more poetic way, blurred the boundaries between reality and illusion, making us reflect: could the “reality” we firmly believe in also be just a grand dream?

This axiom is not meant to lead us into nihilism, but to empower us with an unprecedented, creative force. Because, if pain, fear, and limitation do not come from that hard “objective world” (the territory) which we cannot change, but only from our inner “subjective interpretation” (the map) which can be modified, then we transform from a powerless “victim” into a “creator” holding a paintbrush.

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 temperature. It held no emotion or meaning in itself.

However, in Xuan Yi’s inner world (the map), this event was interpreted by his mental system and depicted as a “mind-image” scroll filled with immense pain and self-negation. The fragments rushing towards him were interpreted as a “devastating blow”; the rumbling sound 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 already cold shards, but this “map” in his own mind, repeatedly painted over and steeped in painful emotions. He mistook the terror of this map for the terror of throwing pottery itself.

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 dimmed and pushed away the image on that “map” and made the sound comical, he severed the connection that had been wrongly established between the “event” and the “painful emotion.” He did not change the “territory,” but he completely redrew the “map.”

Once we truly grasp this axiom, the entire world will appear different.

A public criticism is no longer “a public humiliation for me” (Map A), but can be redrawn as “a valuable, though not very friendly, gift of information” (Map B). A daunting 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 lurking dragon in my heart” (Map A), but can be redrawn as “a loyal but overly vigilant guard reminding me to proceed cautiously” (Map B).

This is the entire mystery of “mind-image” adjustment. Its power to “turn stone into gold” comes precisely because it is built upon 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 only basis for us to break free from past constraints and move towards the future.

Axiom Three: The Echo in the Valley – There is No “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, seeks to offer us a completely new perspective: In this world, there is no such thing as “failure”; there is only “response.”

When you shout into an empty valley, 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 that your shout was not loud enough; if the echo becomes fragmented, it is responding that the shape of the valley you chose is not suitable for sound collection.

All our interactions with the real world are like this.

Xuan Yi the potter’s plum vase shattered in the kiln—this was not “failure.” This was the most honest and precise physical “response” of the vase’s wall thickness, material composition, and kiln temperature curve to the firing conditions. It was telling you, through shattering, “This combination does not work.” It was not negating Xuan Yi’s “worth” as a craftsman, but providing incredibly valuable data on “how it doesn’t work.”

A chess player makes a wrong move in a game and loses completely. This is not “failure”; this is his opponent’s most precise and unforgiving “response” to the flaw in that move. This “response” clearly points out his blind spot, providing him with the most direct lesson for improvement in the next game.

A heartfelt declaration of love is met with a gentle refusal. This is not “failure”; this is the other person’s entire life system giving the most honest and complete “response” to the self you presented, the timing you chose, and the manner you adopted. This “response” may 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, backward-looking, emotionally charged “label.” It activates negative “mind-images” within us like “I can’t do it,” “I’m so bad,” trapping us in a mire of self-attack and leading us to lose the courage to try again. It closes the door to learning.

“Response,” on the other hand, is a light, forward-looking, information-rich “data point.” It naturally invites us into a curious, calm, analytical “mind-image” state. Faced with a “response,” our first thought is no longer “I’m terrible,” but “Oh? Interesting. What is it telling me? What can I learn from this? What different attempt 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 message written to him by the real world. His task is not to wail in pain upon receiving the message because its content doesn’t match his expectations, but to calm down and become a skilled decipherer, to unlock the valuable intelligence hidden within the message 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 isn’t a failure; it’s just a response. Let’s see what this interesting response wants to teach me.”

Over time, this way of thinking will become instinctual. 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 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 foundation of our inner compass. They are tenets we must repeatedly recite until they are ingrained in our bones. They transform our inner world from a scarce, rigid, fear-filled battlefield into an abundant, fluid, possibility-filled playground.

Only upon such a solid and fertile spiritual soil can we truly begin to sow the seeds of “change” and confidently watch them take root, sprout, and grow into towering trees.

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

If the three axioms in the previous part 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 help us avoid getting lost or going astray when facing the mind’s most stubborn “enemies” and most complex “systems.” Mastering these three laws allows us to truly transform from a student who “understands” philosophy into an actor who “applies” wisdom.

Law One: The Inner Guardian – Reconciling with Your Most Stubborn “Enemy”

Deep within each of us, more or less, resides a “self” that we dislike, even despise. It might be the “lazy self,” the “cowardly self,” the “short-tempered self,” or the “procrastinating self.” We regard it as an enemy, a stumbling block preventing us from becoming better. We spend countless hours trying to whip it, eliminate it, and eradicate it 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 with little to show for it.

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

In understanding this law, I heard a story about a painter named Mo Yan, which deeply moved me.

Mo Yan was a highly talented young painter; his brushwork created myriad scenes, and he was hailed as the most inspired artist in the city. But he had a “fatal” flaw: procrastination. He could spend months conceiving, preparing, and drawing countless drafts, but whenever it came to actually putting brush to the final paper, he would, for various reasons, postpone it day after day. He was deeply pained by this, blaming himself and feeling guilty, believing that 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 his “procrastinating self.” The master guided him to ask that “part” a question: “By so stubbornly preventing me from finishing my painting, what benefit are you truly trying to bring me? What harm are you trying to protect me from?”

At first, Mo Yan found the question utterly absurd. But as he truly quieted his mind and repeatedly asked in silence, a faint voice, almost ignored by him, emerged from his heart. The voice said: “I’m afraid… I’m afraid that once you finish this painting and show it to others, it will be compared to everyone else’s work, it will be judged arbitrarily by those who don’t understand. Your heart is so sensitive; you would suffer for days over 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, tears streamed down Mo Yan’s face.

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 motivation 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 ensure that “completion” never happened.

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. In his heart, he said to it: “Dear friend, thank you for protecting me so diligently all this time. I feel your love. Now, we have grown up and 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 view criticisms as ‘responses’ rather than ‘attacks,’ and I will communicate more with those who truly understand me. This way, my talent can be expressed, 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 exerted. Because the protracted internal war was over.

