My Path of Self-Reflection (Preface)

My Revered Teacher, Mr. Li Lixin

My revered teacher, Mr. Li Lixin, was a special-grade Chinese language teacher in the Huanggang region of Hubei Province, who devoted his whole life to education.

When I was in junior high, my teacher taught at our school; I studied at a township central middle school and had no chance to become his disciple. When I entered ninth grade, my teacher, because of his outstanding teaching results, was transferred to teach at a high school in the county seat. When he moved, whole cartloads of books were hauled away from his dormitory. My teacher was renowned at school for his talent; he had entered the normal school with the highest score in the whole county, and once there read widely, dipping into the classics of ancient and modern, Chinese and Western literature.

Only on the day he moved did I realize just how erudite this great scholar beside me was. My memory is a little fuzzy now, but his books must have filled several large trucks.

A single modern truckload of books far exceeds the ancient notion of "learning that fills five carts," because with improved printing, what once occupied dozens of scrolls now fits in a single book. That sight profoundly shocked me. I did not care whether I could get into a key high school; what I cared about was following my teacher to read.

But regrettably, in my first year of high school I had no chance to study under him. That year I studied under my teacher Min Qixin, who also cared for me deeply. He greatly appreciated my character and often said I would surely go far. He not only often invited me to his home for meals but even gave me pocket money. Yet while studying under Teacher Min, because I was too ready to speak up for justice, I often offended some unruly classmates at school—even some who had turned to organized crime.

After the first-year final exams, they cornered me below the teaching building and slapped me in the face. I said nothing and immediately went to the school shop less than ten meters away, claiming I needed to borrow a kitchen knife to cut an untyable rope on my bicycle. Having borrowed the knife, I carried it to find those few gangster-class classmates; they were so terrified they begged for mercy.

This incident seriously affected my mood. My first-year final exam scores were outstanding and drew the attention of schools across the county; word of what I had endured at school had evidently spread. Leaders from several other high schools in the county came to my home and urged my father to send me to their schools, with full tuition waivers and living stipends.

I firmly refused, determined to place myself under the tutelage of my revered teacher Mr. Li Lixin. My teacher Min Qixin was heartbroken and tried in every way to keep me, talking for nearly a whole day. He even said to me: "Zhiyuan, your teacher cannot bear to part with you. If you are truly set on going I cannot stop you, but leave your bookbox with me as a keepsake, and I will give you a few hundred yuan more to buy another one." My teacher's affection moved me to tears, but I was still set on leaving, because I had a wish: I must spend two years studying under the idol of my youth—the great scholar in my mind, Mr. Li Lixin.

I arrived at the school where Teacher Li taught, and given my county-wide ranking in the first-year finals, I was valued and welcomed by the school leadership. I could make demands of the school. I said I had only two conditions: first, never again make me a class cadre; second, I wanted to study under Teacher Li Lixin.

My conditions were met. With an excited heart I walked into the classroom where my revered teacher Li Lixin taught. The weather in Hubei in September was still very hot; I had ridden my bicycle from home to the county seat, and the chain had fallen several times along the way. Repairing it by hand, my hands were covered in black engine oil.

After I entered the classroom, two of my junior-high classmates—a boy and a girl—warmly came up to greet me, and I extended my sinful black hand to shake theirs. The girl who shook my hand that day eventually became my first love, and later became the mother of my child. Teacher Li Lixin had extraordinary personal charisma, and the students under him mostly got along in harmony and friendship. Moreover, the homeroom teacher at the time, Mr. Hu, advocated Taoist wu-wei and turned a blind eye to students' early romances; as a result, of the forty-plus students in our class, four pairs ended up married.

The happiest two years of my life were the two I spent studying under my revered teacher Mr. Li Lixin. There I thirsted for knowledge, became a veritable exam champion and the number one in the eyes of teachers and students alike. my tireless pursuit of learning moved every teacher in the school. Whether they taught me or not, they liked to set me problems to test me. I have the thick-faced impression that these teachers, out of the joy of "getting the country's finest talents to nurture," took a liking to me.

