In Praise of the Slow Life
Wang Guowei wrote in Poetic Remarks on the Human World: "All words of scenery are words of feeling." When one lives amid scenery, the joy that fills the heart is no less than the pleasure of falling in love. When life slows down, there is more time to appreciate natural scenery, more days spent in contentment; worldly cares gradually fade, and the restless outer world no longer disturbs the present mood.
More than seven billion people live on Earth. Yet despite the prosperity of the cities, there remain many remote, impoverished mountain regions where people are sparse, scenery is lovely, and wild charm abounds.
When free, either alone or with family, take some dry rations and water, sit for half a day in a rarely visited valley, find a shady spot and read a book. When tired of reading, wander about, enjoy the endlessly charming landscape, and whisper sweet nothings to the scenery; the heart, too, feels light and glad.
I long desired such a slow life in the past, but never had the time. Now I have time in plenty, so I might as well enjoy it. Since I have already adopted, as Tao Yuanming put it, the attitude of drifting freely in the great transformation, neither glad nor afraid of life and death—"what should end, let it end; why so much anxious ado"—there is nothing left to worry about.
Before, there was always work undone, and responsibilities that never seemed to end. Mr. Zang Kejia wrote a poem praising the old ox: "Each plot of wasteland, mud and water; deep-plowing, fine-tilling, it goes east and west. The old ox, too, knows how precious springtime is; without the whip it spurts ahead of itself." Our generation of poor country folk who came out of the villages has much of the old ox's spirit. We came to the cities helpless, settled down, married and raised children, and for family and career we have lived a life of "spurting ahead without the whip." Driven by necessity, few second-generation farmers have ever truly rested.
Now it is different. Life has pressed a pause button, and recovery will be a slow process. We have, in a way, gained from misfortune: we can be at leisure for a long stretch. Once my mood settled, I found I could enjoy this "new normal." Second-generation farmers are not as easily anxious as city folk; having done farm work for years, we know that as long as the earth can grow crops, there is no dead end. At worst we can go home or find a plot of wasteland to farm.
The earth is for us both the most basic guarantee of life and the final spiritual home. Any place, appreciated with a joyful heart, is beautiful; and the beauty of the four seasons is each different. Nature's gifts are rich: land, sky, air, food and water. As long as we do not let our desires run wild, we can always find ample contentment in nature.
In the sweltering summer, while outside storms never cease, my heart, surprisingly, still has a cool place. The Sutra of Forty-two Sections says, "To remain unmoved by the seen is hard." In life we must pass through favorable and adverse circumstances alike. To remain not glad in prosperity, not sorrowful in adversity, unmoved by what is seen—this is indeed a bit hard. But once you see through it and let go, it is no longer hard.
The Budai Monk wrote: "One bowl, meals from a thousand homes; alone, I roam ten thousand li. Few are the eyes that greet me kindly; I ask the way where the white clouds rise." What a free and unfettered life! A few days ago I visited Dajue Temple. In that ancient cypress-shaded courtyard, recalling this Zen poem of his, I borrowed the ancients' words and cobbled together a poem: "All the famous mountains under heaven are occupied by monks; from the ten directions devotees come of themselves. Alone with my bowl I roam ten thousand li; a cloud-and-water Zen mind is free from attachment"—playing the gentleman-amateur.
There is a Chinese saying: one TCM physician is half a monk. Though I am neither monk nor Taoist, this light, untrammeled frame of mind is no different from theirs.
Dajue Temple has two plaques inscribed by the Qianlong Emperor. One reads "No place of going or coming"; the other, "Equal contemplation of movement and stillness." These eight characters are rich in Zen meaning. "No place of going or coming" means there is neither a place from which to come nor a place to go. "Equal contemplation of movement and stillness" means no distinction between the worldly and the reclusive. Only when a person has swept away all the "obstructions of views and knowledge" in the mind can he give rise to no discriminating thought about coming and going, movement and stillness, entering the world and leaving it, being a monk and being a householder. Only at that stage can one always be "thus and unmoved"—no inner disturbance, beyond all outward forms—whether walking, standing, sitting or lying down. One can sit in meditation after shaving one's head as a monk, and one can also sit in meditation while marrying and raising children.
Perhaps it is age: I have cultivated this habit of taking things unhurriedly. Articles need not be hurriedly embroidered; a career need not be completed in a day; there is no rush to find a way out of the world to liberate myself. When others scold or insult me, there is no rush to explain, no rush to attach any label to myself. Whether the future is long or life is short, there is no need to hurry. Since I have heard the Way, I may die by evening; whenever life comes to an abrupt end, that is simply the end.