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

When you feel “lazy” and don’t want to work, ask that “lazy self”: “Are you trying to remind me that my body is overtired and needs rest? Or do you feel that what we are doing doesn’t align with our true inner values?” When you inexplicably “lose your temper” with a loved one, ask that “angry self”: “Is there a deep unmet desire behind this great energy, a desire to ‘be seen,’ to ‘be understood’?”

Reconciliation is always more powerful than war. When you begin to understand and respect the positive motivation 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 “cooperation agreements” with them. You will transform from a constant “battlefield” of internal friction into a harmonious, unified “team.” This is the essential path to inner strength and peace.

Law Two: The Ripples of the System – Every Change Affects the Whole

Our lives are not composed of isolated modules pieced together. They are a complex, delicate, and dynamically balanced overall system. In this system, your “career,” your “family,” your “health,” your “relationships,” and your “financial status” are like different interconnected bodies of water in the same lake. When you throw a stone into any one part, the ripples generated will eventually spread across the entire lake.

This second law reminds us to view any “change” we plan with a “systemic” perspective: Before making any change, a comprehensive “ecological check” must be conducted to assess 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-sightedness, 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 “say no” caused him many losses. So, he decided to change himself. Through learning and imitation, he worked hard to become more “aggressive” and more “decisive.”

His transformation was significant. In business, he became unyielding, sharp-tongued, and learned to use strong tactics to gain advantages. His career indeed saw some improvement as a result.

However, when he returned home with this new “mask,” disaster struck. He unconsciously carried the “aggressiveness” from the marketplace into his interactions with his wife and children. He became impatient with his wife’s concerns and harshly criticized his children’s studies. He thought he was displaying the authority of a “head of the household,” but failed to see that the tenderness in his wife’s eyes was gradually dimming, and an invisible wall was building 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 us be a little poorer than see you like this,” that he suddenly realized the terrible mistake he had made. In order to throw a stone named “assertiveness” into the “career” waters, the ripples it generated almost overturned his entire “family” ecosystem.

A truly wise changer, before acting, will, like an experienced project manager, pull out an invisible checklist and conduct a thorough “ecological check” on themselves. 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, and 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 core values (e.g., ‘family harmony,’ ‘physical and mental health,’ ‘honesty’) deep down? Is it consistent with my ultimate definition of an ‘ideal life’?”

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

This is a more refined, more balanced change. It seeks not a unilateral “mutation,” but the “co-evolution” of the entire life system.

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

Every time you conceive the idea of “changing,” please pause and quietly listen to the echoes of your entire life system. Ensure that every step 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 Conquers the Hardest

The Tao Te Ching says: “Nothing in the world is softer and weaker than water, yet for attacking the hard and strong, nothing surpasses it.” This third law borrows from 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 does not advocate for confrontation with “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 opinions,” but the suppleness of “adapting to circumstances.”

Let’s imagine two different mountain climbers.

The first climber, let’s call him the “Rigid One.” Before setting out, he meticulously plans his ascent down to the minute: route, rest stops, speed—all rigidly prescribed. His will is firm, his belief unwavering, convinced that 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 riskily try to force his way through the now dangerous path. His “rigidity” at this moment becomes deadly “inflexibility.” He uses powerful willpower to contend with the entire mountain forest, a huge and unpredictable “system.” The result is likely exhaustion, or even danger.

The second climber, let’s 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 own body’s state.

When the heavy rain comes, he calmly accepts this “response.” He does not complain but immediately begins to look for new possibilities. He sees local herb gatherers easily descending another winding, grassy path he had never noticed. He then puts aside his original plan, chats with the herb gatherers, and chooses to follow the safer path that better adapts to the current conditions. He also discovers that the mountain forest after the rain is fresh, with a unique beauty, so he slows his pace and enjoys this unexpected gift. His “flexibility” makes him an adapter within the entire climbing “system.” He does not 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 set a goal to practice two hours every day, no matter what!” When he is unable to complete this one day due to illness or an unexpected event, he will fall into deep self-blame and frustration. This negative “mind-image” 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 more; if my body is tired today, I’ll use this time to review and reflect, or simply rest well, which is also a form of ‘practice.’” He has at least three or more ways to solve problems, always choosing the most effective and energy-efficient method based on the current “response.” His goal is firm, but the path to that goal, like water, can take countless forms.

This law is not advocating for “giving up” or “lacking principles.” The essence of water is always to flow downwards, which is its unwavering “goal.” But its way of achieving this goal is one of 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 moment” and creative adaptability. It invites us to stop being a “craftsman” who holds a hammer and sees everything as a nail, and instead become an “artist” with myriad landscapes in their heart, capable of shaping according to the object.

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

Chapter Five: Shu-Ha-Ri – The Three Stages of Skill Mastery

Any skill’s cultivation, from kendo, 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 “effortless.” Eastern sages have long condensed this path into three wise characters—“Shu,” “Ha,” “Ri.”

These three stages depict a clear map of growth for us. It is not only a path of technical advancement but also 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” – The Disciple’s Loyalty: Tracing and Replication

“Shu” is the starting point of all learning. It means “to obey,” “to protect,” “to imitate.” In this stage, the core task of the disciple is not “creation,” but to precisely replicate.

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

The most important quality for the apprentice at this stage is “loyalty”—loyalty to the master’s teachings, loyalty to the rules of the copybook. He must set aside all his wild ideas, set aside the impulse to 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 “mind-image” and “time” refinement find their most concrete application.

The apprentice uses “mind-image” by tracing. He must clearly “see” each of the master’s brushstrokes in his mind, repeatedly “rehearse” the perfect form of the character in the copybook, and use this clear “mind-image” as his inner guide for the next stroke.

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

The “Shu” stage is the foundation-laying stage. 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 another way,” often resulting in an unstable foundation, and spending their entire lives hovering in low-level “creation,” 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 “copybook.” It can be an excellent mentor, a classic textbook, or a proven effective behavioral pattern. Then, please set 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 treasures: a solid “core,” a “safety net” capable of withstanding future storms, and a set of “basic skills” sufficient to establish yourself. The culmination of “Shu” is your ability to effortlessly and precisely reproduce the “standard answer.” At this point, you are a qualified “craftsman” and stand at the threshold of the second stage.