During my two years under my teacher, in character education he practiced "teaching without words," always leading by personal example. He wore a gentle smile, and sometimes laughed heartily and doubled over, but we rarely saw him laugh that way. Once after graduating I spoke with a classmate; we tried hard to recall, and could not recall a single time our teacher had ever been angry. For a full two years, before dozens of students in the class, my teacher never lost his temper at anyone, nor at any colleague.

My teacher commanded enormous respect among teachers and students alike, and became vice principal while still young. We students, even ten or twenty years later, still call on him every time we return home for the New Year. He often personally cooks to host us. In his home we are always happy.

My teacher's learning was all-embracing. He advocated that study should be eclectic and broad, free of prejudice, free of superstition, and free of personality cult; these convictions deeply influenced me. He hoped that among us students one or two might grow into cultural masters who integrate Chinese and Western, ancient and modern learning.

During the years I studied under him, my teacher valued me especially. I often begged him to teach me the way to be a person, but he always modestly insisted he was not qualified. Only years later, looking back, did I truly appreciate that he was influencing me through silent personal example.

My teacher would closely observe each student's traits and, according to each student's tastes, often bring good books from his home library and place them on our desks without a word. At that time I studied hardest and was teased by classmates as the second Wen Yiduo, spending sixteen hours a day at my desk in the classroom. I was full of energy and had the broadest range of reading. Starting in eleventh grade, my teacher placed on my desk the classics of philosophy, sociology, psychology, literature, art, and other fields. Each time he brought me books, not one but a stack. This greatly envied the other students.

Besides loving reading, I loved writing; after finishing each book I would write some essays and hand them to my teacher. Sometimes he offered a few words of encouragement, sometimes he was noncommittal. But at every exam, my compositions were printed by my teacher as model essays and sent to the Chinese teaching research group for the whole school to study. This was a tremendous encouragement to me. Plus, at every school meeting I was made the student representative to speak. These honed my writing and eloquence and, more importantly, fired my self-confidence. But perhaps this also led me to an extreme: arrogance.

For a time my exam scores reached a peak; the second-place student in the whole school trailed me by over a hundred points—a gap that put enormous pressure on the others. So much so that the homeroom teacher of the neighboring class, to boost his own students' morale, joked to them: "Zhou Zhiyuan is an imported product; don't compare yourselves with him. What matters is that you yourselves progress."

All this fed my arrogance and prejudice. My teacher was deeply worried, and once wrote a line in the margin of my composition: "Beware of showing your edge too openly; it is best to keep your light under a bushel." At the time I was arrogant and felt the criticism unjust. Years later, looking back, I wept; if only I had heeded my teacher's admonition then, my life would have suffered far fewer bitter blows.

I was frail and often ill as a child and frequently went to the hospital. On top of that, I was then in the eye of the storm, under enormous pressure, and psychologically unhealthy. My family was poor; my father was supporting two children in school—my older brother was in college—and the financial burden was heavy. By the way, both my brother and my cousin entered top universities as the local gaokao top scorers. We three brothers shared the same flaw: arrogance and conceit, with me the worst. I now take special care to warn my son never to become arrogant just because he is outstanding.

The medical bills for my treatment were paid by my teacher. In those days teachers had a fixed number of public-funded prescription forms a year—about ten, as I recall—and my teacher gave them all to me. He paid for his own treatment out of pocket. Once an elderly Dr. Zhao, who was treating me, said to me: "Are you a student of Li Lixin's?" I said yes. He said: "How can your teacher be such a good man? He himself has chronic cholecystitis and needs long-term treatment, yet he gave all his public prescription forms to you and pays for his own care."

Hearing that, my nose stung and tears welled up. Today, most of the knowledge my teacher taught me I have returned to him, but this kindness I can never repay.

My teacher influenced me with his noble character. Later, whenever I did something wrong, merely thinking of his goodness brought inward shame. To have studied under such a charismatic, enlightened teacher yet not have learned his kindness is truly my disgrace. That sense of disgrace keeps me from sinking too deep into wrongdoing. My classmates, too, were friendly and united; our class was probably the most united in the whole school.

