The sage has no invariable mind of his own; he makes the mind of the people his mind. To those who are good (to me), I am good; and to those who are not good (to me), I am also good;--and thus (all) get to be good. To those who are sincere (with me), I am sincere; and to those who are not sincere (with me), I am also sincere;--and thus (all) get to be sincere. The sage has in the world an appearance of indecision, and keeps his mind in a state of indifference to all. The people all keep their eyes and ears directed to him, and he deals with them all as his children.
The sage doesn't cling to a fixed position or demand that others meet him halfway—instead, he mirrors back what he meets with goodness and sincerity regardless of what he receives. This isn't passive weakness; it's an active refusal to harden into judgment. By not insisting on his own way, he creates the conditions where others naturally become good and sincere themselves, like still water reflecting the sky.
We live in a time of calcified positions, where sincerity has become a luxury only extended to those we've already decided are worthy of it. The chapter asks: what if we are creating the very coldness and dishonesty we perceive in others by withholding our own first? The sage's 'indecision' is not confusion—it's freedom from the exhausting project of controlling what others think. In a world drowning in certainty, his tender neutrality feels almost radical, almost necessary.
Today, notice one moment where you can soften your stance toward someone or something you've already decided about. Not by abandoning your discernment, but by letting go of the need to prove your judgment right. See if there's a kind of strength in simply meeting what comes with an open hand.