I remember the first time I saw the Qilin depicted in an ancient Chinese tapestry at a museum in Shanghai. The mythical creature stood with elegant poise, its scaled body shimmering under museum lights, hooves carefully lifted to avoid crushing even a blade of grass beneath its feet. What struck me most wasn't its majestic appearance, but the curator's explanation that this "benevolent omen" only appeared during the reign of wise rulers and vanished during times of conflict. Walking out into the bustling streets of modern Shanghai, I couldn't help but wonder what wisdom this ancient symbol might hold for our contemporary lives filled with constant tension between avoiding conflict and fighting necessary battles.
Just last month, I found myself mediating between two colleagues who reminded me strangely of Kratos and Atreus from that incredible God of War game I'd recently played. Mark, our senior team lead who'd been through three company restructures, wanted to avoid confrontation with management at all costs, having seen how corporate wars left talented people broken in their wake. Meanwhile, Sarah, our brilliant junior developer, was ready to storm the executive floor demanding changes to what she called "a broken system that's crushing innovation." The consequences of this moment weighed differently on them, and what they felt was their responsibility because their actions pulled them in different directions. Watching them, I realized we were living out the same fundamental tension that makes the Qilin's ancient wisdom so relevant today - when to preserve peace and when to fight for change.
Mark had become our office's Kratos, who has finally learned to guide his son through love instead of fear, focuses on steering him away from conflict and the affairs of the Aesir gods, but does so with the knowledge that his son is prophesized to play a part in Ragnarok and he is destined to die. He'd seen exactly 47 people get laid off during the last "strategic realignment," and the memory haunted his approach to every disagreement. His philosophy was simple: keep your head down, do good work, and don't rock the boat. Meanwhile Sarah, our Atreus, was compelled to prevent Ragnarok and find out who she is as Loki–the name she was given by the Giants–and sets off to find Tyr, the Norse God of War, to achieve his goals. She'd compiled data showing how our current workflow was costing the company approximately $15,000 monthly in inefficiencies and was ready to present it directly to the C-suite, consequences be damned.
This complicated dynamic served as the conflict between them: a man that wants to avoid war at all costs, having learned the toll it extracts firsthand, versus a boy who believes war is the only way to unseat a power that has ruined the lives of so many. And honestly? I found myself torn between both perspectives. Part of me admired Sarah's courage and conviction, while another part respected Mark's hard-won wisdom about choosing battles wisely. It was during my evening walk through Jing'an Temple park, watching elderly practitioners of Tai Chi move with deliberate grace, that I began unlocking the ways of the Qirin for modern life.
The Qirin, according to ancient texts I'd been reading, wasn't just a passive symbol of peace - it represented judicious action. It would vanish during unjust rulers' reigns not because it feared conflict, but because it understood that some systems needed to fall before true harmony could be restored. This nuanced understanding reminded me that sometimes the most peaceful path requires confronting what's broken. The creature's single horn wasn't just for show - it symbolized focused intention, the ability to channel energy precisely where it mattered rather than scattering it in meaningless conflicts.
I decided to apply this perspective to our office dilemma. Instead of letting Mark and Sarah remain at odds, I facilitated a conversation where Mark's experience could temper Sarah's enthusiasm without extinguishing it, and where Sarah's fresh perspective could challenge Mark's assumptions without disrespecting his journey. We developed a proposal that addressed the workflow issues while acknowledging the political landscape Mark understood so well. The result? We got 83% of the changes Sarah wanted implemented, without the confrontational approach that might have damaged team relationships.
This experience taught me that unlocking the ways of the Qirin isn't about choosing between peace and conflict, but understanding when each serves its purpose. In our personal lives, this might mean knowing when to have that difficult conversation with a partner rather than maintaining superficial harmony. In our careers, it could involve discerning when to challenge outdated practices versus when to work within existing systems. The Qirin's wisdom suggests that true harmony isn't the absence of tension, but the conscious navigation of it. As I look at the small Qirin statue now sitting on my desk - a souvenir from that Shanghai museum visit - I'm reminded daily that the most ancient symbols often hold the most contemporary solutions, if we only learn to read them with open minds and willing hearts.