Mid-Autumn Reflections: Not Seeking Perfection

1. Wherever the body is, there the heart is at peace

I used to think the saying "where the heart is at peace is where the body is at peace" made great sense, and so I searched everywhere for a "place of peace," looking for a land of idyllic seclusion.

Now perhaps I have grown numb, or perhaps I have grown older and more broad-minded, and have no more strength to fuss around, so I no longer look for any "place of peace."

Wherever the body is, there the heart is at peace.

No matter where I am, my heart is at peace, and body and mind are united at all times. Whether in the countryside or the city, whether in this world or beyond—even if one day I accidentally landed in prison—nothing would make my heart uneasy.

As long as a knife is not held to my throat, I will never make a fuss. If a knife is held to my throat, I will still make a fuss. In a lifetime, it is better not to die a violent death if one can help it. I am an ant clinging to life; I certainly do not boast about "meeting the white blade with the head as if cutting through the spring breeze."

When it is time to work, I work; when it is time to eat, I eat; when there are books to read, I read; when there are no books, I write my own. My life is full, my spirit is abundant, and every day I feel whole and vigorous. To worry about whether the heart is at peace is purely redundant.

2. Eating, drinking, and elimination are what matter most

I once thought that awakening to the Way was important. Now I feel that if a person spends most of his life pursuing awakening, that is truly a disaster.

A monk came to Master Zhaozhou to seek the Way. Master Zhaozhou asked him: "Have you eaten your porridge?" The monk said: "I have." Master Zhaozhou then said: "Go wash your bowl!" It is said that upon hearing this, the monk was enlightened on the spot.

Whether it is awakening or seeking a method to still the mind, the meaning is much the same. Once awakened and at peace, one still has to go on eating, drinking, eliminating, and sleeping.

Having lived to my present age, I feel that my earlier pursuit of so-called peace of mind and enlightenment was purely asking for trouble. Life was fine as it was; I muddled it all up by doing one extra, unnecessary thing. Of course, this is also a stage one cannot avoid in the process of growing up.

Life is life—real and plain. All things become the Dharma, and all forms are illusory. Seeking the wisdom of life outside of life is wasted effort.

3. Where duty lies, there is no room for hesitation

Recently several depression patients have come to me seeking help. I refer as many as possible to psychiatry, because I do not have a psychiatrist's prescription rights and cannot prescribe those psychiatric drugs.

But some patients who long reside in Beijing beg me not to abandon them. Having searched far and wide to find me, they actually only want to borrow my ears to listen to their inner voices.

I thought it over and agreed to them, even though this is not within my focus or specialty.

In my second year of high school, a conflict erupted between a student in my class and a student in a first-year class. In the end, it escalated into a mass brawl involving most of the boys in both grades, fighting every evening after self-study for several days running.

Later the situation completely spun out of control. The school's leaders and teachers were deeply worried, but no matter what they did, the students would not listen.

Then the teachers placed their hopes in me, flattering me as the spiritual leader of the students and hoping I would resolve the dispute. I flatly refused; I did not want to be a traitor among my classmates.

My acting head teacher, who was also my physics teacher, Mr. Song, was a white-haired old man. He invited me to his home for a meal.

At the dinner table, Mr. Song told me that during the Cultural Revolution, a gang of people wanted to use hoes to beat a labeled Rightist in their village to death. Seeing the urgent situation, without thinking about the consequences, he had stepped forward and stopped this vicious incident.

Years later, both parties came to thank him. Even those who had wanted to beat a man to death thanked him for stopping them from doing evil.

Mr. Song finally said to me: "Zhiyuan, where duty lies, there is no room for hesitation. Right now, only if you step forward can this vicious fighting end. Young people act on impulse; when they grow up, they will not blame you. You are now the most influential student in the school; handling this matter is your obligation."

Moved by my teacher's words, as he had instructed, I apologized on behalf of the second-year class to the first-year class, while doing my best to stop second-year students from beating the first-year juniors again. The matter was resolved in this way.

Later I failed the college entrance exam and was not admitted to my ideal medical university. I was accepted by another, also quite good, engineering university in a top-five nationally ranked major, but I did not like that major, and deep down I was in great pain.

On the day I went to collect my admission notice, passing the school's big sports field, I saw white-haired Mr. Song indignantly saying to the other teachers: "The gaokao system is so unreasonable that a student like Zhou Zhiyuan cannot be admitted by China's best universities—what is the point of this country's system of selecting talent? Do we engage in education in order to cultivate mediocrities?"

