47th Birthday Reflection: Moving Steadily Through Ordinary Days

Today is my 47th birthday, and also the day I register for my second year of university — my second time around in higher education. After today, I can no longer say I'm only 47; I'll have to say I'm already 48. After celebrating my birthday at home with my wife and son, I'll take the high-speed train back to school to begin the new academic year.

This summer at home, I used AI to organize the articles I've written over the past 11 years. I sorted out more than 3,000 articles, totaling over 5.3 million Chinese characters. These are what I accumulated by writing every day for 11 years — and I deleted some along the way.

If published at 200,000 characters per book, these articles could fill 26 volumes. But I have no intention of publishing any books now, nor for the next decade. I have no plans to actively submit papers either — perhaps I never will.

I don't want to stand out for novelty's sake, nor do I want to live any kind of "paradigm life."

There's a Zen story (or a koan, in Buddhist terminology): an old Zen master was on his deathbed, and his attendant asked him to leave a death gatha — a verse-like philosophical testament — for his disciples to learn from. The old master replied, "Can one not die without leaving a gatha?" With that, he passed away.

As a child, I also read Chekhov's short story The Man in a Case. The protagonist, Belikov, lived his entire life inside all kinds of "cases," his catchphrase being "Don't let anything go wrong." Chekhov's story has an interesting ending: "And yet life did not become any better."

I have cited these two stories many times to remind myself not to be too rigid — that living doesn't have to follow a fixed formula or ritual.

In 2019, when I visited Yaoshan Temple in Jinshi, Hunan, I was moved to write a classical poem on a whim:

My tiny room is like a prison, deep and unfathomable, The reins of fame and shackles of profit are hard to cast off. Heaven and earth follow the Way, leaving no trace, Sages create laws to bind ordinary folk.

I have hated all paradigm lives and rigid thinking since childhood. No one can demand that I live and think according to a fixed formula — not even myself. Any life that feels like being stuffed into a "case" is simply 无趣 (dull).

Of course, if one plays with sophistry, not wanting to enter a "case" can itself be called another form of case-thinking — no better than Belikov's, really, just the pot calling the kettle black. I admit this is true. But being a little less rigid and leaving a bit more room for free imagination will always suit my temperament better.

Our ancestors were remarkable — they invented the Doctrine of the Mean. Zisi, Confucius's grandson, said: "Reaching the broad and vast while attending to the subtle and refined; attaining the highest enlightenment while walking the path of the Mean." Zhuangzi, for his part, advocated that one should dwell in the middle ground between "being useful" and "being useless," and possess a certain adaptability to handle unexpected contingencies.

I cannot think of a more sagacious philosophy of life, so I intend to borrow it for occasional use. Regarding all the rules and constraints of the human world, I adopt an attitude of neither violating nor catering to them. In more elegant terms: neither approaching nor distancing — or keeping a measured distance. This way, I neither offend others nor force myself — a win-win. But it requires maintaining a moderate distance from the world at all times.

Zhuangzi is my favorite ancient philosopher. His style is witty, his insight penetrating, and reading him always leaves me exhilarated. He advocated an attitude of "dragging one's tail in the mud" (rolling in the mud with one's tail).

In the "Autumn Floods" chapter of Zhuangzi, he tells a story: he was fishing by the Pu River when the King of Chu sent officials to invite him to serve in the Chu court. Without turning his head, Zhuangzi asked the officials a question: "I've heard that in Chu there is a sacred tortoise that died three thousand years ago and is now enshrined in the ancestral temple. Do you think this tortoise would rather be dead and honored, or alive and dragging its tail in the mud?"

The Chu envoy replied, "It would rather be alive and dragging its tail in the mud." Zhuangzi said, "Leave me! I shall drag my tail in the mud." This lovable eccentric said all this without ever turning around, and continued fishing.

I don't know whether this story is historical fact or a fable casually invented by Zhuangzi, that wildly imaginative oddball. Either way, it reveals his open and easygoing attitude toward life.

I love this attitude and am willing to live by it. For us humans, power, money, and social status beyond basic survival needs are, in essence, a kind of shackle — they deprive one of the freedom and comfort of "dragging one's tail in the mud."

If human desires are left unchecked, they will ultimately devour their owner. Cao Xueqin wrote: "When there's still room ahead, one forgets to pull back; when the road ends before one's eyes, one thinks of turning back." Most people only think of turning back when the road has already run out — but by then it's too late.

