In Jennifer Garvey Berger and Carolyn Coughlin’s book, Unleashing Your Complexity Genius, they describe complexity genius as our innate capacity to thrive in complex situations with ease and delight. We are born to notice, to wonder, to connect, to experiment, and to love. This innate ability allows us to better fit into complex environments by reengineering the balance within our nervous systems. Through intentional self-cultivation, we can strengthen our relationship with complexity from the inside out.
This idea resonates deeply with ancient Chinese philosophy, which emphasises adapting to change and going with the flow by cultivating inner wisdom that harmonises with the natural world. It’s seen in concepts like Taoism’s “wu wei （无为）”, meaning effortless action, and Confucius’ “zhong yong (中庸)”, meaning the right balance. Both transcend simple cause and effect, embracing a holistic view of interconnectedness and fluidity, and focus on doing the right thing in the right way between extremes.
Inner Complexity is a matter of the heart
“We” Chinese love the heart (Yes, I have boldly represented the billions of us). Not the life-giving, blooding-pumping organ lodged in our chests – although that’s kind of important too – but the ‘xin’ (心), the essence of consciousness that governs our behaviour. Think of it as your spiritual GPS. This heart is home to the spiritual self, the birthplace of moral conscience, sense of belonging, and the launchpad for growth.
This is why I prefer to translate “adult development” as heart wisdom rather than the literal adult growth. In Chinese, psychology is officially translated as the logic of the heart. The wisdom of the heart captures the essence of inner complexity and the emerging wisdom that comes through self-cultivation.
When we need to be careful, we say ‘xiao xin (小心)’, which means tightening your heart. When we need to be fully present, we say ‘yong xin（用心）’, meaning applying your heart. Now, tighten your heart. I am about to share a philosophical story, from the ancient Taoist text Zhuang Zi, titled Chef Ding Butchers an Ox (庖丁解牛). It involves the less-than-animal-friendly art of butchery and the concept of ‘applying your heart’.
One day, Lord Wen Hui observes chef Ding at work and is amazed by his skill. Chef Ding’s knife moves smoothly and precisely, never getting stuck or dulled, despite years of use. Intrigued, Lord Wen Hui asks chef Ding about his extraordinary technique. Chef Ding explains that he doesn’t see the ox as a solid mass but rather as a complex system of interconnected parts. He doesn’t rely on mere visual perception but on a deeper understanding of the ox’s natural structure. His knife finds its way through the spaces between joints and tendons, never encountering resistance. When he encounters a difficult spot, he slows down, observes carefully, and proceeds with gentle movements. His actions become so refined that they resemble a graceful dance, with the knife moving in perfect harmony with the ox’s body.
Chef Ding’s method goes beyond mere technique. It involves applying the heart without distractions, enabling him to perceive and align with the inherent patterns of nature – a skill he’s cultivated through years of practice and attentiveness. Isn’t this a great (although not animal-friendly) metaphor for approaching the external complexity of the ox by cultivating inner complexity through applying the heart?
“Super humanness” is about showing reverence
For the Genius of Love, Jennifer and Carolyn elegantly described the journey from superhuman to “super human”, inspiring us to appreciate our imperfection and to embrace our humility. In this complex world, we thrive through our connections with one another, with love binding us in the most profound way. This made me wonder, what else moves us toward “super humanness” from a Chinese perspective?
In agricultural China, the understanding of the world was deeply rooted in the ancestors’ relationship with nature. When China began its economic reforms 46 years ago, 70% of its people were involved in agriculture. Like many cultures facing nature’s harsh conditions – droughts, floods, food scarcity – we have learned that our livelihoods are at the mercy of the nature world. The millennia-long struggle with the Yellow River, known as the mother river of China, instils a sense of profound reverence for nature.
Lao Zi, in his book Tao Te Ching writes “Heaven and Earth are not kind. The Ten Thousand Things are straw dogs to them. The sage is not kind. To him, the Hundred Families are straw dogs. Yet Heaven and Earth and all the space between are like a bellows: empty but unspent. Move, and more issues forth. Too many words exhaust. Hold fast to the centre (Professor John Minford’s translation).”
What? We are straw dogs to the universe. When I first read this, a pang of nihilism struck me. If the universe is indifferent to us, are our lives mere chances? How do we find meaning in our fleeting existence? I kept reading, again and again. Slowly, I began to grasp Lao Zi’s profound reverence for the universe and nature. It’s the same feeling I get from the Book of Change, another ancient text interpreting nature’s way.
Reverence, a deep respect, gives birth to humility. It shows us that although the universe may seem empty, it brims with untapped potential and endless possibilities, waiting to be activated. By staying grounded and following nature’s course, value reveals itself. No unnecessary force, no need for excessive words or thoughts, as they only drain our energy.
Relationship is the condition for greatness
In an individualist culture, you are your environment. You shape your relationship with others and the world through a subject/object shift, making sense in a new way to create the conditions for learning.
In a collective culture, your relationship with others and the world is your environment. The dynamics of relationships elicit learning about what remains unchanged in this ever-changing world.
When reaching a self-authored space, you say, “This is what I want”. In a collective culture, you say, “This is what’s appropriate.” One views the world through understanding the self; the other sees the self through understanding the world. Subtle difference, but both paths lead to wisdom.
Such differences help me understand why applying Western management theories isn’t always straightforward in Chinese companies. Everyone has their own relationship with the world, and each convinced they’ve got it right. I start by aligning their hearts, then introduce a new setup. I prepare to repeat the process in creative ways until a new habit takes hold.
What do you think? These are just my observations and reflections from living and working in Australia and China. This article explores why I feel “same same but different” when running the same meeting or workshop in these two cultures. I’d love to hear your thoughts. What’s your cross-cultural experience been like? Do you have heart wisdom in your culture? If so, how would you describe it?