The Beauty of Western Beijing's Hills and Waters Is Enough to Sustain My Remaining Years
Drinking by night at Dongpo, I wake, then drink again; / Returning home, it seems already past the third watch. / The boy-servant snores like thunder; / I knock, knock, but no one answers. / Leaning on my staff, I listen to the river's voice. / / I grieve that this body is not my own; / When shall I forget the rush and grind? / Night deepens, wind stills, ripples flatten. / A little boat shall drift away from here; / On rivers and seas I'll spend my remaining years.
— Su Dongpo, "Linjiangxian" (Song of the River on the City Wall)
Forgetting the squalid scramble for gain and spending one's remaining years on rivers and seas is probably the wish of many when they are weary. Although Su Dongpo cherished this wish, throughout his life he could never escape the ups and downs of officialdom, the displacements, the repeated conspiracies of political enemies, and ultimately the fate of dying of an infectious disease while in exile.
"Plucking chrysanthemums by the eastern fence, / Leisurely I gaze at the southern hills." Tao Yuanming's idyll became the ideal life that Chinese literati dreamed of. But the real Tao Yuanming, in his later years, was destitute and wretched, his life hard and miserable. Tao was a wine-lover, and wine harms the body; in old age his health was poor.
Even Li Yu, the greatest epicure of them all, did not fare well in his later years. Once his opera troupe disbanded and the income that had supported his "casual pleasures" dried up, his taste for leisure was not what it had been; old age found him still running about to make a living.
People with no romantic spirit at all live too dully, but those who are overly romantic can hardly live at ease. We usually see only one side of others, unaware of the other side of their lives, and assume their lives are always as beautiful as the poems they wrote; little do we know that beauty is only a fragmentary existence.
I would rather be a person who is neither vulgar nor refined, neither wallowing in a life of debauchery nor aspiring to too lofty a style. On the one hand I earn an honest living to support my family; on the other I give my heart to the hills and waters, seeking a middle way between withdrawing from the world and engaging in it. I live the simplest life, yet I never stop tempering myself and improving my abilities, so that I have the skill to feed my family without being displaced or depending on others' favor.
So I have no wish to "drift away in a little boat and spend my remaining years on rivers and seas," nor do I plunge into the ups and downs of officialdom. I study medicine and treat illness, saving others and saving myself, helping people out of suffering while also earning my bread. But should I have to bow my head to those I serve, I would keep my distance. If I can earn five pecks of rice to feed my family without bending my back, what is wrong with earning them?
My remaining years will be entrusted to the hills and waters of western Beijing, not to the wild mountains of my native village in Hubei. "As Heaven moves vigorously, the gentleman strives ceaselessly." Having struggled unhurriedly in the capital for more than 20 years and gained a firm foothold, I have no wish to leave this city. As a Chinese person deeply shaped by Chinese culture, I love Beijing's rich cultural resources. Rivers and mountains are fixed while officials come and go; I am very optimistic about the future of our society.
The capital is a hiding place for dragons and crouching tigers; no matter how outstanding a person is, it is hard to stand out in Beijing, let alone an ordinary soul like me. Living in the capital, I am in hiding without needing to hide! Walking the streets of this metropolis of more than 20 million people, no one knows who I am. Only two or three times have strangers recognized me in Beijing. Back then I used my own photo as my avatar, and readers who knew my writing greeted me warmly outside the National Library. Other than that, my life has been uneventful. In recent years I have taken particular care to protect the privacy of myself and my family, rarely posting photos, and nothing like that has happened again.
A short middle-aged man in cloth shoes, riding a bicycle, plainly dressed and plain-looking, has no distinctive features at all and draws no second glances on the street. But this is the best life: I do not disturb others, and no one disturbs me.
Although I occasionally comment on current affairs, I do not consider myself a radical. I accept the views of Mr. Yu Ying-shih and Ms. Zi Zhongyun: China's political progress takes time, and the cultural level of ordinary Chinese people takes time to rise. Only when such progress and elevation come about naturally can an ideal world of Great Unity be established in China.
I have neither the ability nor the intention to stir up any waves in China. I only hope to do, quietly, what little I can in the course of the progress of Chinese culture and political civilization.
