六五：出涕沱若，戚嗟若，吉。

象传:

六五之吉，离王公也。

阴爻居阳位，不得位得中。丽卦的尊贵之位。上有上九相承，下有九四相承接。内卦没有应。

出涕沱若，这不就是涕泪横流，后悔或者悲伤万千的样子吗？紧接着戚嗟若，又是一副悲伤的样子，又是叹气的样子。这样的情况下，居然是吉祥的。

这个反差。不过也可以理解成喜极而泣呢？这样说吉就说的通了。当然如果说他悲伤后悔的哭泣着，也代表他的警惕、代表他的上心，不然怎会这样，这样处下去是吉祥的，也说得通。

象传说离王公也！这是王公大臣！分离吗？离开吗？这么说上面的哭泣、嗟叹，好像是分别的依依不舍呢！也可能是皇帝的御下之术。

刚有另一层意思，跟王公大臣不要亲乎腻乎太近，需要保持适当的距离。

我们来看看这句话：“六五：出涕沱若，戚嗟若，吉。”这其实是在讲领导者的情绪力量、悲伤的深意，以及人性中最真实的部分，是如何与吉祥、善果、好结果发生关联的。

1. 身居高位，依然保有一颗柔软的心

在《易经》的结构中，六五是一条阴爻，却处于阳位。这是一个很特别的位置，象征着阴柔之质进入了阳刚之位，就像一个本性温和、善良的人坐到了高高在上的位子上。他并不是靠外表的强势来掌权，而是靠心中的仁厚与稳重去影响别人。

想象一个德高望重的长者、一个有威信的社区领袖、或者一位资深的母亲或父亲。他们掌握着话语权，肩上有责任，但他们没有失去自己的感觉能力。他们仍然会为别人的苦楚流泪，会因为一些无法弥补的过错而叹息。他们的泪水，不是脆弱的表现，而是因为太在意，因为承担得太深。

2. 为什么悲伤是吉祥的象征

很多人会觉得，一个在高位上的人哭了，是不是丢脸了？是不是威信就没了？但《易经》告诉我们：不是的。这种“出涕沱若，戚嗟若”的情感表达，恰恰是“吉”的根源。

这不是一种软弱的崩溃，而是一种温柔的清醒。当一个有权力的人在大家面前表现出真实的感受，人们不是因此小看他，而是反而更信任他，因为他们能感受到这个人是真心的、有人味的，是值得托付的。

3. 真正有力量的，是带着悲悯的领导者

我们不妨想一想，现实生活中有没有见过这样的场景：一个公司老板面对员工的离职潮，不是大发雷霆，而是在年终大会上哽咽着说：“是我没照顾好你们。”那一刻，在场的每个人都知道，他并不是一个冷冰冰只管数字的人，而是一个会为别人的去留放在心上的人。

又或者，一个老师看到学生因为家庭问题而退学，在教室里悄悄落泪——学生记住的，往往不是那一节课讲了什么知识，而是那个眼泪中藏着的“我在意你”。

4. 悲伤不是失败，而是一种深刻的在场

这种泪水，它的意义在于，它不是一种情绪的泛滥，而是一种诚实的回应。它传递的是：我看见了，我在乎了，我愿意背负。我不是站在上面批评你，而是和你一起难过、一起承担。

所以，它才会被称为“吉”。不是因为哭泣本身吉祥，而是因为那份真诚与承担，让周围的人愿意靠近，愿意支持，愿意相信。

5. 在高位者，也要懂得适当的距离

这卦的象传中说：“离王公也。”意思是说，这是一位在“王公”之位上的人。他不能太靠近，也不能太疏远。他可以悲伤，但不能情绪化；他可以落泪，但不能失控。

这是因为真正的领导者，不能让自己的情绪变成下属的负担。他的哭，不是为了让别人来安慰他，而是为了表达他心中的真实。他哭完了，还能稳稳地站着，做决策、带团队、安人心。

6. 生活中的“六五”智慧

你会在哪些场景中遇到“六五”的智慧？比如，一个母亲看着孩子一次次失败，心里难过得要命，但她还是微笑着说：“没关系，妈妈陪你。”她没有一开始就责备、也没有过度心软，而是稳住自己的情绪，用那份内心的柔软和坚定，把孩子包住了。

再比如，一个创业者在大会上宣布项目失败，眼角湿润，说：“我真的尽力了。”大家不是因此不跟他了，反而更愿意支持他，因为他没有逃避，没有假装一切都很好。

7. 成为“六五”的日常修行

如果你也身在某种影响力的位置，怎样才能成为这样的人？这几点或许有帮助：

• 首先是觉察：什么时候你是真情实感？什么时候是情绪泛滥？要能分得清楚。

• 然后是表达：当你感到悲伤、内疚、遗憾时，不需要强忍，而是可以说：“我很难过。”

• 接着是边界：你可以表达，但不需要寻求安慰；你可以哭，但不要倒在别人怀里。

• 最后是行动：悲伤之后，怎么走下一步？你的责任是什么？怎么做出改变？让悲伤变成指路灯，而不是泥沼。

8. 真正的“吉”，不是没有痛苦，而是能带着痛苦前行

所以，《易经》在这里给我们一个温柔的提醒：你可以悲伤，你可以落泪，你可以叹气。只要你是真实的、稳住的、带着爱和觉察去面对，那一切都是“吉”。

你不是因为强大才无所不能；你是因为在悲伤中也不失正心正念，所以才可敬、可信、可托付。

这就是“六五”的智慧：权位之中藏柔情，悲伤之中见光明。以此持心，以此为德，天地自然回响于你。

如夜话，至此。

英文版：

1. A powerful position, with a tender heart
In the context of the I Ching, 六五 is a yin line sitting in a yang position—a rare combination. It’s called “得中” because it finds balance in what might otherwise be imbalance. Imagine someone high up in a hierarchy—a manager, a community elder, a parent of grown children. They hold authority, responsibility, and influence. But they’re also deeply human. They don’t lose their capacity to feel. They can still cry, sigh, carry regret, or express sorrow.