Cao Xueqin also wrote: "A clear understanding of worldly affairs is all learning; sophistication in human relations is itself literature." Having weathered the storms of life, Cao Xueqin truly melted his life experience into treasures that awaken the world. But a clear understanding of worldly affairs may only come around the age of fifty. Only after seeing enough of the rise and fall of human fortunes, enough of the warmth and coldness of human relationships, can one understand many truths and reach the state of "knowing the Mandate of Heaven."

The great poet Du Fu distilled his life wisdom into another couplet: "Your bodies and names shall perish together, yet the rivers flow on for ten thousand ages." I especially love using this to remind myself to stay away from the arena of fame and profit and the circle of right and wrong. Everyone dies; even the Earth will one day be destroyed. Why bind oneself with fame and gain?

The Buddha described the wealth and status we pursue as honey on the edge of a knife. That bit of honey on the blade is not enough to satisfy hunger, yet it carries the risk of cutting one's tongue. Every day, the news reports many who lose their tongues or their lives for the sake of licking that honey — is that not warning enough?

The classical Chinese medical text Huangdi Neijing (Yellow Emperor's Inner Canon) contains this passage: "Next are the sages: they dwell in harmony with heaven and earth, follow the principles of the eight winds, adapt their desires to the ways of the world, harbor no anger or resentment, their conduct does not seek to depart from the world, they wear ordinary clothes and ornaments, their actions do not seek to imitate the vulgar, externally they do not fatigue their bodies with affairs, internally they have no burdens of thought, they take tranquility and joy as their pursuit, and self-contentment as their achievement; their bodies do not wither, their spirits do not scatter."

My current lifestyle and attitude toward the world are quite similar to this passage. I neither stand out for novelty nor drift with the tide; I don't fight against the laws of nature, I don't get angry with anyone, and I don't abuse my own body. "Hiding oneself in the sea of ten thousand people" — on the surface, I am an amiable, easygoing middle-aged plain-looking man; inside, I am a free-spirited country fellow who loves reading, writing, thinking, and farming.

I have people I love, and people who love me. Neither group is large in number, but neither is small. I maintain only a core circle of social relationships — the kind that keeps one neither lonely nor exhausted. I have always had people with whom I can joke freely, people who allow me not to be serious every moment of my life.

At my core, I am a humorous and witty person, unlike the serious tone of many of my articles. Even in my twenties, when I wrote on Tianya Club, my style was playful and mocking, lively and humorous — which attracted many readers. Occasionally, when I wrote in anger at some social injustice, my words carried the sound of wind and thunder between the lines. It's just that what I write most now is medical popular science, which doesn't allow for that style.

When I'm with family and friends, I'm always full of witty remarks and laughter, so they enjoy being with me. My eldest cousin says I'm about to become a grandfather yet still play around like a child — and with my baby face, I'll never grow up.

Now I study at school alongside children younger than my own son. They've given me the nickname "Old Naughty Boy." Thanks to my mother's genes, I was born with natural approachability, and many people around me genuinely enjoy my company.

I intend to keep this style for the rest of my life. Actually, I have no choice — no one can truly change their innate nature. Likewise, the work I love doing now, I intend to keep doing for life.

My personality traits, interests, and the work I currently do are over 95% compatible, so I am very satisfied with my life path. This gives me enough steadiness to cope with external changes — no matter how turbulent the outside world, I respond to all change with constancy. My heart is as steady as a rock, so I can take any kind of life in stride.

I will continue studying medicine and writing. After graduation, I may spend more time on basic medical research and medical popular science. The reason is that I believe basic medical research can advance medical progress, and medical popular science can raise public awareness of disease prevention — both are more efficient at saving lives than clinical work.

The written words I leave behind in this lifetime may number in the tens of millions. As for how these words will be handled later, I intend to let nature take its course. In my lifetime, I will spare no effort in using technology to promote some of my medical ideas. Whether these ideas are correct or not, they deserve to circulate in the world — academic viewpoints can only spark debate through circulation, and debate is beneficial to academic development.

In the next few years, I may complete one medical specialty (clinical medicine), or possibly two (clinical medicine and acupuncture-tuina). If I go on to study acupuncture-tuina, I will choose a school I can commute to from home every day. I can study full-time, but I don't want to be separated from family life.

Because I attend classes at school, I've gained a lot. Studying on campus isn't only about what happens in the classroom. At my age, simply being able to step away from the chaos of society and study quietly on campus means I can learn a great deal outside of class as well. This kind of experience is truly indescribable to outsiders — because so few people have it.

