Discovering this courtyard in Dali feels like the cure for the grind of a 996 work schedule.

The moment you push open the creaky wooden door, the phrase from Ji Cheng's "The Craft of Gardens"—"Though crafted by man, it seems born of nature"—comes to life. Ink from Mi Fu's brush seems to linger in the folds of Taihu rocks, while turning a corner in the winding corridor reveals a poem slip left behind by Wen Zhengming. This is no mere courtyard; it feels as though the ancients have sculpted the essence of mountains and rivers into a dwelling bathed in moonlight. 🪑 Sitting here, watching koi fish carry away Liu Zongyuan's verse "A single sound, and the mountains and waters turn green," one begins to understand what Wen Zhenheng meant in "Treatise on Superfluous Things": "Rocks evoke antiquity, water evokes distance." It’s not about landscaping techniques; it’s a philosophy teaching us how to let time polish life into a patina.