Stage Two: “Ha” – The Wanderer’s Rebellion: Melting and Recasting

When the “rules” have become ingrained in the bones, when the apprentice can effortlessly write characters identical to the copybook, he will reach a new bottleneck. He will find that although his skill is exquisite, his work lacks one thing—“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” is the inevitable progression of growth. It means “to break through,” “to destroy,” “to melt.” In this stage, the practitioner’s core task is no longer “replication,” but to consciously experiment.

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 meticulous apprentice but has become a “wanderer” traveling far and wide, drawing inspiration from all sources. He will study other schools of calligraphy, seek inspiration from the winds, rains, thunder, lightning, and the cycles of growth and decay in nature, colliding and fusing 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 here nor there,” or even “uglier” than during his apprenticeship. He will experience confusion, bewilderment, and even self-doubt. But each conscious “break” and “experiment” is about shattering and melting that solid “core” and attempting to recast it into something truly “his own.”

In this stage, the application of “mind-image” shifts from “tracing” 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 “response” brought by every “error.” 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 metamorphosis, the phoenix’s nirvana. It requires the practitioner to possess immense courage to dare to break the “comfort zone” that has brought him security and accomplishment; at the same time, it also requires high wisdom to ensure that this “breaking” is not blind, nihilistic destruction, but a directed, conscious exploration built upon the solid foundation of “Shu.”

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

Stage Three: “Ri” – The Master’s Clarity: Effortlessness and Unity

“Ri” is the highest realm of skill. It means “to transcend,” “to detach,” “to act without intention.” In this stage, the practitioner no longer needs any “rules” or “methods,” because he himself has become the “method.”

At this point, when the calligraphy master puts brush to paper, there is no “copybook,” no “rules,” no “techniques,” and even no “self” in his mind. He simply writes naturally, responding to his current state of mind, the wetness or dryness of the ink, the texture of the paper. Each stroke, seemingly casual, yet perfectly aligns with the Way of Heaven. It encompasses all the essence of the “Shu” stage and integrates the myriad variations of the “Ha” stage, but what ultimately emerges is a profound “spirit” that transcends all of these, harmonious and free.

This is the state of “doing what one desires without overstepping the bounds.”

In this stage, the application of “mind-image” has ascended from “exploration” to “emergence.” The master no longer needs to consciously “construct” an inner image; that perfect form will naturally emerge from his clear, unhindered mind, like spring water under moonlight.

The investment of “time” also ascends from “trial and error” to “abiding.” He no longer practices for the sake of “practice”; each act of writing is simply a way for him to “live in the present.” Skill has completely internalized from an external ability to be “acquired” into a part of his very existence, as natural as breathing.

This is the “click” moment many people have described when they “learned to ride a bike.” In that moment, we no longer think about how to balance, how to pedal; we forget that we are “riding a bike.” We are simply feeling the wind, feeling the speed, feeling the body merge with the bike in fluid motion. We “Ri” from all the “techniques” of riding a bike, and thus truly “know how” to ride.

The “Ri” state cannot be achieved through “deliberate pursuit.” It is a natural “emergence” that occurs at a ripe moment, after sufficient and profound experiences of “Shu” and “Ha.” It is that beautiful qualitative change after quantitative accumulation reaches its peak.

These three stages point us in a direction and grant us patience. When we are still struggling in the “Shu” stage, there is no need to be discouraged by our clumsiness, for it is a necessary path; when we feel lost in the “Ha” stage, there is no need to panic over temporary “setbacks,” for it is a prelude to transformation; and when we truly reach the “Ri” state, we will understand that the scenery at the destination is worth all the sweat and time invested before.

Chapter Six: Dialogue with Shadows – When the Inner World Stalls

The growth blueprint we’ve outlined—from adjusting “mind-images” to refining “time,” from adhering to three axioms to traversing the three stages of “Shu, Ha, Ri”—all of it sounds so clear, bright, and hopeful. It’s like a smoothly paved stone path leading to a mountaintop.

However, any traveler who has truly embarked on a journey of inner cultivation knows that this path is far from easy. In the mire of reality, more often than not, we face not how to “move faster,” but why we are “stuck.” Our inner world is not always a sunny playground; more often, it is a deep, unfathomable forest, harboring hidden currents and beasts.

Deep within this forest, two of the most common and powerful forces can render our carefully constructed “reason” and “plans” utterly ineffective. They are our inner “shadows,” the most severe tests on our path to growth. Facing them, and dialoguing with them, is an unavoidable task for anyone who truly desires maturity.

Section One: The Guise in the Mirror: The Most Elaborate Cage We Weave for Ourselves

One of the most powerful, yet most dangerous, capabilities of the human mind is its ability to “create stories.” We are born storytellers, constantly assigning meaning and making explanations for everything that happens. And when the truth is too painful for us to bear, our mind activates an extremely sophisticated self-protection mechanism—it weaves a more acceptable, alternative “story.” This is the art of “self-deception.”

It is not simply “lying,” but a form of “rationalization” that we ourselves deeply believe. It’s like a gentle, thin mist disguised as truth, separating us from harsh reality, allowing us to comfortably remain where we are.

In the realm of personal growth, this “self-deceptive” guise is particularly common and extremely difficult to detect.

Our previously mentioned “Law One: Reconciling with the Inner Guardian” is a path filled with wisdom and compassion. But it can also be easily “hijacked” by our minds. When the painter Mo Yan interpreted his “procrastination” as the “protection” of an inner guardian, this was a profound insight. But another person with similar procrastination issues, after learning this principle, might tell himself: “Oh, the reason I’m delaying is because my ‘guardian’ is protecting me; I need to respect its rhythm.” —He cleverly transformed this profound “insight” into a perfect excuse for “inaction.” He didn’t proceed with the more difficult “negotiation” and “reconciliation,” but comfortably continued to embrace his “procrastination.”

Similarly, “Law Three: The Wisdom of Water,” originally intended to cultivate “flexibility.” But a person afraid of commitment, who dares not take responsibility, might beautify his “drifting” and “lack of conviction” as “I’m just being flexible, adapting to change.” He uses a higher-level wisdom to cloak his lower-level avoidance in a magnificent garment.