I had been deeply depressed, but overhearing my teacher's words, I was suddenly lifted up. I am a fiercely self-reliant person. In that moment I secretly resolved that, wherever I went, I would stand on my own and strive to become stronger, so as not to disappoint my teacher's expectations. In fact, this is what I have done all these years.

Now, on my journey of studying and practicing medicine, whenever I sometimes want to draw back out of slackness or fear, I remember the words white-haired Mr. Song gave me: "Where duty lies, there is no room for hesitation."

When a patient's life is threatened, when patients trust me and refuse to give me up, I know it is my duty to stand guard over their lives.

4. Bearing shame and insult, pressing on with a burden

Practicing medicine has dealt a great blow to my confidence, because things often go against expectations. Doctors and patients both are full of hope that a patient's problem can be solved, only to be bitterly disappointed; this happens time and again.

After enough failures, I begin to doubt my own ability and the profession I have chosen. Sometimes I wonder: how is practicing medicine any different from swindling money? It has left so many patients' families with neither money nor people.

At other times, when a patient's problem is solved and the patient and family sincerely thank me from the bottom of their hearts, my own heart is filled with boundless joy.

There have been many times when I wanted to flee this profession, because it always torments me inside. But gradually I have also realized that this inner torment is widespread among doctors.

If I leave this profession because of this inner torment, then patients will lose one more healer who could help them. Moreover, the more everyone fears a profession, the more someone must hold the line.

The ancients said: bearing shame and insult is the mark of a man. A person must have some spirit of enduring disgrace. If we leave whenever people spurn us, then no one will be left to guard life.

Although medicine is imperfect and cannot solve everyone's problems, it can solve the problems of some people. If everyone is afraid of this kind of work, which easily invites abuse, the profession will die out, and those patients who could have been saved will also die needlessly.

Now I have taken on a few young disciples. I treat them as well as I possibly can, broaden their knowledge as much as I can, and cultivate their psychological resilience and humanistic refinement as much as I can.

I only hope that, when they till the soil of medicine in the future and are tired, or have been abused, they will think of their teacher, who went through all of this too, and feel a little better; that they will be able to stand up again and again, walk this road onward, and hold fast to the mission of healing the wounded and rescuing the dying.

There is a fine saying in Cai Gen Tan (Conversations from the Vegetable Root): "A flawless reputation and noble integrity should not be monopolized by oneself; share some with others, and one can avoid harm and preserve one's whole self. Dishonorable conduct and a sullied name should not be pushed entirely onto others; take some onto oneself, and one can hide one's light and cultivate virtue."

There is another saying in Cai Gen Tan: "Those who flaunt righteousness will surely be slandered for their righteousness; those who parade as moralists will often invite trouble through their moralizing. Therefore, the noble person neither draws near to evil deeds nor establishes a reputation for goodness; only plain, harmonious gentleness is the treasure by which to abide."

I often reread these two sayings to remind myself that, since I have already chosen medicine, I must accept the fact that medicine is imperfect, and accept the reality that I will frequently be humiliated in work and life. Bear shame and insult; press on with the burden.

Sometimes we can help patients defeat death; sometimes we can only help them defeat the fear of death; sometimes we can do neither, and instead provoke the anger and hatred of the patient's family. All of this is normal.

What we should do is not to become angry and dejected when humiliated, but to understand as much as possible the imperfection of medicine and of human nature, to bear shame and insult, to hold fast to our original intention, and to heal the wounded and rescue the dying as much as we can.

With this, I share it in mutual encouragement with my colleagues in medicine.

5. Not seeking perfection; abiding in lasting joy

One morning, a Buddhist nun sent me a Mid-Autumn greeting over WeChat. She wrote:

"The North should already show signs of autumn. I love the North; the cycle of the four seasons is very distinct there, which better prompts reflection on the impermanence of birth, aging, illness, and death. The beauty of autumn lies in returning to plainness after splendor.

Autumn harvest is the common notion people have of autumn—that autumn ought to bring a harvest. Suppose one has waited through winter's storage, toiled through spring plowing and summer weeding, only to find no harvest in autumn. Suppose one, having been wronged, cannot achieve wholeness. What attitude would a person take then? Could he still affirm his own effort? Could he remain as before? Could he fully accept impermanence (emptiness)?

The Mid-Autumn Festival is a day of reunion, yet it is also the day Hou Yi and Chang'e were separated. Humans always love to fantasize about perfection, but in fact perfection is full of imperfection. The waxing and waning, the fullness and the eclipse, are precisely the process of perfection; only because there is no fixed 'full' can there be no 'not full.'"

The nun writes beautifully and reflects deeply. Since her words were meant for me, I quote them to end this article. May every reader not seek perfection, abide in lasting joy, and live happily within an imperfect life.

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