If Jǐng has appeared in your reading, the book is naming an underlying source — a person, an institution, a discipline, a body of knowledge — that does not change with the comings and goings on the surface. The town can be moved; the well stays where it is. Whoever passes through can draw from it, and the well does not become more or less by the drawing.
Classical commentary reads this hexagram as the figure of the perennial source. What it names is whatever in the reader's life functions as that source — a meditation practice, a teacher, a friendship, a text, a craft. The hexagram appears when the question concerns the relation between the surface life, which is in motion, and the deep ground from which the surface life is being supplied.
What the book counsels is the careful maintenance of the connection to the source. The well is not the achievement; the access is. The strange closing image of the judgment — the rope that almost reaches, the jar that breaks at the last moment — is a warning against the kind of approach that comes close to the source but fails at the final stage. Almost-reaching is worse than not having started, because the well sits there ungiven.
Jǐng's failure mode is the assumption that the well will always be accessible without the work of maintaining the rope. The book is alert to this. The hexagram appears when the reader has been relying on a deep source and may have let the connection grow worn. The work is to mend the rope, fix the jar, and draw water with intent. The source will still be there. The question is whether the means of reaching it are intact.