When we feel “stuck,” we might even turn “meditation” and “contemplation” into a refuge for escape. We should be facing the dilemmas of reality—such as a precarious job, a conflicting relationship—but we tell ourselves: “All this is just ‘mind-image,’ a ‘map’ not the ‘territory.’ What I need to do is let go of attachment and observe things calmly.” We use a “transcendent” philosophy to cleverly bypass all “worldly” responsibilities. This is what is called “Spiritual Bypassing,” one of the most deceptive forms of self-deception.

So, how can we pierce through this warm and comfortable guise woven by our own hands?

The answer, perhaps, lies not in deeper “introspection,” but in introducing an “external frame of reference.” We need a “mirror” that we ourselves cannot manipulate.

This “mirror” could be a friend who is honest enough to tell us the truth. He might, when we are eloquently discussing “going with the flow,” pointedly remark: “What I see is not going with the flow, but that you haven’t actively sent out a resume in three months.”

This “mirror” could be a professional coach or therapist. They are trained to easily identify our unconscious patterns of “rationalization” and use precise questioning to guide us to see the cracks in our own logic.

This “mirror” can even be the simplest, most unforgiving objective standard: Is my real world getting better as a result? Are my finances healthier? Are my relationships more harmonious? Is my body more vibrant? If I feel “better and better” internally, but my real world continues to “deteriorate,” this is the clearest alarm signal, telling me: I am very likely immersed in a carefully constructed self-deception.

The first dialogue with the “shadow” often begins with daring to face the imperfect, excuse-filled, beautified self in the mirror. This requires immense courage, for shattering a “good person” mask crafted by one’s own hands is undoubtedly painful. But only then can we truly emerge from that strongest cage named “self-deception.”

Section Two: Undercurrents Beneath the Ice: Deep-Seated Resistance That Cannot Be Convinced by “Reason”

If “self-deception” is a mist we can dispel by introducing a “mirror,” then the second layer of shadow in the inner world is an iceberg that no “reason” can melt. It is “deep-seated resistance.”

This resistance is fundamentally different from the “inner guardian” we discussed earlier, which can be “persuaded.” It usually stems from deep-seated traumas or core fears related to “survival” formed early in life. It is illogical, does not engage in negotiation, and resides at the deepest level of our subconscious, like a massive boulder in the foundation. When any of our “change” intentions, even slightly, touch this boulder, the entire system will erupt in a violent, irrational, and completely incomprehensible rejection.

At this point, the “backlash” is no longer a small rebound, but a storm that sweeps through body and mind.

I once heard the story of a musician named A Yao. She was talented and yearned for success, longing to perform on larger stages. Her intellect, her beliefs, her “outcome framework” all clearly pointed towards the goal of “success.” She also diligently applied all the “correct” methods she knew.

However, whenever she received a truly significant opportunity—such as a decisive performance, an invitation to collaborate with a famous conductor—she would, at the last moment, inexplicably destroy it with her own hands. Sometimes it was a sudden “loss of voice,” sometimes an unexplainable “severe cold,” sometimes even “forgetting” the time of the event without any reason. Each time, she was deeply disappointed in herself, yet felt powerless, as if another self within her was determined to “self-destruct.”

After a long exploration, she finally touched that iceberg in a deep psychological therapy session. It turned out that in her toddler years, she had been the absolute center of her family, showered with boundless love. However, with the birth of her younger brother, her parents’ attention quickly shifted, and she experienced her first and most profound trauma of “abandonment” in life. In her young mind, an equation was firmly etched: “Becoming less important = being abandoned by those I love most.”

As an adult, this deeply buried traumatic logic operated like a ghost in her subconscious. Her conscious mind craved “success” because success brought attention and a sense of worth. But her subconscious, the part stuck in childhood trauma and governing her survival instincts, sounded the most terrifying alarm: “Warning! Success = becoming extremely important = once this importance wavers (e.g., you are no longer the sole focus on stage), you will once again experience that devastating feeling of ‘abandonment’! To avoid this ultimate pain, we must, at all costs, prevent ‘success’ from happening!”

This was the truth behind A Yao’s “self-destructive” behavior. It wasn’t “procrastination,” not “laziness,” and certainly not a guardian that could be “negotiated” with. It was the most primitive, most powerful survival defense mechanism, activated to avoid “death-level” pain. In its presence, all “willpower,” “logic,” and “positive mind-images” seemed weak and vulnerable.

When we are faced with such an “iceberg” rooted in trauma, any attempt to “melt” it with “inner cultivation” or “techniques” may be futile or even dangerous. This is not to say those methods are wrong, but that they are being applied at the wrong level. You cannot use “persuasion” to stop a stress-induced earthquake.

Therefore, a truly mature growth system must clearly delineate its “scope of applicability.” It must include this clear understanding:

When we identify that our inner resistance is powerful, irrational, repetitive, and even triggers severe physical and mental reactions, this is likely a signal that we have touched a deep traumatic area requiring more professional help.

At this point, the wisest and most responsible choice is not to continue a Quixotic battle within, under the guise of “self-cultivation,” but to bravely admit: “This problem is beyond my current capacity for self-resolution.” Then, seek the help of a professional psychotherapist or trauma therapist.

This is not “weakness”; it is precisely the highest level of “wisdom” and “self-care.” It’s like someone who is seriously ill; they wouldn’t try to read medical books and operate on themselves, but would seek a professional surgeon.

The dialogue with “shadows” is the most challenging, yet most profound, chapter in growth. It teaches us humility, letting us know that the world of the mind is far deeper and more complex than we imagine. It also teaches us honesty, allowing us to face our inner pretenses and cages. Most importantly, it teaches us compassion, both to compassionately reconcile with those understandable “guardians” and to compassionately acknowledge our limitations, bravely reaching out for help when needed.

Chapter Seven: Deep Waters Run Still – Two Paths to Healing

After traversing the valley of “shadows,” we might develop a deeper reverence for the act of “change.” We understand that not all inner obstacles can be overcome in the same way. Facing different predicaments, we need different wisdom, and sometimes even completely opposite strategies.

In ancient military strategy, there is the principle of “appear strong when weak, and weak when strong.” In the battlefield of inner cultivation, there similarly exist two seemingly opposing, yet complementary, paths to healing. One is active, constructive, like “adding fuel to a fire”—a “plus” path; the other is passive, letting go, like “removing the firewood from under the cauldron”—a “minus” path.