I am very satisfied with the results of this kind of study, and I wish this period of focused, efficient learning could last longer. If I do study acupuncture-tuina, I will take the national college entrance exam again after graduating from clinical medicine. How the future unfolds will depend on my father's health.

I was never the smartest person growing up, nor the hardest working. My greatest strength is simply persistence. I can invest energy long-term, focusing on one thing, neither rushed nor impatient, neither hurried nor slow — moving steadily and at a constant pace, persisting as if each day were ten years. From what I've observed, not many people can do this.

During my critical formative years, my mentor fed me a great deal of spiritual nourishment that has benefited me for life. In my second year of high school, I read The Collected Works of Kahlil Gibran, and one line has stayed with me forever: Gibran said that the possession of material goods and wealth beyond basic needs is a form of illness. This line often echoes in my heart, teaching me to know when to stop in everything — and thereby avoiding many disasters in life.

At that time, I also read Liu Shahe's Modern Version of Zhuangzi. This book is Liu Shahe's translation of Zhuangzi, written after he had endured the Cultural Revolution and reflected deeply on his suffering, integrating his own life insights. So it is the crystallization of two wise minds, not merely Zhuangzi's philosophy.

I have re-read this book from time to time ever since, and each time I re-read Liu Shahe's Modern Version of Zhuangzi, I gain new insights. Once a book like this combines with one's life experience, resonance can be found on every page.

My mentor provided me with perhaps several hundred such books. Every few days, he would select some from his collection, bring them to the classroom, and place them on my desk for me to read as I pleased. No reading KPIs, no time limits, no exams — not even a requirement to read at all. He simply hoped that through this method, a student's inner world would become rich and complete.

This kind of luck is rare and cannot be sought. Many friends I've met have never even heard the titles of the books I read in high school. My mentor's collection was vast enough to satisfy all my needs at the time.

Combined with his careful selection and guidance, my reading achieved twice the result with half the effort. He also loved that I, as a young person, loved reading and thinking, and we often walked and talked together on campus. Under the dry and rigid exam-oriented education system, how could one encounter such a wonderful teacher and return empty-handed from a mountain of treasures?

I don't know why my mentor provided me with so many high-quality readings that were clearly beyond my age. Perhaps he himself was too highbrow to find company, and feeling lonely, he took me as a kindred spirit — unconsciously forgetting that I was only sixteen or seventeen, and forgetting that we were teacher and student. Later, we truly became lifelong confidants.

He poured enormous effort into me, polishing me like a master craftsman forging a fine blade. He not only imparted knowledge but also taught me how to be a person. He taught me to "keep a low profile and hide your brilliance, never show off your edge," to avoid the fate that "the outstanding are easily broken." He encouraged me to "uphold simplicity and integrity, never forget your original aspiration," and to "accumulate deeply then release; great talents mature late." He smoothed my sharp edges and nourished my soul. Today, my emotional stability exceeds that of over 95% of people — truly thanks to his earnest teachings.

In 47 years of living, I have rarely met anyone more learned and internally refined than my mentor. His subtle influence, like spring breeze and rain, allowed my soul to grow in the best possible way. The various setbacks I encountered in middle age were all weathered safely.

The reason is simple: every time I ran into trouble, I could find the answer in books I read at sixteen or seventeen. My mentor laid down a cushion for life early on, fortifying my spiritual defenses so that I could be reborn from the ashes again and again.

The outlook on life and the worldview we form in our youth profoundly affect our entire lives. During such a critical formative period, whom we meet and what kind of education we receive have an enormous impact on our lifetime.

As long as my teacher is still alive, the guiding light of my life remains lit, illuminating my path forward. With him here, I need no other spiritual mentor — he is my place of refuge.

My older brother also played a significant role in my upbringing. He was not only my role model but also a strict teacher who supervised my self-discipline. My parents never oversaw my studies, but after I entered high school, my brother kept me on a tight leash. He helped me quit two time-consuming hobbies: fishing and playing chess.

Not only was he strict then, but he also had extremely high standards for what I wrote. The bar he set was high and hard to reach. He himself couldn't meet it, but he hoped his younger brother could. He also loved me dearly — the first money he earned through work-study in college was spent buying me several pieces of clothing. He was afraid I'd feel inferior if I dressed shabbily at school. The T-shirt he bought me, I wore for over twenty years. Though washed pale, it is still treasured in my wardrobe today.

