I Used to Think the I Ching Was Nonsense

Let’s get this straight: this isn’t just some lazy prejudice—I actually tried to read the thing.

First page: “Qian: Yuan Heng Li Zhen.” Four characters, zero clue. Pressing on: “Hidden dragon, do not act”; “Dragon appears in the field”; “Or leaps in the abyss”… I recognize each word, but as a sentence, it might as well be encrypted. By the end, my main takeaway was: What on earth is this book talking about?

And then, look at how the I Ching is used these days: fortune-telling booths on the street, mysterious “masters” online, TikTok “cultural inheritors” waving sticks and whispering secrets—this whole industry is essentially a haunted house for gullible wallets. For a long time, the words “I Ching” have only evoked two emotions in me: skepticism and annoyance.

But there was always one thing I couldn’t quite shake.

Confucius, in his later years, absolutely adored the Book of Changes. Not just a casual flip-through—he read it so much that he wore out the bindings. He even wrote volumes of commentary, which was rare for the famously busy sage. Yet Confucius was also the original “no-nonsense” guy—the one who “did not speak of ghosts and spirits.”

So here’s the paradox: why would someone so rational fall head-over-heels for what’s now seen as a glorified fortune-teller’s manual?

This contradiction bugged me for years. Only recently, after digging deeper, did I realize: the I Ching that Confucius studied isn’t the same book the street-corner fortune-tellers are hawking.

So What Is the I Ching Actually For?

Let’s cut to the chase: the Book of Changes is not a fortune-telling manual, not a novel, not a philosophical treatise.

It’s a thinking model—a system that uses symbols to summarize patterns of change.

In modern lingo: it’s a “framework for situation analysis.” The I Ching helps you figure out what phase you’re currently in, and advises on what you should do at that stage.

Its core message boils down to this:

The world is in constant flux. There’s no absolute good or bad—what matters is where you are in the cycle, and what you do there.

Sounds like a cliché? Stick with me.

The I Ching uses combinations of the yin and yang symbols to create 64 “situation templates.” Each describes a type of scenario, then breaks it into six stages—from sprouting to peak to decline—offering different judgments and advice for each.

At its heart, it’s doing what every modern thinker does: recognizing patterns, summarizing rules, and guiding decisions. The difference? It uses a three-thousand-year-old symbolic language. It’s like looking at computer code before you learn to program—it’s not that the content is meaningless, you just don’t yet speak the language.

East Meets West: Pattern Recognition Across Cultures

Once I realized the I Ching was all about pattern recognition, I immediately thought of a Western counterpart.

Joseph Campbell, after studying myths and hero stories across the globe, discovered that—despite their surface differences—nearly all shared a strikingly similar structure. He called this the “Hero’s Journey”: the hero leaves the familiar, faces trials, undergoes crisis and transformation, and returns home with newfound wisdom.

Campbell was looking for the underlying pattern of stories: why do human tales, everywhere, follow the same plot?

The I Ching was looking for the underlying pattern of situations: why do events rise and fall in such familiar trajectories?

One’s about the drama of life; the other, the map of circumstances. Different directions, but both asking: In this chaotic world, are there any deep rules we can recognize?

Their answer: yes. Not rigid laws, but living, shifting principles.

This made me appreciate just how ambitious the I Ching is. Three thousand years ago, someone tried to distill the chaos of human existence into reusable models. That alone deserves a round of applause.

Right and Wrong? It Depends on the Stage

Understanding the I Ching’s mission makes its core logic clear:

The same action can yield completely different results depending on the stage you’re in.

This was the real mind-bender for me. We modern folks tend to believe “hard work is good,” “expansion is good,” “persistence is good.” The I Ching says: Not so fast. It depends on timing.

“The dragon soars too high, and regrets follow.” —Qian Hexagram, line six

When the dragon reaches its zenith, that’s when regret sets in. In plain English: the smoothest times are often the riskiest. When your career is skyrocketing, you get cocky; when your investments are booming, you double down; when your relationship is steady, you slack off—and then, the crash.

This isn’t magic. Humans are jealous, greedy, lazy. Overreach, and the system tilts. “The dragon soars too high” isn’t some cosmic law—it’s a keen observation of human nature and social dynamics.