Knowing when to “exert effort” and when to “let go” is the most subtle wisdom essential for all advanced practitioners.

Section One: The “Adding Fuel” Path of Construction and the “Removing Firewood” Path of Letting Go

The “plus” path is the core of most of what we have discussed. It is a “constructivist” philosophy. It believes that abilities can be “built” through deliberate practice, beliefs can be “installed” through systematic methods, and the future can be “realized” through clear planning.

This path corresponds to our “rational,” active mind. It is filled with initiative and creativity.

When we say Skill ≈ Mind-Image × Time, we are talking about “addition.” We are adding bricks and tiles to our edifice of ability by actively adjusting “mind-images” and deliberately investing “time.”
When we talk about “Shu-Ha-Ri,” we are talking about “addition.” We are building our unique skill style step-by-step through imitation, experimentation, and integration.
When we set an “outcome framework,” transforming desires into concrete, measurable goals, we are using the logic of “addition” to draw a clear construction blueprint for our future.

The “plus” path is extremely powerful and indispensable when dealing with problems like “lack of skill,” “lack of knowledge,” or “wrong methods.” When your predicament stems from “I don’t know how,” the answer must be to “learn,” to “practice,” to “do.” You need to constantly “add fuel” to your furnace to gain more vigorous energy.

However, on the path of growth, we will encounter another category of completely different predicaments. In these predicaments, our biggest obstacle does not come from “not knowing how,” but from “thinking too much”; our pain does not stem from “lack of energy,” but from “excessive internal friction.”

This is the stalemate faced by the musician A Yao. Her problem was not “not knowing how” to perform, but that her entire mind-body system was “excessively” and desperately preventing her from performing. At this point, if she continued on the “plus” path—more diligent practice, stronger willpower, more positive self-suggestion—it would only exacerbate the internal conflict, like pressing the gas pedal harder on a car with the handbrake firmly engaged. The car would roar deafeningly, the engine would overheat rapidly, but the wheels would remain motionless.

In such a situation, the only effective approach is to switch to the “minus” path.

The “minus” path is an “existentialist” or “non-action” philosophy. It believes that many qualities we desire, such as “peace,” “confidence,” and “creativity,” do not need to be “acquired” externally; they are inherently our natural state, merely obscured by the “dust” of our acquired fears, attachments, and beliefs.

Therefore, its core is not to “build” anything, but to “remove” something.

It no longer asks: “How can I become more confident?” It asks: “What is hindering my inherent confidence?”
It no longer tries to cover a “negative belief” with a “positive belief.” It simply observes that “negative belief,” watching how it arises in the mind, how it changes, and how it eventually dissipates, without identifying with it or arguing with it.
It no longer views “negative emotions” as objects to be “transformed” or “managed.” It simply allows that emotion (such as fear, sadness) to flow fully through the body, without judgment, without interference, giving it enough space and respect until it completes its process on its own, like a rain that, once fallen, naturally clears the sky.

The “minus” path corresponds to our “emotional,” intuitive mind. It does not pursue “doing,” but practices “being with.”

When the painter Mo Yan reconciled with his “procrastination guardian,” if he wanted to go further, he could practice “subtraction.” When the thought of “fear of being judged” arose again, he no longer needed to “negotiate” with it. He simply, as an observer, said to himself in his mind: “Oh, look, the thought of ‘fear of being judged’ has come again.” He watched it, not trying to push it away, nor running with it. He just watched. When a thought is not “believed” and “empowered,” it is like a cloud without nourishment; it will naturally dissipate.

This is the wisdom of “removing the firewood from under the cauldron.” It does not deal with the boiling water in the pot (the symptom), but chooses to remove the firewood at the bottom, named “identification and attachment” (the root cause).

So, how do we determine when to use the “plus” path and when to use the “minus” path?

Clear diagnostic frameworks provide a rational structure. But from a more intuitive level, we can ask ourselves a simple question:

Does my current effort make me feel more “expansive,” or more “tense”?

If your deliberate practice gives you a sense of growing strength, broadening horizons, a solid joy of “knowing more today than yesterday,” then continue “adding fuel”; you are on the correct “plus” path.

But if your efforts make you feel increasingly heavy internal friction, increasingly anxious self-doubt, and increasingly strong internal conflict, and your body protests in various ways. This is a clear signal: you should stop. What you need, perhaps, is not to “paddle harder,” but to “drift with the current” for a moment, to first release yourself from that “tense” whirlpool. You should try the “minus” path.

True growth maintains a dynamic, wise balance between these two paths. It is a dance of both strength and gentleness, sometimes actively attacking and achieving, sometimes deeply still and effortlessly accomplishing.

Section Two: The Courage to Gaze into the Abyss: Coexisting with Your Fear, Not Conquering It

The essence of the “minus” path ultimately points to the deepest and most courageous form of cultivation—coexisting with our “fear.”

Our culture celebrates “courage,” and the most common misconception about “courage” is that it equals “fearlessness.” We try to “conquer” fear, “overcome” fear, and “eliminate” fear in various ways. We treat fear as an enemy, as a disease that needs to be eradicated from our lives.

However, existentialist philosophers have long told us: “Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster himself.” The more we fight fear, the more we feed it and make it stronger, because our “fight” itself is a declaration to it: “You are truly terrifying; you have the power to destroy me.”

The “minus” path offers a completely different possibility: The highest form of courage is not to eliminate fear, but to move forward while feeling the fear.

This is the courage to “gaze into the abyss.”

Nietzsche said: “When you gaze long into an abyss the abyss also gazes into you.” This quote is usually understood as a warning. But from a healing perspective, it can also be interpreted as an invitation. It invites us to stop running, turn around, and quietly confront that inner beast named “fear.”

This process usually involves three steps:

Step One: Name and Locate.

When fear comes, we are usually completely consumed by it; we “become” fear itself. The first step is to create a sliver of observational distance. We can say to ourselves in our minds: “Oh, I notice the feeling of ‘fear’ rising.” We are no longer “I am afraid,” but “I am observing an energy called ‘fear’.” Then, feel where this energy is most prominent in the body? Is it a tightening in the chest, a dry throat, or a cramping in the abdomen? Do not judge it, but like an objective scientist, locate and name it.

