No matter what we learn, the beginning of the magical feeling is incomparable. In exploration, we are curious and excited about the unknown, energized as never before, and then dive in, religiously, and in the process develop a mastery of a skill, an understanding, a discipline or a relationship. The physical and mental engagement will bring about a transformation in our lives, and gradually we will become some kind of authority. But if we stay in the position of so-called authority, sooner or later we will become numb. There is no denying that a skill is useful, but our mind needs to be constantly learning and living. The mind is not satisfied that it has become an authority in any field, it needs to be a constant verification of its natural gifts. As a result, we are bound to face a tricky moment when we must give up something in order to maintain fresh experiences and vibrant feelings, not our skills, but our identity as authorities. We must let go of the identity of omniscience, because it is in this identity that we imprison our life force. Imagine the day when the skills and knowledge we have acquired become boring, and we hold on to our hard-earned positions of authority, refusing to let ourselves have another chance to experience the beginner's mind. Our pretentious, supposed authority becomes a gaping hole that stifles our souls. Abandonment here is not about emotional betrayal or the end of a relationship, but about peeling away the cocoon-like outer skin that is holding us back from further growth. I myself hit a critical peeling stage in my 40s. I had been a poet for more than 20 years, and my identity as a poet had brought me to the spiritual place where I was destined to live. There, being a poet was not enough for the spiritual journey I was about to embark on. I find that I am clay, not a flower pot. I am like a plant that will eventually break out of the flower pot and need to transplant its soul to a larger space to grow. I gave up being a poet and allowed myself to grow. It was a very confusing time for me, but it was ultimately liberating. I never gave up writing. In the eyes of the world, I was still a poet, but I was never a pretentious poet, because I wrote poetry only as a way to express my "soul" and perceive the world. Paradoxically, I became a better poet only when I was honest about my exploration-expert-abandonment cycle.

In her book "Old Age:Journey into Simplicity," Helen Luke makes a powerful example of what can be summed up from myth. That's another story about Odysseus that's almost forgotten by a lot of people. When Odysseus finally returns home after more than 20 years of war, the weather-beaten sailor settles down with his wife in Ithaca like an old man and begins to live a quiet life. After a time, the great and wise warrior found himself listless and restless, and decided to return to the sea, where he had once won respect for all his prowess. So he packed his bags, left a letter for his wife, and set out for the harbor. On the way, the blind soothsayer, Tiresias, cuts him off and tells him, "Your days as an authority seafarer are over. You must now return and go inland as far as you can until you meet a man who doesn't even know what an oar is, and you plant your OARS and begin to build a garden." Again, there's nothing wrong with going back to the old ways we loved and were good at. The reason why Thesias encouraged Odysseus to go inland was that he knew Odysseus was returning to his homeland in pursuit of easy, respectable comfort, which were all wrong motives. What we have to do is to give up the pretentiousness of authority, so that we can keep a beginner's vitality. My dear friend Robert and I were reading Helen's book about old age together. A few years later, my wife, Susan, and I moved inland from coastal New York State to Michigan to start a new life. New beginnings are exciting and worrying. A few weeks after arriving at our new home, we received a long, narrow package with no address and no explanatory letter. I opened the box and found a paddle! I immediately knew who it was and what it meant! Laughing, I carried the OARS up the hill in the backyard and planted them. The oar has now seen many springs, summers, autumn and winters, and is most impressive when it is covered in thin snow. Many strangers have asked about the origin of the oar: so far inland from the coast, why did it come? But every day, as I pour my coffee, I silently salute the truth of "seek -- master -- leave." Your days as an authority navigator are over. You must now return and head inland as far as you can until you meet a man who doesn't even know what an oar is, and you plant your OARS and begin to build a gard

en. The sixth discipline is to live an expressive life. Expression is crucial because expression in life is like a tuning fork that keeps us moving toward the sacred. Only when we allow ourselves to feel, think, and experience will we become perceptive enough to feel and walk with what is important at all times. Back when John Shore, the royal drummer, invented the tuning fork in 1711, it was used to present us with a harmonious sound. When tapping a tuning fork, people often need to press the fork handle against a table or a wooden surface to make the vibration echo louder. Similarly, what we feel, think and experience is silent until it is expressed, and the feeling of expressing life at any time will tune our lives and allow us to hear the harmonious sound. When we echo our expressions with those of others, they resonate, and we get closer to the truth. But when we feel something but fail to express it, we get caught up in the messy web of life and lose touch with it. If we are in pain, or if we are silent when we are in love, we cannot express what we are thinking and feeling, and the pain will bounce back and forth in the body and get worse. Just as the lightning rod rises high to catch and transmit the lightning, the life we express will transmit our daily strong feelings and make us feel more secure and comfortable. A life of expression promotes all of these practices because expression, like blood, nourishes our organs. What we feel, think and experience is silent until it is expressed.