“When things reach their limit, they change; when they change, they flow; when they flow, they endure.”

When you hit rock bottom, change is forced. That change opens new channels, and through adaptation, you persist. It’s not “just hang in there”—it’s: when the old way dies and you’re forced to reinvent, that’s the real breakthrough. Laid off and forced to switch careers, heartbroken and forced to reflect—“change at the breaking point” means the turning point only comes when you’re truly cornered.

Put these together, and you get the I Ching’s real message:

The most dangerous thing is not being at rock bottom—it’s not knowing what stage you’re in.

Struggling? Sometimes you just have to push through. Other times, you’re banging your head against a wall, making things worse. These require opposite strategies. The I Ching’s job is to help you tell which is which—where are you, right now?

Confucius’s Take: Not Your Average Fortune Teller

So, back to our original question: what did Confucius see in the I Ching?

In a silk manuscript unearthed at Mawangdui, there’s a revealing conversation:

Disciple Zigong asks: Why do you love the I Ching so much, Master? Confucius replies:

“It’s not the divination I care for—it’s the wisdom in its words.”

Zigong presses: So do you believe in fortune-telling or not? Confucius responds:

“Of a hundred divinations, maybe seventy turn out right.”

Notice: he doesn’t claim perfection. This is a sober, honest answer.

Then Confucius delivers the key point:

“I put divination last; what I seek is its underlying virtue and reason.”

And then, with a hint of shade:

“If you only play with symbols and mysticism without grasping the principles, you’re a shaman. If you only crunch the numbers without understanding virtue, you’re just a scribe.”

In other words: only dabbling in ritual is just hocus-pocus; understanding the rules but ignoring the ethics makes you a mere functionary.

He even foresaw future misunderstandings:

“Later generations may doubt me because of the I Ching.”

And then the clincher:

“I travel the same road as the shamans and scribes, but my destination is worlds apart.”

Finally:

“A true gentleman seeks blessings through virtue, not ritual; seeks luck through benevolence, not fortune-telling.”

In short—the more you truly understand the I Ching, the less you need to consult it for predictions. Because you already know how to read the situation.

Xing Ming & Qi Ming: What You Can and Can’t Control

But there’s a deeper layer.

The Records of the Grand Historian recounts how, when Confucius was stranded and starving between two states, he asked his students: “Have I gone astray? Why has it come to this?”

Each answered differently, but only Yan Hui’s reply made Confucius smile:

“Your Way is so great that the world cannot contain it. But what harm is there in not being accepted? Not being accepted is what shows the true gentleman. If the Way is unpracticed, that is our shame. If the Way is well-practiced yet unused, that’s the rulers’ shame. Not being accepted only reveals the true gentleman!”

Scholars have distilled this into two types of “ming” (fate):

Qi Ming—your external destiny. Whether your talents are recognized, whether your efforts pay off. These depend on factors beyond your control.

Xing Ming—your internal destiny. Your character, self-cultivation, and growth—the part of your life that’s truly yours.

One is what the world hands you; the other is what you make of yourself. Together, they form a complete life.

This distinction is powerful, because it solves a universal problem: Why do some good people get rotten outcomes?

Because “doing well” belongs to xing ming; “getting results” belongs to qi ming. Confuse the two, and you’ll either get arrogant in good times (“I’m a genius!”), or fall apart in bad (“I’m a failure!”).

Yan Hui’s genius was not in comforting his teacher, but in drawing a clear line: don’t measure your inner worth by external results.

Which, not coincidentally, echoes the I Ching’s core logic—the I Ching helps you understand the patterns of the outside world, but ultimately, it points you back to what you should uphold and nurture within, in any circumstance. See the workings of fate, so you can better focus on your own cultivation.

Same Road, Different Destinations

So, why did Confucius love the I Ching in his later years?

It wasn’t that he got more superstitious with age. It’s that, after enough ups and downs, he finally saw the real value. As a young man, he saw hexagrams and divination; after a lifetime of failed ambitions and heartbreak, he saw the deeper patterns, the necessity of change, the warning signs of success.

“Though I walk the same path as the fortune tellers and the scribes, I’m headed somewhere completely different.”

Statement: Created by a human author, with some content polished by an AI assistant.