The scene described—“出涕沱若” and “戚嗟若”—is that of someone in tears or silent lament. Maybe it's tears for a mistake they made, for pain they see in others, or for the weight of decisions they hold. The sorrow is so real, so grounded, that you can hear the sigh hidden behind the cry. It’s sorrow you feel, even before it is spoken.

2. How sorrow becomes strength
Here’s the teaching: that kind of vulnerable strength—authority mixed with tears—is where real influence lives. It’s why the line ends with “吉”—auspiciousness. The sage is able to lead, not in spite of grief, but because of it.

Think of a school principal facing tragedy in the community. They stand in front of students and parents, and tears fill their eyes. They don’t hide it. They don’t put on a strong face. But those tears build bridges. They show people that someone in charge sees them, feels them, and cares enough to let themselves be human.

In daily life, someone like this says, “I am sad. I’m responsible in part. Let’s mourn together. Then we’ll move forward.” Suddenly, they’re not distant. They’re close. And people trust them because of their honesty, not despite it.

3. Tears are not weakness—they are presence
Grief can conjure fear—“If I’m too emotional, I’ll lose respect.” But here, the tears are exactly the thing that makes the position respected. They aren’t tears of confusion or despair; they are tears rooted in awareness and acceptance.

Picture a team leader who realizes a project they championed has failed. Instead of deflection, they say, “I messed up. I’m truly sorry we didn’t deliver.” They hold that space authentically. That vulnerability gives others permission to own their part too. It diffuses fear. It invites collaboration. People follow someone like that.

Those tears show depth of feeling. They are seeds of change. And that’s why this line calls it good.

4. Not overexposed, but real
Remember: six-five is high-level, yes—but also a place you can easily fall from. However, when that fall is tempered by sorrow and care, it becomes something else entirely. It becomes a form of humility at power. It’s not weakness. It’s dignified risk.

In everyday leadership, this might look like a boss who makes a public apology when they realize they've wronged a team member. It’s not a staged performance. It’s a moment of truth. People can feel the difference.

5. Distance is love, not detachment
The Xiang Zhuan commentary—“离王公也”—can mean “being a royal counselor” or “being in the position of statecraft.” There’s also another dimension: leaders must maintain a certain healthy distance. Not cold or distant, but steady and grounded. This line suggests there must be boundaries.

When you cry as a superior, don’t break those boundaries. Don’t collapse into drama or overshare. You stay within your role—even as your tears show real feeling. That sorrow tells people you care, and it also models restraint. You hold space and don’t collapse into neediness or overdependence.

6. Why this matters in everyday relationships
Have you ever known someone in authority who pretends grief? Or hides it too well? The first sounds fake. The second sounds cold. But authenticity? That’s magnetic.

It changes how trust is built—slowly, over time, by showing that you can hold power without losing your heart. That readiness to feel sorrow shows emotional maturity.

A parent comforting a teen, a pastor speaking after a tragedy, a CEO responding to layoffs—they can all show sorrow without losing command of their role. And that sorrow doesn’t weaken—it strengthens.

7. The deeper wisdom
The I Ching points a finger and says: “This is how real inner authority looks and acts. It isn’t talking down. It’s listening hard. It isn’t using ceremony. It’s being sincere.” It’s an expression of balance—yin in yang, fullness in softness, structure in release.

Tears and sighs aren’t distractions. They are the signal that leadership isn’t just about plans—it’s about presence. Not just about telling people what to do—but showing them why you care enough to feel.

8. How to grow toward six-five authenticity

• Practice self-awareness. Know when grief doesn’t fit your role.

• Be honest. If something pains you, say so—briefly and respectfully.

• Let your care show through small tears, or a pause, or a sincere apology. Let people see your heart.

• Don’t spill everything. Keep the boundaries clear—your sorrow is shared, not spilled.

• Make the tears lead to action: “Here’s how we’ll heal.” “Here’s what we’ll fix.” Sorrow without direction quickly deflates.

In everyday terms, here’s what six-five is teaching us:

• You can hold authority and still cry. That cry isn’t weakness—it’s rooted in care.

• When leaders show grief, they invite trust. It builds connection, because people see the heart behind the role.

• This is not performative. It’s real emotion with enough restraint to maintain leadership.

• You do not need to “toughen up.” You need to “care more.” That’s the true strength.

In short, “出涕沱若，戚嗟若，吉” isn’t a tragic end—it’s a real beginning. It says: be moved enough to be human. Be steady enough to lead. When you do that, your sorrow becomes a bridge between you and all those who walk under your care.

This is the mature, grounded, deeply human wisdom of 六五.