Such a learned, kind, and benevolent teacher was a lighthouse in my life. Whenever I lose my way, thinking of him shows me how to turn back.

Last Mid-Autumn Festival, my teacher sent me a text message. He said I was like the sun, not the moon—warm and unrestrained, but lacking in stillness. His words sparked my journey of seeking realization, as I sought out monks and Daoists everywhere. This May Day, at Longquan Temple on Phoenix Mountain in Beijing, I took refuge under Master Xuecheng. For nine months I have kept my teacher's message and open it from time to time.

Twenty years have passed since I left school, yet my teacher still cares for me as he did before. After graduating I repeatedly begged for his teaching; he always modestly said his learning was no longer a match for mine. Only this time, seeing that the boy was worth teaching, did he once more enlighten me. I pondered for nearly a full year, and today I finally understand why my teacher urged me to be as gentle as the moon.

Practicing at Longquan Temple, while learning to realize truth directly, I felt the stillness and humility of my fellow practitioners, which benefited me greatly. But over time it felt too still, close to aridity, too austere, and not suited to my nature. After reflecting repeatedly, I finally understood that heaven has the sun and the moon, the day and the night. People should likewise follow nature: there should be passionate self-striving as well as quiet self-reflection. To neglect either is to fall into an extreme.

At this point my nine-month journey of realization seems complete. Because my state of mind changed, my life has been put in order. One day, alone, I understood these things and suddenly tears streamed down. The teacher's grace is so profound that no repayment could ever be enough.

I have met many enlightened teachers in my life, but the one who laid my solid foundation was my revered teacher Mr. Li Lixin. I am so fortunate that, wherever I go, whether poor or rich, he has as always cared for me, valued me, taught me, and held high expectations of me, urging me onward and spurring me to know myself. In my heart he is great, because he shaped my soul.

My teacher's classroom was witty, humorous, free, and tolerant; he allowed all sorts of student mischief, yet his teaching results were outstanding. He often organized free debates, my favorite activity; I loved all sorts of clowning around and would turn his carefully arranged sessions into chaos, but my teacher only laughed heartily, as if watching a band of children at play. In this way he cultivated in us rational discussion and tolerance.

My teacher stretched our horizons wide; his teaching ranged far beyond the textbook. He often arrived early to copy a passage neatly on the blackboard for us to study. Most of those passages had nothing to do with exams; some were beautifully written, some rich in thought. My teacher did not care whether this "wasted" students' time; he would explain them to us seriously.

Although I had been exposed to Buddhist scriptures from age seven because of my grandmother, my true reverence for Buddhist masters originated with my teacher. When he introduced the song "Farewell" to us, he also introduced its composer, Li Shutong—later the monk Master Hongyi—and told us about Hongyi's disciple Feng Zikai's idea of the three floors of life. I was quite captivated then; youthful curiosity drove me to hope that one day I too might climb to that highest floor.

I was arrogant at that time and disliked most teachers' lessons; holding a key to my teacher's office, given to me by him, I would go there to study on my own. Our school was very tolerant and gave me great freedom: I could skip classes and manage my own time, so long as I passed exams. During study periods I sometimes found my own classroom too noisy and took a book to read in another class. A female classmate of mine said at the time: "Zhou Zhiyuan is a strange one; the moment he enters a classroom and sits in his corner, the whole class falls silent."

My entire junior-high years were spent in the eye of the storm. In seventh grade, our class monitor acted outrageously—gambling, smoking, forming cliques, and beating people in the dormitory. Driven by righteous indignation, one evening after self-study I went to homeroom teacher Wu Chucai's dormitory and told him the monitor's character was terrible and the class climate had been ruined. I asked Mr. Wu to remove the monitor and let me take the post, vowing to turn the class climate around. Mr. Wu stared at me, dumbfounded, and said: "Zhou Zhiyuan, you are the most unusual student I have encountered in all my teaching. I believe you have a great future; make the most of yourself."