No matter what we learn, the beginning of the magical feeling is incomparable. In exploration, we are curious and excited about the unknown, energized as never before, and then dive in, religiously, and in the process develop a mastery of a skill, an understanding, a discipline or a relationship. The physical and mental engagement will bring about a transformation in our lives, and gradually we will become some kind of authority. But if we stay in the position of so-called authority, sooner or later we will become numb. There is no denying that a skill is useful, but our mind needs to be constantly learning and living. The mind is not satisfied that it has become an authority in any field, it needs to be a constant verification of its natural gifts. As a result, we are bound to face a tricky moment when we must give up something in order to maintain fresh experiences and vibrant feelings, not our skills, but our identity as authorities. We must let go of the identity of omniscience, because it is in this identity that we imprison our life force. Imagine the day when the skills and knowledge we have acquired become boring, and we hold on to our hard-earned positions of authority, refusing to let ourselves have another chance to experience the beginner's mind. Our pretentious, supposed authority becomes a gaping hole that stifles our souls. Abandonment here is not about emotional betrayal or the end of a relationship, but about peeling away the cocoon-like outer skin that is holding us back from further growth. I myself hit a critical peeling stage in my 40s. I had been a poet for more than 20 years, and my identity as a poet had brought me to the spiritual place where I was destined to live. There, being a poet was not enough for the spiritual journey I was about to embark on. I find that I am clay, not a flower pot. I am like a plant that will eventually break out of the flower pot and need to transplant its soul to a larger space to grow. I gave up being a poet and allowed myself to grow. It was a very confusing time for me, but it was ultimately liberating. I never gave up writing. In the eyes of the world, I was still a poet, but I was never a pretentious poet, because I wrote poetry only as a way to express my "soul" and perceive the world. Paradoxically, I became a better poet only when I was honest about my exploration-expert-abandonment cycle.

In her book "Old Age:Journey into Simplicity," Helen Luke makes a powerful example of what can be summed up from myth. That's another story about Odysseus that's almost forgotten by a lot of people. When Odysseus finally returns home after more than 20 years of war, the weather-beaten sailor settles down with his wife in Ithaca like an old man and begins to live a quiet life. After a time, the great and wise warrior found himself listless and restless, and decided to return to the sea, where he had once won respect for all his prowess. So he packed his bags, left a letter for his wife, and set out for the harbor. On the way, the blind soothsayer, Tiresias, cuts him off and tells him, "Your days as an authority seafarer are over. You must now return and go inland as far as you can until you meet a man who doesn't even know what an oar is, and you plant your OARS and begin to build a garden." Again, there's nothing wrong with going back to the old ways we loved and were good at. The reason why Thesias encouraged Odysseus to go inland was that he knew Odysseus was returning to his homeland in pursuit of easy, respectable comfort, which were all wrong motives. What we have to do is to give up the pretentiousness of authority, so that we can keep a beginner's vitality. My dear friend Robert and I were reading Helen's book about old age together. A few years later, my wife, Susan, and I moved inland from coastal New York State to Michigan to start a new life. New beginnings are exciting and worrying. A few weeks after arriving at our new home, we received a long, narrow package with no address and no explanatory letter. I opened the box and found a paddle! I immediately knew who it was and what it meant! Laughing, I carried the OARS up the hill in the backyard and planted them. The oar has now seen many springs, summers, autumn and winters, and is most impressive when it is covered in thin snow. Many strangers have asked about the origin of the oar: so far inland from the coast, why did it come? But every day, as I pour my coffee, I silently salute the truth of "seek -- master -- leave." Your days as an authority navigator are over. You must now return and head inland as far as you can until you meet a man who doesn't even know what an oar is, and you plant your OARS and begin to build a gard

en. The sixth discipline is to live an expressive life. Expression is crucial because expression in life is like a tuning fork that keeps us moving toward the sacred. Only when we allow ourselves to feel, think, and experience will we become perceptive enough to feel and walk with what is important at all times. Back when John Shore, the royal drummer, invented the tuning fork in 1711, it was used to present us with a harmonious sound. When tapping a tuning fork, people often need to press the fork handle against a table or a wooden surface to make the vibration echo louder. Similarly, what we feel, think and experience is silent until it is expressed, and the feeling of expressing life at any time will tune our lives and allow us to hear the harmonious sound. When we echo our expressions with those of others, they resonate, and we get closer to the truth. But when we feel something but fail to express it, we get caught up in the messy web of life and lose touch with it. If we are in pain, or if we are silent when we are in love, we cannot express what we are thinking and feeling, and the pain will bounce back and forth in the body and get worse. Just as the lightning rod rises high to catch and transmit the lightning, the life we express will transmit our daily strong feelings and make us feel more secure and comfortable. A life of expression promotes all of these practices because expression, like blood, nourishes our organs. What we feel, think and experience is silent until it is expressed.