离：利贞，亨。畜牝牛，吉。

彖传:

离，丽也；日月丽乎天，百谷草木丽乎土，重明以丽乎正，乃化成天下。柔丽乎中正，故亨；是以畜牝牛吉也。

象传:

明两作离，大人以继明照于四方。

火火离，离，丽也，明也。内外双火，内外皆明，内外都丽。内外六二、六五双阴陷入四阳之中。且都是中坚力量之位。

卦辞，利贞。利者，得利，利益，有利，一切都合于他人、自己之想。守贞，在正道上，不偏离天地大道。

由此，得到亨的结果。前面利贞是因，亨是果。

畜牝牛，吉。畜，畜养，积蓄，牲畜，母牛，就是六二、六五。整卦之象，是围绕阴转的，以阴为主的，因此说畜牝牛，吉。这是天道之势。

日月丽乎天，百谷草木丽乎土，重明以丽乎正，乃化成天下。这句话就说了内外之丽，上下皆丽，重丽重明，以丽为正，因丽而正。一派风调雨顺、天下大治之象，君子行于世。由此，天下得化育。上正下面跟着正，以身率天下。

柔丽乎中正，故亨；还是说的六二、六五，他的亨通就在于柔丽得中正。

明两作离，大人以继明照于四方。大人，德行高尚的人，品行端正、浩然正气的人，他的这种德行和内在光明可以照遍天下，化育天下。

当我们说到“离”这个卦象，其实我们谈的并不仅仅是火，也不仅仅是光明。我们说的是一种存在于生活中的状态，它既向内照，也向外亮。就像日月悬于天空，为万物提供节律与节制；就像草木依附土地，生长出属于自己的姿态。在真实的生活里，这种“明”并不总是张扬的，它常常呈现在一个人默默地把事做好，不浮夸、不抱怨、不急功近利的细节里。

“离”卦的结构非常有意思：它的中心是两个阴爻——六二与六五——被四个阳爻所环绕。这两个阴爻，并不是软弱无能的代表，反而因为它们居于中正的位置，变得尤其有力量。它们柔而中正、顺而不懦，像是那些不需要用声音证明自己存在的人，只靠一种稳稳的在场感，就能让人信服。整个卦象的关键也正是在这里：真正的明，不是爆发的光，而是内心柔和而坚定的力量。

“利贞，亨。”这是卦辞里给出的指导。要想亨通，不靠手段取胜，而是靠你是否站在“正”的位置上。这种正，是一种与天地人和谐共振的姿态，是一种对秩序的信任与顺承。在当今这个信息爆炸、价值撕裂的时代，许多人迷失在“效率”“结果”和“赢”的漩涡里。但“离”卦却提醒我们，真正的顺利，是来自对正道的坚持，而不是一时的聪明。

“畜牝牛，吉。”这一句乍看很朴素，甚至有点古怪。但如果你慢慢去咀嚼，你会发现，它其实是在提醒我们要珍视那些柔和、安稳、滋养生命的力量。母牛象征着稳定、包容、温顺、能量的蓄积。它不争不抢，不急不躁，却是农田真正的功臣。我们在生活中也需要这种“畜牝牛”的心性——去培养内在的温柔，照看我们细水长流的愿望，而不是一直想着爆发、突破或战胜。

彖传中说：“日月丽乎天，百谷草木丽乎土。”这不是一种装饰性的“丽”，而是一种合于自然位置的“附着之明”。太阳不属于大地，它属于天空；草木不属于天空，它扎根于土地。各安其位，各照其明。这种“丽”，是一种顺应，是一种安住，是一种尊重因果、不拔苗助长的从容。

当一个人能够让自己内在的光不被欲望扭曲、不被比较扰动，那他就能够“重明以丽乎正”，走在正道上。而这种状态，不是靠外在的“做”来达成的，而是靠内心的修养与澄明来显现。

“明两作离，大人以继明照于四方。”这句象传说得更透。“大人”不是指地位上的显贵，而是内在真正成熟、品格端正、心有光明的人。他之所以能够“继明”，是因为他知道光明从来都不是一次性的成就，而是要日日去续、去养、去觉的状态。他就像一盏灯，不必说话，只是站在那里，别人就看清了方向。

在现实生活中，我们每个人都会被噪音包围，会在冲突、焦虑和诱惑中迷失。我们会反应，而不是回应；会逃避，而不是看清。“离”卦的教导就是——再吵也不怕，怕的是你失去了心中的明。