Many people hope I will publish my books, but I have no intention of publishing any work prematurely. For one thing, I feel my writing still needs improvement; for another, I do not wish to be too famous in my lifetime. Perhaps monographs of mine will appear when I am about to breathe my last or after I am gone, but I do not want them to see the light of day too early. I do not want any high-profile event to disturb my calm, still-water life.
Long ago, in my boyhood, I already tasted what it was to be the center of everyone's admiration; I no longer envy others' glory, nor do I wish to relive that life of being watched by all. A good life is one as peaceful as my present state; overdoing it is worse than coming up short.
Beyond reading, writing and working, I have found my ideal pastoral idyll in the hills and waters west of Beijing. I have always believed that a life is easy and interesting only when it is diversified; a purely studious life alone cannot satisfy my physical and mental needs. The fine mountains and waters of western Beijing make up for the shortcomings of a study-bound life and offer me a place to release myself.
Long-distance travel is tiring and expensive—two disadvantages I dislike. After COVID-19, long-distance travel also carries risk. So in my spare time I enjoy short trips in the Beijing suburbs. A day trip west of the capital is round-trip in a day, with no need for public transport or eating unclean food outside, yet it relaxes the mind and lets me enjoy beautiful natural scenery. Why wouldn't I?
Beijing is vast; even suburban outings are inexhaustible through the whole year. We have only so many days off, and this corner of western Beijing is enough for our recreation. In western Beijing I have seen not only fine mountains and waters but also long-unseen rice paddies and rapeseed flowers, enough to soothe my nostalgia. On short trips I also discovered people renting vegetable plots in the Beijing suburbs, so I did not hesitate to rent one and live out a taste of pastoral life.
From Miaofeng Mountain to Lingshan Mountain there are abundant natural medicinal resources. Every autumn I go there to gather herbs, living out the poem: "Under the pines I ask the boy; / He says the master has gone to gather herbs. / He is only somewhere in this mountain, / Clouds are deep, and I know not where." Many people lament that there are no natural medicinal materials left; in fact, natural herbs are everywhere, but nobody is willing to gather them. I used to go by car; starting this year I go by bicycle.
In the mountains west of Beijing, wild jujubes grow all over the hillsides, some of them unowned. When I go gathering herbs, I pick some wild jujubes to eat along the way. The ones here are juicy and sweet and taste great; I pick not only for myself but also to take home. When peaches and crabapples are ripe, I have also picked free peaches and crabapples on the hills.
Many things under heaven and earth can be used by us, or even said to be owned by us, as long as we do not think of possessing them. Nature has no real owner; if it must have one, that owner is nature itself. The hills and waters of western Beijing are certainly not mine, yet they may also be called mine. Often, in a vast stretch of mountain forest, I am the only person there; no one competes with me, and my only companions are the spring light and autumn colors.
The ecological protection of Beijing's suburbs is good; western Beijing is one of Beijing's water sources, so its environment is better protected than my native Hubei. The rivers here are crystal clear, cleaner than the rivers I saw in my childhood back home. Insignificant as I am, I have few extravagances; it is enough for me to be able to walk among such green hills and clear waters once in a while.
I also cherish this land. When gathering herbs here, I never damage the vegetation or the ecology. I mainly pick fruit-type medicinal materials, and I gather only as much as I need, never taking more than my share. I also do not bring people who are not friendly to nature here to overharvest medicinal herbs. That is why I do not casually post pictures or videos of myself gathering herbs: I have seen too many people destroy nature, and I dare not lead people to damage the environment merely to satisfy their curiosity. Nature has a broad heart and grants us rich products; we should treat it kindly in return.
Most Chinese literati love to pour their feelings into hills and waters; the pastoral poetry of ancient China has a strong antidepressant and anti-anxiety effect. I do not know whether I count as a typical Chinese literatus, but I too, in genteel imitation, love to give my heart to landscapes. I love this spirit of closeness to nature in Chinese culture; nature is simple and pure, varied and yet real and true, our most reliable friend. May everyone love nature all their lives and never grow tired of it.