Stillness in Quiet Is Not True Stillness; True Stillness Is Found Amidst Turmoil
This title comes from a line in Cai Gen Tan (Discourse on the Vegetable Root). I am deeply grateful to that book; it drew me out of a state of stagnant water. It made me understand why Mr. Liang Shuming turned from a Buddhist believer into a Confucian scholar, embarking on a practical career of statecraft. As for me, I no longer cling to living a life as quiet as an old well; such a life is still too early for me.
Cai Gen Tan says: "A noble person's ordinary tastes should not be too rich and showy, nor should they be too austere and barren." This solid, worldly philosophy is exactly what I needed. I lived a Puritan-like life for many years, until I myself became bewildered and gradually developed deep doubts about the religious philosophy I had once loved. A religious philosophy aimed at suppressing or even extinguishing human desire is far too harsh—so harsh that even the great elders of religion cannot strictly abide by it. If you cannot lead by example yet keep preaching such a Way, you inevitably become a hypocritical wretch, which is truly embarrassing.
For a long time I thought this was because my own practice was insufficient. Only after reading the writings of famous monks such as Master Ouyi of the Ming dynasty and Masters Hongyi and Yinguang of the Republican era did I realize that this problem exists not only in me but in these highly virtuous, renowned monks as well. The root of the problem is that human desire is indeed hard to extinguish; at certain times, the more you suppress desire, the more violently it rebounds.
Because of this realization, I gradually came to dislike articles of excessively high moral character. When reading such pieces, I cannot help harboring suspicion: the author talks so glibly, but can he himself do it?
After several years of Puritan living, I tried to immerse myself in the colorful world. I found that after changing environments I actually could not remain as calm as before; impure thoughts kept disturbing me. Of course, this restlessness lasted less than a month. Thereafter, in dealing with people and affairs, I gradually returned to a calm state much like my former one.
Perhaps this is because over the years I have engaged too much with words and ideas and too little with real people. The theory I learned stayed only at the cognitive level, lacking genuine behavioral training, so I could not yet form sufficient, strong stability. To truly build powerful composure, one must still face all kinds of temptations directly, confront one's own dirty side, and find stillness amidst the turmoil.
Master Yinguang said that a practitioner should hold this understanding: everyone is a bodhisattva, and only I am an ordinary mortal. This statement moved me deeply. Seeing oneself as an ordinary mortal is far more truthful than seeing oneself as a bodhisattva. Master Yinguang spent his whole life willingly taking the lowest place, performing the humblest tasks, and finally achieved a great character. I have no wish to achieve a character as great as his, but I do hope to rise one level higher.
A person must first stop deceiving themselves before they can stop deceiving others. The monk Shenxiu once verified his understanding of the Dharma with the verse: "The body is the bodhi tree, the mind like a bright mirror stand; diligently polish it at all times, let no dust alight." Years ago, when I read the story of the Dharma combat between Shenxiu and Huineng, I could not help smugly thinking myself a bit more clever than Shenxiu, choosing to side with Huineng and looking down my nose at Shenxiu.
Now I must honestly say that I would rather be a student of Shenxiu. I have realized that my own roots of wisdom are limited, that I still have many faults, that I cannot yet attain "form is emptiness," nor "the absence of the perception of a self, of beings, or of a person." I need gradual practice to shed my faults. Even setting aside being a Buddhist believer, I still have many shortcomings; I cannot always control the restless monkey-horse of my mind, and at the sight of wealth or beauty I cannot help being stirred. These weaknesses of human nature objectively exist in me; why put on airs and deny them?
"The body is not the bodhi tree, and the bright mirror is not a stand either; originally there is not a single thing—where could dust alight?" This realm is lofty, but it does not bear close scrutiny. Or rather, for someone like me, still making a living in the mortal world, such a realm is too high and unattainable.
The idea of "dependent origination and emptiness of nature" can be used to meditate and awaken, but it can equally be used to find excuses for oneself. After people do things that harm others to benefit themselves, they can use the theory of dependent origination and emptiness to argue for their actions, washing their own faults completely clean. Concepts like "emptiness" and "existence" have been endlessly debated throughout the whole history of Buddhism. The root reason for this phenomenon is simply that Buddhism has never given a convincing, standard answer to this philosophical question; in truth, no such answer exists.
When I return to daily life, it is still better to speak truthfully. Though people may mock me for having shallow roots of wisdom, at least I can maintain honesty; otherwise I fear it would be hard to be at peace with myself. It is said that when Huike sought out Bodhidharma, he cut off his arm to demand a method for pacifying the mind. Bodhidharma replied, "Bring me your mind, and I will pacify it." Hearing this, Huike attained sudden enlightenment. Whether the legend is reliable I shall not discuss; even if true, Bodhidharma was merely pointing Huike out from a purely philosophical angle. In reality, unsettled minds are still common. As the saying goes, in a dark room a guilty conscience knows the divine eye is like lightning. People who have utterly extinguished their conscience are rare; not doing wrong is the true method of mental peace for ordinary mortals like us.
The key to finding stillness amidst turmoil lies precisely here. When seeking stillness within quiet, with no external disturbance, a person needs little composure to calm down. Finding stillness in turmoil is different: once a person engages with the outside world and with others, they face all kinds of tests and choices, and at such times it is very hard to remain as still as a virgin. Confucius said the noble person is cautious when alone; I do not quite agree. Whether one needs caution when alone is debatable. As long as a person does not harm others, however much they daydream or act wildly, the harm is shallow. But once a person enters into relationships with others, they must be cautious. Our words and deeds, our intentions, may harm others to benefit ourselves, or harm others without benefiting ourselves; at such times, careful speech and prudent action are especially necessary.
When I was young I might have been smug after gaining a small advantage; now, after gaining a little, I am especially wary. Misery is what fortune leans on, and fortune is where misery lies hidden. The small advantage taken today may well plant a deep root of disaster for tomorrow. Bodhisattvas fear causes; ordinary beings fear effects. Every person we harm through our own greed and restlessness may one day in the future bring about our ruin. Thus the ancients were right: rather than winning the delight of a thousand people, it is better to dissolve the resentment of one.
True composure comes from effectively restraining desire. Effectively restraining desire is an extremely difficult thing; the Buddha likened it to a warrior putting on armor and marching out to battle. Is restraining desire not precisely fighting oneself? When fame, position, wealth, and beauty are laid before one's eyes, it is hard not to be moved; sometimes it is entirely a battle between heaven and humanity, with victory or defeat turning on a single thought.