Retreat

Tun is the hexagram of the timely withdrawal. The dark force is advancing — two yielding lines rising from below — and the season, like late summer turning, cannot be argued with. Heaven's response to the encroaching mountain is the model: it does not fight, and it is not caught; it simply removes itself beyond reach.

Retreat here is not surrender, capitulation, or flight — those are desperate measures. It is an acceptance and a choice: calmly recognising that the energies of the moment are against us, and wisely withdrawing into the safety of stillness, so as to arrive rested at a more beneficial hour. Executed in time, it is a form of strength, and the Judgment calls it success.

The correct moment to retreat is precise: when inner equilibrium starts to slip — when enthusiasm, desire, or ambition stirs; when others cease to be receptive; when doubt begins its attack; when actions no longer yield progress. Withdraw *then*, before entanglement, and there is nothing to regret, because nothing has yet been harmed. Once desire, fear, or wounded pride is aroused, disengagement becomes tenfold harder — pride especially, which makes the return to humility feel like defeat.

Times of influence are always brief. The humble observe their ending without disappointment, and leave while leaving is easy.

Retreat fails in two directions. Too late: lingering in the situation, analysing, replaying, throwing ourselves at those not ready to hear — until the ego is invested and every exit costs blood. And falsely: withdrawal soaked in bitterness, sulking dressed as wisdom, distance used as a weapon. The image's standard is exact — reserve without anger. What we retreat *with* determines what the retreat is worth.