Living in Beijing, Heart in Mountains and Streams

Returned to Beijing for the weekend, I finished my work, did a bit of farm work in the vegetable plot, and then my wife accompanied me deep into the mountains of Mentougou. We went to Tan'chang Village near Shenquan Gorge; we came here last summer too, so this was a return visit.

The peach blossoms in the city had already faded, but here they were just in full bloom. Along the mountain road, February orchids, lilacs, peach, and pear blossoms were at their richest; a gentle breeze carried waves of floral scent, refreshing the heart and mind. Looking out far, I saw only rolling ridges and endless green under blue sky and white clouds. There were very few tourists; some local villagers were busy in the fields, and walking through the village was exceptionally quiet.

Mountain streams babbled; the villagers' geese swam leisurely in the water, and fish and tadpoles darted about in schools. In some stretches, tadpoles were so dense they were beyond counting. Although it was broad daylight, frogs croaked from time to time in the ponds, though we could not quite see where they were.

We greeted them warmly and fell into conversation. I envied their contented way of life and told them they lived better than immortals; hearing this, the villagers' faces lit up with happy, kind smiles. I asked whether the village lacked a village doctor. They told me they had one, but now that everyone has medical insurance and nearly all villagers have their own cars, when people get sick they no longer see the village doctor but go to the district city. So the village clinic is basically deserted now—almost exactly like my own hometown.

This left me a little disappointed. I very much want, in a few years, to be a village doctor in a small village like this on the outskirts of Beijing, treating local villagers and occasionally returning to the city to see my child. My wife supports me; she too longs to return to the life of her childhood, hoping to retire here with me in an idle house rented from a villager—such houses do exist, and the rent is cheap. We would rent a small plot of land from a villager, grow our own vegetables and peaches, raise chickens, and plant flowers in the yard. Stepping off the urban stage, we would live a quiet, self-contained life.

But as times change, the village-doctor model I knew as a child is gradually disappearing. Still, the village clinic in the mountains exists and its facilities are quite complete; perhaps I could still practice here later on. After all, there are diseases I specialize in; perhaps I could build here a career I love.

Many people have done their research quietly in the post of village doctor and achieved satisfying results: Li Shizhen, author of the Bencao Gangmu, and Edward Jenner, inventor of the smallpox vaccine, were both country doctors in their day.

Jenner was English, and I do not know his practice environment; but Li Shizhen was from our Huanggang, his home less than 20 kilometers from mine. I have visited Li Shizhen's birth village and his mausoleum many times, and seen the places where he practiced; they are utterly ordinary. In such a place, a person can more easily settle down and focus on research than in a bustling city.

I deeply love the ci poem Wu Jingzi wrote at the end of The Scholars: "I remember then—I loved the Qinhuai, and left home but briefly. By Meigen and Ye, I sang and roamed; in Apricot Village, I wandered many a time. Wind stilled in the tall parasol, insects chirped in the small pavilion, and I measured myself against the men of the day. Now it is done! Cast off robe and cap, wash my feet in the Canglang. With nothing to do, I pour a cup of sunset wine, and call a few new friends to drink me drunk. A hundred years pass so easily; why be sad? Even a thousand years' work is hard to settle. The mists and hues of Jiangzuo, the elders of Huainan—writing them into these final pages always breaks the heart! From now on, beside the medicine furnace and the sutra scrolls, I will worship the Empty Lord myself!"

In my youth I too strove and yearned for a brilliant life. But now, nearing fifty, I am gradually returning to simplicity, preferring the plain rural life, far from utility and contention, doing the purest research. Perhaps one day I will really rent out my city apartment, rent a single-story house in a mountain village, move my collection of several thousand books there, plant roses along the wall, keep the mountain wind and bright moon as companions, and take patients as karma allows; the rest of the time I will devote entirely to research and writing. After all, for someone like me who has never taken the usual road—who could return to university at this age—what is there that I could not do?