How to Cope with Difficult Problems? The Secret of the Second Yang Line (Nine Two) of the Qian Hexagram in *Tang Yin's Quest for Paintings*

During the Hongzhi era, in the city of Suzhou, when only seventy percent of the peach blossoms at the Peach Blossom Temple remained, Tang Bohu encountered a vexing problem—the *Mountain Stream Under Moonlit Night* he had painted two days earlier had gone missing.

The painting was a birthday gift he’d promised to Magistrate Wu, and the birthday was just three days away. If he repainted it, the original’s artistic conception—born of drunken inspiration under moonlight, with strokes blending three parts intoxication and seven parts unruliness—could hardly be replicated, even in ten attempts. Yet if he didn’t look for it, he’d have no explanation for Magistrate Wu, and people would whisper that Tang Yin was putting on airs.

He rummaged through his study from top to bottom, scattering rice paper all over the floor and even groping under the inkstone three times, but there was no trace of the painting. His page boy muttered softly beside him, “Young master, should we report this to the authorities?”

Tang Yin waved a hand dismissively. Report to the authorities? Making a fuss over a single painting would set the whole city talking. Those who knew would say he’d lost a painting; those who didn’t would think he’d lost a family heirloom. Besides, if word of this reached Wen Zhengming’s ears, that man would laugh at him for half a year—*Tang Bohu can’t even keep his own painting safe, yet he dares call himself the “Number One Romantic Talent of Jiangnan”?*

As he fretted, he suddenly caught sight of the *Book of Changes* on his desk. He flipped it open at random and landed on the second line of the Qian hexagram, whose line text read: “Seeing the dragon in the field; it is beneficial to see the great man.” He stared at these eight characters for the time it takes to drink half a cup of tea, then suddenly slapped his thigh: “How foolish I’ve been!”

He’d been so busy rummaging blindly through his study, his mind full of “what to do about the lost painting,” that he’d forgotten to figure out how it had gone missing. How can one see the situation clearly? One must step outside the room first, stand high and look down, so as to grasp the whole picture. He had indeed taken the painting out a few days prior—to East Village, to write a birthday inscription for Old Tian’s mother—and the painting had been rolled up in his sleeve back then.

At this thought, he set off at once for East Village. Passing by a field ridge, he saw an old farmer squatting on the path, holding a rolled-up object and examining it closely. Drawing nearer, he saw it was none other than his *Mountain Stream Under Moonlit Night*!

Seeing him approach, the old farmer stood up with a smile. “Mr. Tang, you’ve come. The other day you tripped on this ridge and the painting fell out of your sleeve. I called out to you, but you didn’t hear—you were too busy rubbing your backside.”

Tang Yin’s face flushed with embarrassment. He took the painting and thanked the farmer repeatedly. The old farmer waved it off. “No need to thank me. A farmer like me doesn’t understand paintings, but I thought the moon in it looked just like the real thing. Oh, Mr. Tang, I’ve been meaning to ask you something—I can’t make up my mind which variety of rice to plant this year.”

Tang Yin was about to casually say “they’re all about the same” when he suddenly remembered the line “it is beneficial to see the great man.” How does one make the right decision? It doesn’t have to involve seeking out high officials and nobles. Old farmers in the fields know no fewer truths than scholars. Instead, he bowed slightly to the old farmer and asked, “Old sir, I’d like to ask you first—you’ve been farming for half your life. How do you make up your mind when you’re unsure about something?”

The old farmer chuckled. “What’s so hard about that? Look up at the sky, look down at the earth, and in between, ask your own conscience. Is the season and weather right? Is the soil fertile? Are you willing to put in the effort? If all three are there, nothing can fail.”

Tang Yin stood on the field ridge as the wind blew over the tips of the rice seedlings, carrying the earthy scent of soil. It suddenly dawned on him that the “seeing the dragon in the field” of the Qian hexagram’s second line was not about a real dragon appearing at all. It meant that when one is in a low position, one shouldn’t always dream of soaring to the heavens. Walk more among the fields, see more real people and real things, and the way to handle things will naturally come.

He walked back holding the painting, his steps much lighter than when he’d come. It turned out that the answer to solving difficult problems was never in the study—it was in the furrows of the fields, in the warmth of daily life, in every person who lives steadily and earnestly. The painting, lost and found again, was like a catalyst, leading him to stumble upon the simplest truth hidden in the Qian hexagram.

Back at the Peach Blossom Temple, he picked up his brush and added a small line of characters in the corner of the painting: “Seeing the dragon in the field—’tis not the dragon in the field, but the Way in the field.” After writing it, he laughed to himself first. If Wen Zhengming saw these words, he’d surely argue with him about them for three days straight.