It is not the accumulation of extraneous knowledge, but the realization of the self within, that constitutes true progress.

Cares melt when you kneel in your garden.

Meanwhile, let us have a sip of tea. The afternoon glow is brightening the bamboos, the fountains are bubbling with delight, the soughing of the pines is heard in our kettle. Let us dream of evanescence, and linger in the beautiful foolishness of things.

Perfection is everywhere if we only choose to recognise it.

Friends are flowers in life's garden.

Translation is always a treason, and as a Ming author observes, can at its best be only the reverse side of a brocade- all the threads are there, but not the subtlety of colour or design.

In joy or sadness, flowers are our constant friends.