The two of us brothers are an interesting pair. My brother is a brilliant theorist and strategist, always able to propose far-sighted strategic plans — but he cannot execute them himself. My whole life, I have often played the role of executor of his theories and strategies. The foundations of the various endeavors I have built were initially planned together by my brother and me.

In a sense, my brother and I are like a coach and an athlete. He is a very good coach, and I am a very good athlete — coach and athlete bring out the best in each other.

I feel very fortunate in this life. Most of the time, what I wish for comes true. I fell in love at 16, and married my first love as I had hoped, and we had a child. To this day, we still support each other through thick and thin, getting along harmoniously, and on all major decisions I have her unconditional support.

The spiritual nourishment my mentor provided laid the mental foundation for me to execute long-term life plans. The love and support of family and friends are the greatest guarantee that I can persist in the career I love.

These have given me the courage and confidence to disregard worldly opinions. I am willing and able to break a long-term life plan into pieces, completing it over a lifetime by advancing one pawn at a time — so even this stupid bird can fly relatively far.

Forty-seven years of life have also washed the glamour off me, allowing me to take all success and failure, gain and loss, with equanimity. I can be neither humble nor arrogant before anyone, living in this world with the most authentic attitude, relaxed and at ease. And I can move forward on my life's path at an unhurried pace.

I don't have too high expectations for my life. To be relaxed and happy, one's psychological expectations cannot be too high. I set life goals that align with my interests and talents and are easy to achieve, then break them into manageable sub-goals to complete in stages. This way, pressure doesn't easily build up — and under pressure, people easily give up or procrastinate.

I don't like joining any organization to pursue my ideals. As is well known, once you enter such a system, all kinds of KPIs are set for you, and behind you there's like an invisible whip lashing you forward, urging you on. In such an environment, one cannot help but become eager for quick success and instant profit. This conflicts with my temperament and would destroy my inner peace and happiness.

So my self-positioning is becoming increasingly clear. For the rest of my life, I will work as an independent grassroots doctor, writing a moderate amount of medical popular science in my spare time, while conducting research in my own areas of focus. In areas where I lack advantages, I will seek collaboration with other researchers — or abandon those efforts and leave them for future generations.

I will also use the IT skills I've learned to efficiently spread my views through the internet. Goals that can be achieved without asking favors from others are the best life goals, because they guarantee our personal independence and spiritual freedom. Many people understand this principle but simply cannot practice it. I was born with strong execution ability, so I can practice this kind of life plan relatively easily.

I hope to always face my readers with the utmost honesty. I am someone who came to medicine mid-career. I don't want anyone to put me on a pedestal, and I don't care about others' criticism or gossip. My life underwent a major turning point: before my mother fell ill, I was a businessman and had achieved financial freedom through business. After my mother became ill, I devoted myself to studying medicine to save her — and myself.

I initially chose the traditional medicine apprenticeship model — I chose this model because it allows one to take the medical licensing examination and obtain legal qualification to practice without leaving one's job. This way, I could support my family while pursuing my personal interest — very practical for me at the time. But the medical license obtained through this path has limited scope, allowing treatment of only a small number of conditions.

After my son was admitted to university, I had essentially fulfilled my life responsibilities. With my family's support, I retook the national college entrance examination to study clinical medicine (Western medicine).

My goal is to master both Chinese and Western medicine. At my age, I won't pursue advanced degrees — a basic degree is enough. Once I have my diploma and the entry ticket to Western medicine, I'll go home and self-study using excellent teaching videos and AI, which is more efficient.

Later, if time permits, I may also study acupuncture-tuina and become a licensed psychotherapist, comprehensively mastering knowledge across several major fields of Chinese and Western medicine, to work as a general practitioner at the most grassroots level.

To protect my personal privacy and also to protect my master, I will not publicly disclose my apprenticeship relationship or the school I currently attend, and I refuse to answer readers' messages asking for such personal information. I will not reply to such private messages, and I may block readers who excessively enjoy prying into privacy and harassing others, to avoid further disturbance.

Among familiar family and friends, of course, these are no longer secrets. But my family, teachers, and classmates all understand the importance of privacy protection for me. A middle-aged man nearly fifty studying at school encounters no shortage of busybodies, and maintaining peace and quiet at school is not easy. So they all protect my privacy, for which I am grateful.

I will disclose the school I attended after I graduate. I will disclose my apprenticeship relationship after my master passes away. Right now, I have neither the interest nor the obligation to disclose this private information to anyone. I respectfully ask readers to understand and respect my personal boundaries.