Step Two: Allow and Accompany.

This is the most crucial, yet most counter-intuitive, step. After locating the fear, our strongest inner impulse is to immediately do something to “get rid of” it. But this step requires us to do nothing. We simply, in our minds, gently say to the sensation in that area: “I see you. I allow you to be here. You can stay here for now.”

We no longer fight it, no longer try to push it away. We are like a loving mother accompanying a child crying from a nightmare. We don’t tell the child, “Don’t cry!” We simply hold him, letting him know he is safe, he is allowed to cry. We use a non-judgmental, warm “permission” to accompany that most unwelcome inner feeling.

Step Three: Act in the Presence of Fear.

After we have coexisted with fear in “allowance” for some time, we might be surprised to find that although the fear still exists, its “destructive” power seems to have diminished. It has transformed from a roaring beast into a wildcat that, while still growling, is no longer so threatening.

At this point, we can begin the third step: taking that small step forward, carrying this still-present fear.

A person afraid of public speaking can, before going on stage, spend a few minutes feeling the tension in their stomach, allowing its presence. Then, they say to themselves in their mind: “Okay, I know you’re there. Now, we’re going to walk onto that stage together.” They don’t walk onto the stage in a state of “no fear,” but in a state of “holding hands” with their fear.

This is true, attainable heroism for ordinary people.

It does not seek to become an invulnerable “superhuman” but acknowledges and embraces one’s vulnerability as a “human.” It does not treat any part of the inner self as an enemy but learns to coexist harmoniously with all parts of oneself, even the darkest and most frightening ones.

Through this process, slowly, again and again, we transmit a new message to our inner nervous system: “See, the feeling of fear will not kill us. We can feel it and still act, still survive.” Over time, the nervous system’s “over-alarm” to fear will gradually subside. That wildcat might even become a docile house cat willing to curl up at your feet and doze.

Deep waters run still. True healing often happens in the quietest, most “effortless” moments. It happens when we stop fighting and choose to reconcile with ourselves. It reminds us that on the path to excellence, not only is the passion and construction of “adding fuel” needed, but also the wisdom and compassion of “removing firewood.”

Chapter Eight: The Shape of Achievement – Giving Bones to Desires

After delving into the various laws and hidden paths of the inner world, we must once again turn our attention to reality. For, all inner cultivation, if it cannot ultimately manifest as external, perceptible results, risks becoming a self-indulgent illusion. Profound philosophy needs to be combined with solid action to generate true power.

A vague “desire,” like a formless mist, can offer momentary comfort but cannot guide us in a specific direction. A clearly outlined “achievement,” on the other hand, is like a carefully constructed lighthouse; it not only illuminates the path ahead but also lets us know precisely when we have reached the shore.

This chapter will explore an ancient and powerful “alchemy”—how to forge our elusive “desires” into a tangible, embodied “shape of achievement” that can be recognized and pursued by our entire mind-body system.

Section One: From “Escaping Darkness” to “Moving Towards Light”: The Correct Grammar of Intention

Most of our desires, in their initial form, are often expressed in a “negative” grammar. We are always saying what we “don’t want.”

“I don’t want to be so anxious anymore.” “I don’t want to live this poor life anymore.” “I don’t want to be an unliked fat person anymore.” “I never want to endure this dead-end job again.”

This “escaping darkness” type of intention stems from our avoidance of present suffering. It can provide us with initial motivation for change, but it is itself an extremely poor navigation system.

Because our brain, that loyal and ancient servant, has a natural “bug” when processing “negatives.” If someone tells you, “Whatever you do, just don’t think about a pink elephant,“—what will appear first in your mind is inevitably a pink elephant. You must first “think” of it to know that you “don’t” want to think of it.

Similarly, when you repeatedly tell yourself, “I don’t want to be anxious,” you are actually, again and again, focusing your attention on the “mind-image” of “anxiety,” thereby constantly reinforcing its presence in your inner world. The more you struggle, the tighter the rope binds.

Therefore, the first step in giving bones to desires is a crucial “grammatical shift”—to rewrite all negative expressions of “what I don’t want” into positive statements of “what I do want.”

This process requires an honest self-questioning. You can ask yourself a simple yet powerful question: “If I truly got rid of what I don’t want, then what would I truly gain?”

Behind “I don’t want to be anxious,” what you truly want might be “inner peace and composure.”
Behind “I don’t want to be poor,” what you truly want might be “financial abundance and freedom of choice.”
Behind “I don’t want to be fat,” what you truly want might be a “body full of vitality and health.”
Behind “I don’t want this job,” what you truly want might be a career that gives you a “sense of value” and “growth.”

Please feel the difference in energy brought by these two different grammars.

Negative expressions are heavy, constrained, and backward-looking. They make us feel like powerless victims stuck in a quagmire.

Positive statements are light, free, and forward-looking. They instantly transform our identity from an “escapee” to a “light-seeker.” Our inner world is no longer a “darkness” to flee from, but a “light” full of possibilities waiting to be explored.

This grammatical shift, seemingly just a word game, is in fact a profound “mind-image” reshaping. It recalibrates our mental compass from pointing to “what we fear” to pointing to “what we desire.” Only then can our entire mind-body system receive a clear, explicit, and attractive instruction, and begin to mobilize all resources to move in that bright direction.

Section Two: Sensory Confirmation: Letting the Future “Rehearse” into Reality in Your Mind

After establishing a positive goal of “moving towards light,” we also need to infuse it with life, transforming it from a dry “concept” into a vivid, living “experience” that can be perceived by our five senses.

Because our subconscious—that ancient giant governing most of our behaviors and motivations—does not understand abstract principles, but it fully comprehends “images,” “sounds,” and “feelings.” A goal that cannot be “sensory-fied” is, for the subconscious, like an unexecutable program code; it will not mobilize any energy for it.

Therefore, the second step in giving bones to achievement is to use all your senses to draw an incredibly clear, vivid “mind-image blueprint” for that future which has already been realized.

