Reflections at Forty: The Jianghu Is Far Behind, Knowing When to Advance and Withdraw, Gladly Walking Life's Downhill Road

In a little over ten days it will be my fortieth birthday. Every year I write a reflection on my birthday, but this year I will not trouble myself with the exact date. Forty is a watershed in life; whether one admits it or not, once a person passes forty, body and brain both go downhill.

The uphill road of my life is already behind me; what I am walking now is precisely my downhill road. To follow nature, accept reality, and be content to walk the downhill road is exactly what Confucius meant by "no longer perplexed." A person of understanding should know their own true worth. Only those who are detached from life, death, fame, and gain, yet discerning about the world, will gladly follow nature and cheerfully walk life's downhill road.

I do not want to be someone who fights nature. Just think: in the 4.6-billion-year history of the Earth, humanity's two or three million years of existence are simply too tiny to mention; and within those two or three million years, each one of us is even more tiny, beyond any measure. When I reflect on this fact, the heart that occasionally burns hot quickly cools down.

I am tiny, and my hundred years of life are brief. Everything I have done in this life, everything I have pursued, and all my joys and sorrows, praise and blame, laughter and scorn, are trivial. I was born in accordance with nature; let me also die in accordance with nature.

After more than ten years of effort, although I would not say I am completely cut off from the world, I have indeed retreated into a state that quite satisfies me. The flamboyant days of youth and the noisy outer world are gone forever. There is no need to compete with anyone, no need to argue right and wrong with anyone. The outside world is the outside world; others are others; I am myself. Let each walk their own broad road or their own single-log bridge.

The jianghu has long since become a distant place to me. Although I too live in this dusty world, every day going to the market to buy rice, vegetables, oil, and salt to cook three meals, eating, drinking, and sleeping like anyone else. Yet this vast sea of people is very distant from me. Apart from a very few closest friends and dearest relatives, hardly anyone else enters my life.

My life is simple and interesting: in books there is always new knowledge to learn, and within myself there are always questions to ponder and articles to write. (By the way, ever since I read the biography of Asada Sōhaku and saw how he kept up the habit of writing something every day throughout his life, I have longed to do the same, hoping to keep up this habit for the rest of my days.) Shut away in my little room as in a world of my own, letting others laugh or scold, I firmly cut off unnecessary contact with the outside world. Fewer dealings with strangers, less time online, more reading, more writing, more planting of flowers and vegetables, more time in the company of green plants—what could be more joyful?

People whose emotions swing wildly do not live long. Judging from medical statistics, those prone to anxiety, sorrow, and anger all belong to the high-risk group for cardiovascular and cerebrovascular disease. Especially for people over forty, the risk of stroke grows ever higher, and the two major factors that trigger stroke are, first, an overly salty and greasy diet, and second, extreme emotions such as anxiety, anger, and sorrow.

To avoid wild swings of emotion, the best way is, on the one hand, to cultivate oneself, reduce desires, and reduce emotional reactions, and on the other, to simplify one's life and simplify one's relationships. In this way one both strengthens the ability to control emotions and cuts off the sources that trigger them, so that the occasional little ripple of feeling in the heart can effortlessly dissolve into nothing.

The hardest thing in life is judging the measure of when to advance and when to withdraw. Before middle age I often thought of advancing; after middle age I often think of withdrawing. In my youth I too stood out and always wished to forge bravely ahead. Now I know that, as a tiny human, no matter how bravely and fiercely one advances, there is a ceiling one cannot break through. Nature has set us humans a natural limit: once evolution reaches a certain point, whether for each individual or for humanity as a whole, we all move toward aging and extinction.

When advancing, choose the right direction. Humanity's thirst for knowledge is boundless, and advancing in this regard is harmless. Even if one lives to a hundred, one can still keep curiosity and the desire to learn, study something for amusement, and incidentally ward off Alzheimer's, not becoming a burden to the family. This kind of advance is quite fine: it costs little, carries no pressure, and approaching learning with a "playful, exploratory attitude" benefits both body and mind.

Beyond this, there are many other low-burden, high-interest areas in which to advance: for example, improving one's appreciation of art, refining one's fishing or gardening skills, improving one's cooking, learning to turn a cheap green vegetable into a delicious dish. These too benefit body and mind without harm.

There are many things to withdraw from: various circles should be withdrawn from, various efforts to fight for fame and profit should stop, and anything and anyone embroiled in disputes over right and wrong should be kept away from entirely.

Where in life are there so many rights and wrongs? And where so many superiorities and inferiorities to contend for? Everyone simply comes into this world involuntarily, is forced to eat, drink, and defecate, and when the appointed time arrives, leaves this world involuntarily. Beyond that, the infinite right-wrongs and superior-inferiorities we invent are all just needless trouble for ourselves. Those who sink into these disputes and cannot extricate themselves are utterly foolish.

I am forty. I am not old yet, but my heart is already empty, unwilling to keep any burden within it. I once yearned for a retired life of leisure and freedom from affairs; now I know retirement is hopeless in this life. So I will strive to make it so that, even with a heap of things to do, my heart can still be leisurely and at ease.