At Forty-Two, There Is Little to Say
Unnoticed, I have reached forty-two years of age. The number forty-two means much to me: my favorite Buddhist sutra is the Sutra of Forty-Two Sections, a scripture as plain as the Analects that has greatly influenced me. Though I am not a Buddhist, I have repeatedly read the Sutra of Forty-Two Sections and benefited greatly from it. It is an introductory sutra of only some two thousand characters, yet it encompasses the main ideas of both Mahayana and Theravada Buddhism; it is said to be the programmatic classic of Buddhism. What it teaches are simply the basic principles of being human; in just two thousand-odd characters it touches on most problems one meets in life. Reciting it often helps restrain one's desires and control one's emotions. A low-desire life and steady emotions greatly benefit physical and mental health.I am at the age of crossing from "no doubt" toward "knowing the mandate of heaven." I have weathered many of life's storms and have roughly understood the essence of life, so I have gradually shed romanticism and become ever more able to accept reality, whether it is good or bad. The years may not be quiet and good, but my heart no longer stirs.Living in an age of frequent disasters and seeing so many fellow humans die unnatural deaths, while I sympathize with the victims, I feel from the bottom of my heart that merely being alive is already a great fortune. My demands on life are modest: enough food and clothing, and a bicycle to get around are enough. At present I happen to have no problem with food and clothing, can afford a bicycle, and do work I love; so I am very satisfied with my state of life.I sincerely hope everyone can live a life they are satisfied with, but I also know this wish is hard to fulfill. According to UN agencies, the pandemic added 130 million hungry people worldwide in 2020, and about one third of people globally now go hungry. Many others live in ecologically fragile regions, in constant danger of having their homes destroyed and being displaced.Many Chinese temple gates bear the words "good weather and rain, a peaceful country and a contented people"; these eight characters look simple but are truly hard to achieve. Disasters are inevitable, and in them some always lose their lives, health or wealth. Beyond feeding one's family, if one can help others, one should; as an ordinary person, that is all I can do.The splendid yet vague dreams of youth have gradually turned into clear but unpretentious life goals. Nowadays I increasingly know that my ability and time are both limited, that I can do very few things, and that the wishes I can realize are small. Just as, when growing vegetables, one continually prunes away side buds, side vines and extra branches, I have simplified my tangled thoughts and set my life goals ever smaller. In the past I always felt I could accomplish something great and solve many problems; now I want only to single-mindedly do one thing well: TCM anticancer research.Traditional Chinese medicine is not much esteemed in our contemporary society, and we TCM practitioners trained through apprenticeship are even less regarded. Academically trained TCM doctors look down on us, many patients look down on us, and many doubt our ability. When we do research, many mock us as "folk scientists." I used to be arrogant; because I sailed through exams at school, often scoring full marks in math, physics and chemistry, I always felt I was born for research. For a long time I did not feel good about being so distrusted and disrespected.But now I am profoundly grateful for this arrangement of life. Precisely because the lot of TCM practitioners like us is so hard, I have a quiet corner in which to read, write and research without distractions. If I were surrounded by flowers and applause, I would perhaps have long since become restless. Precisely because our identity is special, I have formed a cautious and prudent style of conduct. In this floating world where disasters fly about, these are two rare treasures of life.As a child in the countryside, I once suddenly began to drown while swimming in a village river; then I sank to the bottom, felt a large stone, and hugged it. Relying on the stone's weight I stayed on the bottom, held my breath and walked toward the bank. The river was not wide; as I walked I reached shallow water and was saved.I remember this vividly. Thinking back, perhaps my nature is relatively calm and rational; even at that age, drowning, I knew to stay calm, carry a burden under water, and save myself. In high school, however noisy the classroom, I could sit quietly alone in a corner and study. Life is like drowning: the outside world is like water that can drown us at any moment, surrounding us layer upon layer, its rapids battering us and leaving us at a loss; many drown in life. Those who sink to the bottom and carry a burden forward are saved. Should we not be grateful for those great stones in life?Now I can live calmly and at ease. Because I am not high up, I do not fear falling to my death. For someone with only basic food and clothing needs, days are not hard to endure. A rich spiritual life lets a person live quietly in his own world; this multicolored, or rather bizarre, outside world has little influence on people like us.I care about the suffering in the world, but I do not care about its various noises. Whether the outside world mocks or praises me, I am unaffected: not saddened by mockery, not delighted by praise; if I have faults I correct them, if not I strive to improve, always moving forward in the direction I have set. So it is now, so it will be in five years, so it will still be in ten, and perhaps so until the last moment before death.These days I write fewer and fewer essays on life reflections, do not get drawn into social hot topics, and have even quietly deleted from my WeChat official account the two hundred-odd such articles I wrote in the past. The reason is simple: at my age one has less and less to say and no interest in joining the fun. In the second half of life, time is too precious to waste, so I want only to bury myself in research rather than chatter. Away from all stages, I live as I think fit in a quiet corner.In 1998 I entered university; that same year the great flood struck China, killing 4150 people. This year floods have broken out again; though the final death toll is unknown, it will probably barely exceed a fraction of 1998's. Our village's flood-control and drought-relief facilities are far better than in my youth; if a flood like that of 1998 recurred, our village would not suffer as grievously as it did then.Over twenty years have passed, and farm work in the countryside is much lighter than before. I remember that as a child, during the busy seasons, cutting and carrying rice at home left me exhausted and emaciated. The greatest reward then was that Mother would buy two jin of meat and stew it at the end of the busy season to nourish the whole family. Today most farm work in my hometown has been mechanized. In the past a family struggled to till five or six mu; now the elderly left behind in the village can till more than ten mu alone, and are not as tired as before.The times have progressed. Behind this progress are the combined efforts of countless unknown ordinary people. Since reform and opening up, decades of stable social development have greatly improved the lives of hardworking Chinese people. Our generation has endured much suffering and tempered sufficient patience through hardship. Many social problems remain unsolved; having entered middle age, I am less impetuous than in youth and know that many problems need more time, and that no amount of agitation produces good results.Likewise, when my research hits a ceiling, I know that impatience solves nothing. Only by repeatedly reflecting on pain after failure, continually reading the literature and practicing clinically, trying new methods, and accumulating experience and data—building up deeply so as to break through later—can I make more progress in the future.So, after forty-two, I will further rein in my edge and quietly research TCM anticancer therapy. As long as multicellular life and cancer exist in this world, TCM anticancer therapy will always have a reason to exist, and there will always be a need for someone to dive deep, continually bring forth the new through the old, and develop and strengthen it.