Every year on my birthday, I write a long essay like this, and I always write it seriously. The content may repeat, because every year I face many new readers.

This is a process of self-settling — a good sorting out of myself, helping me organize my thoughts and life plans more clearly.

It is also a process of establishing boundaries with readers. When boundaries between people are blurred, unnecessary conflicts easily arise. Every day, my website has 20,000 to 30,000 visitors, and my WeChat public account has nearly 100,000 followers. As a medical popular science writer with a not-insignificant readership, it is necessary for me to tell everyone where my boundaries lie.

I hope readers will respect my personality and choices, and not force me to do things I'm unwilling to do or answer questions I'm unwilling to answer. If your curiosity is too strong and you insist on doing so, I can only block you.

Because this saves my energy and time and improves my work efficiency — allowing me to devote myself more fully to my studies, research, and writing. In the second half of life, every second is precious and cannot be wasted.

In the days ahead, I still will not open the comment section on my articles. I have slightly revised my personal profile again, and my profile is also available on my website (www.zhouzhiyuan.com). My medical ideas have already been demonstrated in 5.3 million characters of content, and I continue writing every day. If you want to understand me, this is more than enough — there's no need to contact me. As Qian Zhongshu said: if you've eaten a good egg, you don't necessarily need to meet the hen. Readers' curiosity about the author should know when to stop.

I also ask readers to please refrain from contacting me privately to ask all kinds of questions whose answers can be found in my articles. Because few people have a daily workload as heavy as mine right now, I can no longer spare the energy to respond to every reader as they might wish.

If you send me a private message and I don't respond, please understand that I cannot be in two places at once. Just put yourself in my shoes — imagine studying, working, and writing every day as I do now — and you'll understand my predicament.

Regarding my plans after graduation, I can tell you clearly: most likely, I will work as a village doctor in some mountain village in the suburbs of Beijing. Nowhere else.

Additionally, I earnestly ask readers not to address me with inflated titles. Don't call me professor, director, or the like — I am not.

In the future, I will only be a village doctor. My highest degree in medicine will be a vocational college diploma — though I may hold more than one. And although most doctors couldn't write what I write, such exaggerated titles still make me very uncomfortable. I like to treat everyone with the most authentic and ordinary attitude, and I hope others treat me the same way.

I love the mountains, rivers, and countryside of the suburbs. I love a life where, at night, I can push open the window and see a sky full of stars. I love watching the red sun rise slowly over the mountains in the morning. I love tending a small plot of land, growing common fruits and vegetables. I love keeping a few chickens and ducks, and one or two cats and dogs. I love the tadpoles, frogs, swimming fish, and scattered rocks in clear mountain streams. I love planting roses and all kinds of green plants along the walls of my courtyard. I also love playing the guqin or the electronic wind instrument in my leisure time, amusing myself. I love sitting in the shade of a tree, gazing at the green distant mountains and the endless white clouds, engaging in deep thinking without distraction. I love writing down what I've thought and sharing it with readers around the world.

I grew up in the countryside and love the simple, unadorned human relationships there. I often go hiking in the mountains of Mentougou on the outskirts of Beijing, and I've become good friends with some of the villagers there. Between us there are no flattering words, no need for bragging or toadying — we can chat relaxedly about anything, with no pressure on either side. That kind of environment suits my temperament best. Life should be like this; all the false appearances people decorate with elaborate rituals and formalities have no reason to exist.

In the Beijing suburbs, I don't have to be separated from my child. We've settled in Beijing, bought a house, and lived here for many years — my family certainly won't leave Beijing. I'm very satisfied with my family life, and I love the city of Beijing — its mountains and rivers, its libraries. Being away from family for too long, I would have no happiness or joy to speak of. So, friends who invite me to make other choices — please give up the idea and respect my personal choice.

I will soon be fifty. At the age of knowing one's destiny, all the hardships one should experience have been experienced. I've taken everything in the human world lightly and no longer want to waste time in all kinds of 折腾 (fussing and 折腾). I just want to be with my family, living the life I love — eating vegetables and fruits I've grown myself, and eggs from the chickens and ducks I've raised. Sleeping peacefully at night in a place free of noise and light pollution; seeing patients during the day as circumstances allow; and devoting half my time to medical research and writing.

I only want this leisure and freedom. Whether the world remembers me or forgets me, I don't care. I came, I thought, I strived, I was happy, and now I go — as long as I am satisfied with myself, that is enough.