Two weeks later, the monitor was replaced by me. The former monitor retaliated wildly. Because I stopped students from smoking, drinking, and playing cards in the dormitory, I became the enemy of many poor students. They conspired to spit in my lunchbox, throw things, throw away my cold medicine, and repeatedly threaten to beat me. But I also had the support of other students who defended me; some were from the same villages as the troublemakers and helped mediate. Still, I was constantly intimidated and threatened.

Unable to bear it any longer, one Monday after the flag-raising ceremony and the principal's speech, I walked straight up to the rostrum and told the principal I had something to say. Then I furiously denounced those students' behavior and, before the whole school, told them I was not afraid of any of them: whoever encroached on me, I would fight back to the end. My principal appreciated my conduct and courage; he commended me and encouraged the teachers to back me.

Because I dared to fight bad school conduct, I was elected student union president. Once president, all sorts of affairs made it hard for me to study in peace, and I offended even more people. After the high school entrance exam, I silently vowed that in high school I would steer clear of trouble, be no class cadre, and study in peace. But in tenth grade my wish still did not come true: again, because I dared to defend the vulnerable and fight bad conduct, I was favored by the teachers and became the class's top leader and deputy secretary of the school's Communist Youth League (the secretary being a teacher).

These brought me endless troubles. Not until eleventh grade could I settle down to study—and even that good spell did not last long. Prestige quickly grew among the students; though I was no class cadre, whenever something arose in class I was treated as the natural student leader and called in to handle it. Even our former class monitor, a student surnamed Hu, insisted on yielding the post to me. We both refused to be monitor and deadlocked. Finally I suggested we together find another classmate willing to be monitor. I understood the former monitor's predicament: being a cadre really does interfere with study by adding many worries.

But that classmate did not last long, and my teachers and classmates still insisted I be monitor. I protested by refusing to call the class to attention at the start of lessons. My homeroom teacher didn't mind such details. Recalling my high-school days now, I truly feel that class was the best collective I ever belonged to. The monitor system was a genuine abdication-and-election: if you were good in conduct and scholarship, others would naturally propose you as student leader. In that period I threw myself into collective affairs and handled a great deal of class business. Mr. Hu was very democratic; he did not decide many things himself but let everyone discuss, finally adopting the best proposal. My problem-solving ideas were often chosen as the best idea.

All this brought me lingering troubles and fed my arrogance. So much so that while at school I openly led classmates in chasing a teacher who had beaten a student, openly confronted the principal and vice principal, and instigated students to petition the principal to remove a certain teacher. Now, recalling the harm I did to those teachers, I feel deeply sorry. There must have been better ways to handle those matters, but I chose extremism.

At my high-school commencement, speaking as student representative, I bowed deeply to apologize to the teachers I had harmed. Afterward it was raining outside the auditorium; Vice Principal Xia Jinguo, one I had harmed most, came over with an umbrella to shield me and said: "Zhou Zhiyuan, your speech today moved me greatly." But at that time I was not, as I am now, truly repenting from the heart; I merely felt politeness required it.

My revered teacher Mr. Li Lixin was like an inspector overseeing every step of my growth over those two years, but he never lectured me. In my memory, the number of times he directly taught me can be counted on one hand. Only when he saw some misbehavior would he carefully choose a few books suited to correcting my faults and place them on my desk. After reading, I would write some reflections for his correction; most often he said nothing. Only after I turned thirty did I deeply appreciate the care behind this teaching. The subtlety of my teacher's way truly commands admiration.

On the whole, my teacher championed the free development of our inner lives and introduced both Chinese and Western learning. His style was democratic, broad-minded, gentle, romantic, and modest, yet utterly unfeigned. I believe many choices in my life have been wrong, but the decision to study under my teacher has truly benefited me for a lifetime. The older I grow, the more deeply I grasp how profound and meticulous his educational care was. My teacher showed me that a good teacher's lessons benefit a student for a lifetime. He also showed me that a good teacher's classroom instruction may be brief, but his education of a student's life runs through that whole life. His teaching makes the student, at different stages, keep ruminating—and each rumination increases wisdom. Such a teacher commands reverence.