Middle Age, as Serene and Beautiful as an Autumn Leaf

A monk once recited the Kashyapa-Buddha's Sutra Bequeathed Teachings at night; his voice was mournful and tense, and he felt regretful and wanted to retire. The Buddha asked him: "What was your occupation when you were a layman?" The monk replied: "I loved playing the lute." The Buddha asked: "What happened when the strings were too loose?" He answered: "It would not sound." "And when the strings were too tight?" "The sound would break off." "And when tightness and looseness were properly balanced?" "All the tones were produced in their fullness." The Buddha said: "So it is with a monk who cultivates the Way. If his mind is well adjusted, he can attain the Way. If he is violent in his practice, his body becomes fatigued; if his body is fatigued, his mind becomes distressed; if his mind is distressed, his practice retreats; once his practice retreats, guilt is sure to follow. But if he remains pure, calm and at ease, the Way will not be lost."

— Excerpted from the Sutra of Forty-Two Sections Spoken by the Buddha

Over the weekend I returned to Beijing and harvested the Chinese cabbages and radishes in my plot—the last crop I sowed in August. After the harvest, I took my wife and my cousin to Yujiao Country Park for a walk and some casual conversation. The Jingxi rice in the park had already been harvested, leaving only stubble in the paddy fields. In the park's water bodies, withered reeds swayed in the wind. Around us were trees not yet fully bare, and the ground was covered with fallen leaves. In the gathering dusk, the country park was as quiet as the fields of my hometown, easing our nostalgia.

The three of us grew up together. My wife and I were childhood sweethearts, moving from innocent playmates to mutual support through life. My cousin is only half a year younger than I; since infancy we have been each other's most important playmate. The two of us went to school together from primary through high school. After university, we both came to Beijing to make a living.

Now all three of us are past middle age, weathered by the years. Several of our classmates have even passed away. Our lives have entered autumn. Autumn is the season of harvest—what have we harvested? It seems we have harvested much, yet harvested nothing. We have lost a great deal: our youth, and some beloved relatives and friends; thinking of these always brings a sigh.

Life passes for a man as autumn passes for grass and trees. Seeing withering vegetation, one most easily falls into autumn melancholy. But autumn is also the season of maturity. Middle-aged people, weathered by years, have mature minds and do not swing between great joy and great sorrow as the young do. All emotions can turn into gentle streams flowing quietly in the depth of the heart, without readily showing on the face.

Although I am one of the more distinctly individualized people around, the general contour that years carve into human beings is much the same. Occasional bad news in life reminds us of the impermanence of the world; aging faces and bodies starting to decline remind us that we are no longer young.

Not long ago, during a physical education class at school, I took a fitness test. I ran 1000 meters in 4 minutes 34 seconds, ranking 28th among the 51 boys in my class. The result looks decent, but after the run my knees took several days to recover, while the young men around me were fine the same day. After all, the ratio of organic to inorganic matter in the bones of middle-aged and young people differs; no matter how hard I push myself, I cannot avoid this fact.

Equally beyond comparison with youth is memory. When I was young, I could memorize a new word after three or five repetitions; now I need ten or twenty. This also helps me understand why middle-aged and elderly people become set in their ways: it is not that they are unwilling to accept new knowledge, but that the brain no longer has the capacity to memorize new knowledge and new skills.

Before I retook the college entrance exam and entered university, I knew that clinical medicine is a hard nut—even young people find it tough, and I would have to put in more effort than them. But I still did not expect how arduous it would actually be to study.

Medical knowledge must be memorized to pass exams. Since my memory is not what it was, I have to watch video lectures over and over and recite points over and over. Seeing how hard I work at memorizing, my wife smiled and said: "At this rate, you are not likely to get Alzheimer's." It seems the tuition was well spent.

Fortunately, after a little over two months of school, I gradually worked out a relatively efficient regimen of exercise and study and found some valuable learning resources.

Following the rhythms of my own body, I designed a new exercise and study plan. At first I jogged every morning at about 5 minutes 30 seconds per kilometer; now I run at about 6 minutes 30 seconds per kilometer. Although only one minute slower, my knees feel much better—essentially unaffected—so I can run longer and farther each time.

Middle-aged people cannot match the young in speed and explosive power; we can only rely on endurance that the young seldom possess to achieve our life goals. To have endurance, we must, as the Buddha said, learn to balance tightness and looseness. Balanced, we remain inwardly pure and at ease, and can persevere long-term more efficiently.

Now I review every day, but I do not seek quantity or speed. I dare not, like the young people around me, rely on all-night cramming before exams to get through. At our age we cannot stay up late; even a poor midday nap has a major impact. The scope of medical school exams is broad, but not as magical as outsiders claim—every line of every book is not a key point. There are priorities: points with more clinical application matter more, and points with little clinical relevance actually appear rarely on exams. If one only aims to pass, it is not necessary to grind through every thick tome.

In fact our main task at school is to pass exams. At the pace the school teaches, it is impossible for us to study these subjects in depth; even when I was young I could not have done so. Our professional courses are many and heterogeneous, and the teachers' lesson plans are packed. They teach very fast, leaving us little time for in-depth study; digesting everything is unrealistic.

For medical students, true learning officially begins only after becoming doctors; every vexing clinical problem is our best teacher. Some young female doctors are even driven to tears by clinical problems. A physician with aspirations must keep consulting thick tomes throughout life; the knowledge and skills learned at school cannot meet the demands of practice.

Having understood these rhythms, I adjusted my pace and walk steadily forward. Although each day is packed with study and work, I can move everything forward unhurriedly and in good order. If I cannot memorize a point or word in three or five tries, I try ten or twenty; if I cannot work or exercise quickly, I go slowly; if I cannot stay up late, I sleep and rise early; if I lack the stamina for sprints, I keep moving at a constant speed. I do not fight natural laws, nor do I grind at fields where I lack aptitude.

After this adjustment, the charm that a mature middle-aged person should have emerges—calm and unhurried, neither hurried nor anxious, moving forward while leisurely watching flowers open and fall in the front court.

Unless something comes up, I still return to my Beijing home on weekends to handle work matters, set aside time to learn the latest scientific and technical knowledge and skills, keep up with the frontier and avoid being left behind by society, and help my wife finish the heavy household tasks for the week. Returning to campus on Sunday evening, I stay on campus all week without going out. Although busybodies at school keep trying to strike up conversations, I have learned to politely refuse and to live a reclusive life on campus.

On campus I mostly live a three-point-one-line life between classroom, cafeteria and dormitory. I jog at six in the morning when the campus is almost empty; in the evening I find one or two familiar boys to play ball, and then take a shower in the bathhouse; the rest of the time I stay in the dormitory or classroom. I do not join any club activities. After being approached a few times in the library, I now rarely go, minimizing all contact with strangers; life naturally settles into peace.

I understand the young people around me who are always curious about a "middle-aged classmate" like me. Although their attention makes me feel like an animal on display in a zoo, with old scars in my heart inadvertently reopened again and again, it makes me uncomfortable. But put myself in their place: if I were them, I too would be curious about an uncle like me.

After all, it is I who intruded into the world that belongs to these young people, not they who intruded into mine, so there is no point complaining about being watched. If I want peace, efficient study and a quiet life, I must find the way myself. Inamori Kazuo said that to solve problems most efficiently, look for reasons in yourself rather than in others. How true these words are.