As Qingming Approaches, It Is Time to Return and Sweep My Mother's Grave

The rain had passed and the sky had cleared, the blue sky washed spotless.

That morning, standing at the bridgehead and gazing into the distance at the Western Hills, they seemed right before my eyes. The Western Hills reminded me of the place where my mother lies buried.

In the blink of an eye, seven years have passed since my mother left me.

My mother did not leave me much in the way of property. After she developed stomach cancer, treating her spent almost all my savings. In the years of caring for her, I also witnessed and tasted to the full the bitterness of both a cancer patient and a patient's family.

But my mother gave me deep love. No matter how hard life was, as long as Mother was there, life was always full of joy.

Her laughter was always so hearty. Mother was compassionate and warm-hearted all her life, always doing things to help the needy and relieve the distressed.

My mother was strong. Because of her protection, the poor life of my childhood left me no shadow at all; instead it became the fondest memory of my life.

A mother's love gave me the confidence and strength to overcome every difficulty of life.

In the period right after my mother's death, I understood all too well the words Master Hongyi spoke after his own mother died: when Mother is gone, the happiest days of one's life are over.

Back then I too very much wanted, like Master Hongyi, to leave home and become a monk.

In those days, whenever I read the poem that Zhao Puchu wrote for Master Hongyi—"Deep sorrow showed early in the Lady of the Camellias; the lofty vow ended in a mendicant monk. Countless rare gems were offered to the world's eyes; one bright moon shines over the heart of heaven"—I could not help bursting into tears.

For three years after my mother died, I was sunk in grief, unable to pull myself out.

Mr. Jin Yong said that after his own son committed suicide, he sought in Buddhism a way to be released from suffering. Like him, I too tried to seek release from Buddhism.

And my idol was Master Hongyi.

In 2016 I was at Zhanshan Temple in Qingdao; in 2017 at the Great Kaiyuan Temple in Quanzhou; in 2018 at the Tiger-Running Temple ruins in Hangzhou—tracing the footsteps of Master Hongyi all the way.

I always felt my own life had much in common with his, even in looks. Only the difference was that he became a mendicant monk, while I chose to struggle along the road of medicine.

Right after my mother died, I longed especially, like the ancients, to dwell in mourning by her grave for three years, to fulfill the way of a son. In those days, my mother's grave was the place in the world closest to my heart.

I would often linger all day before my mother's grave, silently conversing with her in my heart, unwilling to leave. Unfortunately, with elders above and children below, I later had to end this life of mourning by the grave.

The wish to keep a three-year vigil by the grave was not fulfilled. Later I thought perhaps I could, seven years after my mother's death, leave home for a short period to commemorate her. I had even found the temple where I wanted to take short monastic ordination and the monastic community I wanted to join.

In the blink of an eye, this year marks the seventh anniversary of my mother's death. Unfortunately, this wish too I cannot fulfill. Because the me of today is bound up with the health and happiness of many families; I have become the hope of many sons and daughters who, like me, long for their own parents to survive. I no longer have the freedom to become a monk.

Of course, if I really did shave my head and become a monk, my mother in the netherworld might not be all that pleased; I fear she would instead roundly scold me. She would far rather see me living happily in the secular world than shave my head and enter the monastery in memory of her.

And I, after seven years of spiritual refinement, have long since lost interest in becoming a monk; I cannot even agree with the life pursuit of my former idol, Master Hongyi.

After a person has passed through an extreme period of suffering, he is reborn from the ashes.

From the time my mother fell ill until now, more than ten years have passed. In these ten-plus years I have experienced many partings and deaths. The most painful moment was when, in my arms, my mother stopped breathing, sobbing.

The torment of day and night and the heart-rending pain were once like a knife cutting my flesh.

Having struggled, having suffered, having sought a way of transcendence within the pain—once all this has been lived through, life and death, the ultimate question of human life, no longer trouble me.

The life of these years, though it has not washed away all the grime from me, has nevertheless transformed me inside out. The reborn me is far healthier and lighter in body and mind than before.

Seven years on at Qingming, I have already grown very indifferent to the questions of life and death. Though I still often miss my mother, there is no longer grief in my heart.

My mother has already returned to nature—the final home to which we all return. The dividing line between life and death, to the me of today, does not look so large.

Every Qingming Festival, I will go back to the countryside to sweep my mother's grave.

These seven years since my mother died, I have learned to play the guqin. Perhaps one Qingming I will bring my guqin and play a tune before my mother's grave, to express my grief.

The original purpose of learning the guqin was that, after I had fulfilled my duty of supporting my family, I might build a thatched hut beside my mother's grave, daily at dawn and dusk sweep the dust from before her grave, play the qin and read books, and keep company with my mother in the netherworld.

I do not know whether this wish too will go unfulfilled in the future.

Nowadays, through word of mouth among the patients I have treated, more and more patients come to me for care. I do not know whether in my whole life I will ever have a true retirement.

Such is life: wishes are always wishes, and reality is always reality, and fulfilling a wish is hard. Only, the me of today is a person who makes the best of things. If a wish is fulfilled, that is of course better; if it is not, it makes no difference to me.

To be unhappy because one fails to achieve one's aims is a very foolish thing. Life is short and the days that remain are few; why go out of one's way to invite trouble?

Knowing my mother as I do, the me of today is exactly what she most hoped to see.

Because she was a born optimist. No matter how hard life was, she could always be happy; what gave her the biggest headache was seeing others with furrowed brows. Had she known her own son was melancholy, Mother would surely have been heartbroken.

A simple, positive and optimistic disposition was the finest legacy my mother left me.

I have inherited almost entirely this natural bent of my mother's. When bored, a single flower or tree, even an ant or a bee, can make me very happy. I would converse with them, face wreathed in smiles; in the sunshine, watching the flowers, watching the ants move house, wasting half a day away, is a rare enjoyment.

Once contentment becomes a very easy thing, even the poorest life will be full of happiness. This was my mother's philosophy of life.

I have read articles and books written by many masters of philosophy and religion. Though they expound their philosophy most fluently, I feel that when it comes to true profundity, none of them matches the life philosophy of my mother, an illiterate rural woman.

Though I love life, I do not fear death.

After my mother died, I registered as a body and organ donor. If one day I leave this world, I will not cling to this body either; I will simply leave it, as fate decides, to whoever or whatever institution needs it.

As for my own funeral arrangements, I will dispense with them entirely. Or let my family burn a few of my old clothes before my mother's grave, to show that I have returned to my mother's side—that will be enough.

In my heart, my mother lives forever. Going back to sweep my mother's grave at Qingming is just like going back to visit her on festivals as before. The shadow my mother left in my heart and in my life will never disappear.