This is an extremely important “rehearsal” process. You need to find a quiet moment, close your eyes, and in your mind, let yourself “travel” to that future time and space where you have already achieved your goal. Then, like a detective, meticulously “investigate” the scene:

What will you see (Visual)?
- Look around, where are you? What is the lighting like?
- Look at yourself in the mirror, what is your appearance, posture, clothing, expression like?
- Who is around you? What are the expressions on their faces? What are they doing?
What will you hear (Auditory)?
- What are the background sounds? Is it the laughter of a crowd, the lapping of waves, or the tapping of keyboards in an office?
- Whose voice do you hear speaking to you? What do they say? What is their tone like?
- What is your own voice like? Is it resonant, gentle, or filled with laughter?
What will you feel (Kinesthetic)?
- What is the core feeling inside your body? Is it a warm, expanding sense of accomplishment in your chest, or a steady, peaceful calm in your abdomen?
- What can your skin feel? Is it the warmth of the sun, the embrace of a loved one, or the brush of a gentle breeze?
- Where in your body is this core feeling? Is it flowing or still? If it has a color and shape, what would they be?

The more specific and detailed this “rehearsal” process is, the more powerful it becomes. You are not daydreaming; you are conducting a serious “nervous system programming.”

When you repeatedly “experience” that successful future in your mind, your brain will gradually blur the boundary between “imagination” and “reality.” It will begin to believe that that beautiful future is a fact that “has happened” or “is about to happen.” Thus, it will proactively start laying down new neural pathways and adjusting your perceptual filters.

You will begin to unconsciously “notice” resources and opportunities in real life that can help you achieve your goals, which you often overlooked in the past. Your behavior patterns will also, subtly, begin to align with that “future you.”

This is the most unadorned scientific principle of “manifestation.” It is not a mysterious universal law, but a rigorous internal creative process based on the mechanisms of our mind and body. You must first, in your “mind,” depict the “image” of that “thing” clearly and realistically enough, for your “actions” in reality to have a clear path, ultimately leading to the “thing” being “achieved.”

Section Three: The First Step of a Thousand Miles: What Can I Do Right Now?

A grand and bright blueprint for the future, while inspiring, can easily turn into “despair” if it is separated from our present reality by a seemingly insurmountable chasm, ultimately deterring us.

Therefore, after completing the “sensory rehearsal” of the future, we must immediately bring our focus back to the present, to what is within our immediate reach. This is the final step in giving bones to achievement, and the crucial step in transforming “dreams” into “plans”: breaking down that grand goal into the smallest, most concrete action you can take right now, within the next hour.

Lao Tzu said: “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” The profound wisdom of this statement lies in revealing the only antidote to “action paralysis”—reducing the stride.

When your goal is “to write a 200,000-word novel,” the sheer magnitude of this goal is enough to crush anyone’s motivation. You will feel overwhelmed, leading to endless “preparation” and “procrastination.”

But if you break it down into: “In the next 25 minutes, undisturbed, write 100 words about the protagonist’s childhood experiences.”—This task is so small, specific, and non-threatening that your inner self will find almost no reason to “resist” it.

This is the power of the “first step.”

Is your goal to achieve a “healthy and vibrant body”? Then your “first step” could be to “stand up right now and do 5 squats,” or “immediately go online and search for the phone number of a nearby gym.”
Is your goal to start “your own business”? Then your “first step” could be to “take out a piece of paper and, in 15 minutes, write down the three things I’m best at,” or “send a message to that friend who’s already started a business, inviting them for coffee next week.”
Is your goal to learn a “new foreign language”? Then your “first step” could be to “immediately download a language learning app,” or “find a 5-minute introductory tutorial video on a video website and repeat ten words.”

This step doesn’t need to be perfect, grand, or even have a clear logical link to the ultimate goal. Its only requirements are “immediately” and “feasible.”

Completing this seemingly insignificant first step means more than just completing the task itself. Its greatest value is that it acts like a switch, activating the entire positive feedback loop.

When you’ve completed those 5 squats, when you’ve sent that message, when you’ve repeated those ten words, you send an extremely important signal to your nervous system: “See, I am a person who ‘takes action’.” This tiny “mind-image of success” becomes a new gem in your inner resource library. It will give you the strength to take a second, a third tiny step.

The snowball begins to gather its energy with this first tiny roll.

A truly actionable “shape of achievement” must simultaneously possess three dimensions: it has a bright, positive “future vision” as its pull; it has a vivid, sensorially verifiable “inner blueprint” as its navigation; and it has a tiny, immediately actionable “present action” as its starting engine.

These three combined form a complete creative loop, from intention to reality. It allows us to gaze at the stars while keeping our feet on the ground, ultimately reaching that seemingly distant “thousand miles” through daily “footsteps.”

Chapter Nine: All Methods Return to One – The Breath of Growth

We started from the predicament of the potter Xuan Yi, and journeyed through, exploring the mysteries of “mind-image” and measuring the value of “time”; we calibrated the “compass of the mind” and learned the three stages of “Shu, Ha, Ri”; we even mustered the courage to dialogue with our inner “shadows,” and distinguished between the “plus” and “minus” paths of healing.

All this knowledge, these laws, models, and stories, like stars, have been illuminated one by one in our contemplative night sky. However, when the star map becomes too intricate, do we risk forgetting the path beneath our feet by gazing upwards? When the methods become too numerous, do we risk forgetting the original source of the “Dao” by fixating on the subtlety of the “art”?

At the end of this long exploration, we need a final, ultimate simple image to unify these myriad methods into a complete, flowing, life-affirming whole.

This image is “breathing.”

Each of our growth journeys, and indeed the very existence of life, echoes the most core rhythm of ordinary yet profound breaths. It encompasses two seemingly opposing, yet indispensable forces: active, effortful “inhalation,” and passive, letting-go “exhalation.”

“Inhalation” is our “plus” path of construction.

It is an “active,” inward absorption. It is filled with deliberate intention and diligent effort.

When we are in the “Shu” stage, tracing copybooks day after day, faithfully replicating the rules of our predecessors, we are forcefully “inhaling.” We are drawing the order, knowledge, and structure of the external world into our lives, building the foundation of our abilities.

