Contending with Nothing, Resonating with Heaven and Earth
Is the Way of Heaven not like the drawing of a bow? What is high is pressed down; what is low is lifted up. What is in excess is reduced; what is insufficient is supplied. The Way of Heaven reduces the excess and supplies the insufficient. The way of man is otherwise: it reduces the insufficient to offer to the excess. Who else but one who possesses the Way could offer his excess to the world?
— Laozi, Daodejing
After getting up in the morning and washing, I sit by the window reading. Outside the window a hundred birds chorus, crows and magpies all calling, a scene full of life that makes one involuntarily rejoice. I have skipped two meals to lighten the burden on my stomach and intestines; during the fasting period I also ate an apple and a pear. I have no intention of undertaking a bigu fasting retreat; at most I periodically skip a meal or two to clear out my gut, never more than three meals, otherwise my stomach would protest.
I come from the countryside and have seldom worried about making a living. For a farm boy, life is never without a way out; there is always arable land to be found in this world. If one is diligent, the land is not lazy; as long as one is willing to put in effort, the basic problem of food and clothing is easily solved. So-called hardship is largely caused by people's excessive desires combined with too little willingness to exert themselves.
Therefore, whenever people lament that life is hard and opportunities for development are scarce, I feel heartfelt gratitude to fate for arranging that I grew up in the countryside. Rural life tempered my willpower and, in the process of being close to the land, made me love nature and love life itself, rather than loving the various absurd and ridiculous vanities attached to life.
Life itself is extremely simple, summed up in five words: eating, drinking, defecating, urinating, and sleeping. If a person can be content with these basic needs, no one in this world can defeat us or bewitch us. Toward things beyond basic needs, we adopt a go-with-the-flow attitude: if we get them, fine; if not, it does not matter. If one can be like this, where does pressure come from? Even disease can do nothing to such people, because they have too few causes to induce illness.
On this trip home, I met, in the fields, the elderly father of my childhood friend. He is already 79 years old and still laboring in the fields. Over ten years ago he was diagnosed with lymphoma and nearly died; he did not go around searching for unworthy "famous doctors" like me, but took some Chinese medicine at a small local hospital and had five or six sessions of chemotherapy, after which he has been safe and sound for more than a decade. My childhood friend, hot-blooded and impulsive when young, has now paid the price and is serving time in prison; his child is being raised by his elderly father.
I chatted with him on the ridge of the field. He is content with life and satisfied that he has lived to this day; from time to time he bursts into hearty laughter, and he does not forget to mock how incompetent and absurd those greedy for wealth, rank, and power are—those who make utter fools of themselves and lie incessantly. I admire his will to survive immensely. This is how we country folk are: disease, aging, and misfortune cannot crush us. As long as a breath remains, we live on tenaciously, and can still keep our wits about us and tell right from wrong.
Our Zhou descendants have multiplied and thrived in this village for over a thousand years, with a large population. Over the past thousand years, dynasties have changed, heroes have emerged, the banners atop the city walls have changed hands, and social systems have been repeatedly transformed. Many emperors' and generals' fond dreams have been shattered, yet our generations have all been able to eat, drink, defecate, urinate, and sleep on this land. We are born in accordance with the laws of nature, live in accordance with them, and, without exception, die in accordance with them. In the very place where our ancestors have lived and multiplied, I have grasped this essence of life and society so thoroughly that I can sniff at all the absurdities of this world.
I love returning to the village, because my hometown always brings me strength, courage, and the wisdom to rise above all manner of worldly opinions. It is so real, so plain, and so safe. For over a thousand years, neither disasters nor wars have destroyed it, and neither totalitarian nor foolish ideologies have crushed or corrupted it. It is like the river at the village entrance—ever-flowing, never drying up. The history of the village reflects exactly what life was meant to be. We are born wise; it is only after imbibing many prejudices and bad habits from books and worldly life that we become muddled and self-righteous.
In the countryside, you need not talk about letting go, because we have never grasped anything. Except during the busy farming seasons, country people are leisurely most of the time. Under the sun, idlers sit in twos and threes at the village entrance, chatting while knitting sweaters, or doing nothing at all but enjoying the sunshine, or picking up a book and reading with squinted eyes. When it is time to go home to cook and eat, they head home in twos and threes.
Heaven is high and the emperor far away. From ancient times to the present, few have been able to shake the rural way of life—at least in my village. In almost every dynasty, the countryside has relied mainly on villager self-governance; people abide by the basic rules of mutual respect, affection, and reverence, and disputes seldom arise.
In my youth I too was bewitched by the outside world, waving the banner of idealism, my blood boiling as I hopped about everywhere. Now past middle age, I increasingly love the quiet, natural rural life. I minimize my circle of contacts, dislike disputes with anyone, and love only to resonate with heaven and earth. In the past I was full of curiosity about refined modern science and modern life; now I prefer returning to simplicity. After all, we are all merely a night-blooming cereus—once bloomed, we must fade. It is far more relaxing to keep one's original face.
To live following "the Way of Heaven" is simple, natural, and easy; to contend according to "the way of man" is to enter an endless sea of suffering, a lifetime of toil, most of the gains being superfluous things we do not need. In my post as a physician, I have seen too many people (including many medical students who constantly intone "with tranquility and emptiness, whence can disease arise?") defy "the Way of Heaven" and pursue "the way of man," only to end up either endlessly troubled or diseased. But people are so foolish: when there is still surplus behind them, they forget to pull back, and only think of turning back when there is no way ahead. But by then, is it not too late to turn back?