这种“明”不是理想化的，也不是完美主义的。它允许阴影、疲惫、模糊，它只是提醒你：别忘了你心里还有光。当你累了，光可能暗了一点，但它还在。当你生气、慌乱、恐惧，它可能被遮住了，但它没灭。

所以，“离”并不是要你时时都亮，而是提醒你：只要你愿意，总能重新点亮那一点明。只要你不放弃“正”，那你总能“亨”。

真正的光，是带着温度的，是看得到人的，是和生命共呼吸的。它不是靠力气撑出来的，而是靠一个人持续不断的“自我觉”——觉察自己的心在什么时候偏了，什么时候快了，什么时候忘了自己的初愿。

离卦教我们，不要急着照亮整个世界。先点亮自己。先把自己安住在正位上。你只要稳稳地亮着，就已经在照亮世界了。正如那句古话：“一灯能除千年暗。”

英文版：

When we speak of Li (離), we are not only speaking about fire or brightness. We are speaking about a way of being in the world where clarity moves both inward and outward, like the sun and moon that hang in the sky, like grasses and trees that cling to the earth and grow toward light. In real life, this “brightness” is not always flashy. It often looks like someone quietly doing the right thing, day after day, even when nobody is watching.

The core of Li is in its structure: two yin lines (six-two and six-five) held in the center, surrounded by four yang lines. These two yin lines are not weak or passive. They are soft in texture but strong in placement. They represent those who, by nature, respond rather than force; they listen rather than shout. And yet, because they are located at the center of this hexagram, everything moves around them. It’s a structure that tells us something very important: that the heart of clarity is gentleness, and that softness, when in the right place, holds great power.

“Li zhen, heng. To be devoted to what is right brings prosperity.” In a world that constantly pulls us toward distraction, shortcuts, and easy gains, this is a reminder that real thriving comes from alignment, not aggression. “Li” invites us to stand in the light not by blazing through the world, but by staying in honest relation to it. There is a quiet integrity here — the kind you see in someone who always pays attention to what is fair, what is kind, what is necessary, even when no one else does.

And what about the phrase “to raise a gentle cow brings good fortune”? It might sound odd at first, but think of what it’s really pointing to. A cow is yielding, patient, grounded. It doesn’t rush or force. It doesn’t act out of impulse. In this image, we’re being told: tend to that which is gentle in you. Cultivate your inner softness, and allow that to guide your actions. In a culture that often glorifies dominance, Li reminds us that it is the feminine quality — the yielding, the responsive, the calm — that brings balance, and that balance brings good.

When the Tuan Zhuan (彖传) says “sun and moon are bright in the sky, grains and grass are bright on the earth,” it’s describing a world where everything is in its place, each thing leaning into what nourishes it. In human life, that looks like clarity of mind and sincerity of heart. It looks like knowing your role and acting with wholeness, not pretense. It’s not about perfection — it’s about a kind of spiritual ecology, where your brightness contributes to the health of the whole.

This is not the brightness of ego or performance. It’s the brightness that comes from being in right relation — with your work, with others, with time, with your own body. It’s the kind of light that doesn’t seek attention, but still lights the way.

When we come back to the image from the Xiang Zhuan (象传) — “the great person continues the light and shines it on the four directions” — we understand something deeper. This isn’t about a hero charging into the world. This is about someone who has cultivated a steady inner flame, someone who has gone through darkness without letting it turn them cold. Their light is not loud. It is sustaining. It is the kind of presence that allows others to see more clearly simply by standing nearby.

In modern life, where so much is filtered through appearances, Li asks us to look beyond surfaces. Are we acting from brightness or from reaction? Are we forcing our way or responding in flow? Li encourages us to stay centered in that gentle light — the kind that sees, that listens, that respects the timing of things.

It also reminds us that inner clarity isn’t something that happens once. It must be renewed. That’s why the image is of “continuing the light.” It’s a practice. Each day we must tend our light — rest when we are tired, speak when truth calls us, pause when confusion clouds us. We are not static beings. Even the sun rises and sets.

To live the way of Li is not to be bright all the time, but to be honest about where you are, and to keep returning to clarity again and again. It is to trust that even when things are difficult, there is a light that never disappears — only dims temporarily when covered by fear, pride, or confusion.

And so Li is not a call to perfection. It’s a call to return. To soften. To center. To let your brightness grow not by effort, but by presence. When you do that, you become part of the world’s quiet unfolding — just as fire warms without needing to conquer, just as the moon reflects without needing to speak.