When we are in the “Ha” stage, drawing from diverse sources, consciously conducting various experiments, attempting to forge our unique style, we are taking a deeper, longer “inhalation.” We are drawing more diverse, richer nutrients into our system, allowing chemical reactions to occur.

When we adjust our “mind-image,” set a clear “shape of achievement” for ourselves, and invest “time” in deliberate refinement, this entire process is a powerful “inhalation.” We are like hungry individuals, actively and eagerly absorbing energy to make ourselves stronger.

Without this active “inhalation,” life would wither and stagnate from lack of nourishment. All growth requires this “effortful,” constructive, and even sweat-and-struggle-filled stage.

“Exhalation” is our “minus” path of release.

It is a “non-action,” outward letting go. It is filled with the wisdom of surrender and complete trust.

When we are in the “Ri” state, having forgotten all moves and rules, allowing skill to flow naturally without intention, we are fully “exhaling.” We let go of the attachment to “control,” dissolving the “deliberate self,” thereby allowing the deeper, broader “inherent self” to manifest effortlessly.

When we face deep-seated inner “resistance” and choose not to fight it, but simply to “be with” that fear and pain, we are performing a healing “exhalation.” We let go of the anxiety of “having to solve the problem immediately,” thereby creating the necessary space and tranquility for inner self-integration.

When, in a “learning to ride a bike” moment, all tension and thought suddenly disappear, and the body naturally finds balance. That moment is when we finally dare to fully “exhale.” We let go of the fear of “failure,” completely trusting the body’s wisdom, and then, a miracle happens.

Without this passive “exhalation,” life would stiffen and shatter from excessive “tension.” Any skill, if it cannot ultimately move from “effort” to “effortlessness,” from “having rules” to “having no rules,” can never reach the harmonious and free realm of mastery.

And the various predicaments and stalemates we encounter are imbalances in “breathing.”

The person who is stuck due to “self-deception” is trying to only “exhale” (claiming to go with the flow, letting go of attachment), but refuses to put in the effort of “inhaling” (deliberate practice, facing reality). This is a false “letting go,” essentially avoidance.

The person who is constantly drained by “deep-seated resistance” is desperately “inhaling” (forcefully suppressing with willpower, persuading with more “correct” reasoning), but does not understand how to first release excessive internal pressure through a thorough “exhalation” (complete acceptance and coexistence). This is an ineffective “effort,” essentially an internal war.

Therefore, the ultimate “ability” we are to cultivate throughout our lives, perhaps, is nothing else but mastering the rhythm and wisdom of this life’s “breath.”

It requires us, when in need of learning and construction, to “inhale” with full effort, like the most devout apprentice, undeterred by hardship; and when in need of integration and emergence, to “exhale” fearlessly, like the most confident master, completely letting go.

It requires us, every time we feel “stuck,” to calm down and conduct an honest “diagnosis”: Is my current predicament caused by not “inhaling” enough, or by “holding my breath” for too long? Do I need more solid action, or a deeper surrender?

This is the ultimate path where all methods return to one. It transcends all specific techniques and models. It allows us to see that growth is not a linear journey from A to B, but a dynamic, rhythmic dance.

In this dance, we sometimes leap vigorously, sometimes land lightly. We are both the dancer who sweats and the flowing melody carried by the music itself. Between these harmonious, never-ending “inhalations and exhalations,” we build ourselves and let go of ourselves; we achieve ourselves and transcend ourselves.

Ultimately, we become life itself.

Epilogue: Returning to Original Intention: The Potter and His Teabowl

At the end of the story, let us return to the pottery workshop in the mountains.

After Xuan Yi returned from the mountaintop, he did not immediately begin any “grand” creations. He seemed like a changed man. He no longer obsessed over firing that dream “divine masterpiece,” nor did he fret over the stagnation of his skill.

He began to spend a lot of time doing things that seemed most “useless.” He would spend an afternoon simply sitting by the stream, feeling the water rushing over the pebbles, listening to the wind passing through the bamboo grove. He began to “play” with clay again like a child, no longer with any “purpose,” but purely to feel the changes of the clay between his fingers, enjoying the most primitive joy of creation.

He also practiced “breathing.” When the “mind-image” of the “shattered plum vase” occasionally resurfaced, he no longer fought it. He simply, in his mind, calmly said to it: “Oh, you’re here again.” Then, as the old artisan had taught him, he gently manipulated its colors and distance, or simply allowed that tense feeling to remain in his body for a moment, like allowing a dark cloud to drift across the sky, and then continued with what he was doing.

He spent an entire year, a full cycle of seasons, in this manner.

One snowy morning, as the sky faintly brightened and all was silent, Xuan Yi was suddenly moved. He walked to the potter’s wheel and picked up a lump of the most ordinary clay. At that moment, there was no blueprint in his mind, no distractions, not even the existence of “self.” His hands, as if guided by a deeper, cosmic force, began to move naturally.

The clay in his fingers, as if alive, grew, spun, and took shape. It was a perfect “exhalation,” a joyful, spontaneous performance where mind, hand, and clay danced together.

When he finally stopped, a teabowl stood quietly in the center of the wheel.

It did not possess the dazzling brilliance of his dream, nor the astonishing quality of his imagination. It was simply perfectly “appropriate.” Its curve seemed to be an extension of the mountains; its color, a blend of the sky after a fresh snowfall and the thin mist in the forest; the weight and warmth it held in his hands brought an unprecedented sense of inner stability and peace. It was not a perfect “work,” but a complete “life.”

At that moment, Xuan Yi looked at the teabowl, smiled, and tears slowly streamed down his face.

He finally understood that what he had long and arduously pursued was never to fire an external “object,” but to become the inner harmonious and complete “person” capable of creating that object.

That “divine masterpiece” was nowhere else; it was the present self, fully abiding in the moment.

This journey of mind and skill, thus, comes to a close, yet it is also a new beginning. For true growth never ends. It is merely, again and again, between “inhalation” and “exhalation,” a deeper return to oneself, a more complete living out of life’s original form.

May you, too, put down this book, take this map, and begin your own unique journey of exploration. To feel your mind-image, to refine your time, to reconcile with every part of your inner self, and to find your own unique breath of life.

Personal Growth Inner Cultivation Skill Philosophy Reflections

Infinite Progress