Ten Years of Iced Drink Cannot Cool the Hot Blood—Better to Return, Then!

Liang Qichao said of himself: "Ten years of iced drink cannot cool the hot blood." Society does smooth down many people's edges, but some people's edges can never be smoothed, no matter what. I myself am a person with sharp edges; no matter how many storms I have weathered, my edges have never been worn down, and the hot blood in my heart has never cooled. If I let it surge freely, it is bound to set me on fire.

For someone of such temperament, if he does not find a way to divert his attention, it is hard to escape the fate of "the brightest blade is the first to break." Ma Zhiyuan wrote in a song: "I should never have come down the mountain to court trouble; better to return, then!" If I had to choose between "coming down the mountain to court trouble" and "returning," I would choose "returning."

Lately I have been cycling through the hills on the outskirts of Beijing looking for fine landscapes. By chance I noticed that some suburban places rent small vegetable plots. These plots fascinated me, and I wanted to rent one to grow vegetables. So I searched from place to place and finally found a plot close to my home—at the foot of the Western Hills, about half an hour's ride by bicycle, a large tract of agricultural land divided into small beds for rent.

Once I found a suitable plot, I rented it immediately. About 40 square meters, two beds, for a little over 3,000 yuan a year. Because it is at the foot of Xiangshan and the Western Hills, this price is not too expensive. Once the two beds are leveled and planted with seasonal vegetables, they will be more than enough to feed a family of three.

For years I had longed for a life of farming and reading; now it has finally come true. I cannot have a vegetable plot right outside my door as in my old village, but in expensive "hard-to-live" Beijing, having a plot less than 10 kilometers from home is already quite good—especially one at the foot of the scenic Western Hills and Xiangshan. I am content.

I have not watched the news for over two months, and have gradually deleted hundreds of thousands of words of my own articles. I have removed not only recent political articles but also many older ones with a polemical edge. Since my ability is limited and I cannot change anything, I might as well stay away from controversy. I bury myself in books, researching TCM anti-cancer work, while giving my heart to mountains, waters and fields, enjoying my own company.

Han Yu, in his "Epitaph for Liu Zihou," wrote of Liu Zongyuan: "Yet if Zihou (Liu Zongyuan, courtesy name Zihou) had not been exiled for so long, and had not known extreme hardship, then even though his natural gifts exceeded others, his literary writings would surely not have reached the point of being transmitted to later ages as they now are—of that there is no doubt. Even if Zihou had attained his wish and become a general or minister for a time, trading the one for the other, who can say which would be the gain and which the loss?"

The meaning is that although Liu Zongyuan was politically marginalized, his literary achievements were high; had his political career been smooth, his literary achievement would not have reached such a height. Where there is gain there is loss, and where there is loss there is gain; what is lost at sunrise may be gained at sunset. Han Yu felt that what Liu Zongyuan gained was more meaningful than what he lost.

Confucius said that at forty one is free of doubts. Tao Yuanming retired to the countryside at forty-one. I happen to be forty-one this year, just past the "age of no doubts," and I, too, have chosen "better to return."

I greatly love the ci poem Wu Jingzi wrote at the end of The Scholars: "I remember those days—when I loved the Qinhuai River and, leaving my home by chance, wandered past Meigun Ye, how often I sang freely; and in the Apricot Blossom Village, how often I lingered. The phoenix rests on the tall parasol; insects chirp in the small pavilion; I even competed in length with the men of my time. Now it is all over! I have cast off my official robes like a cicada sloughing its shell, and washed my feet in the Canglang waters. With nothing to do, I raise a goblet of rosy wine and call a few new friends to get drunk together. A hundred years together pass easily; why mope? The affairs of a thousand autumns are still hard to settle! The mists and clouds of Jiangzuo, the worthies of Huainan—writing them into my worn manuscript always breaks my heart. From now on, by the medicine furnace and the sutras, I shall worship the Emptiness Lord myself."

In youth, everyone has the impulse to sing freely among rivers and lakes, and the competitive spirit of "vying with contemporaries." Only after passing the age of no doubts does one naturally wash off the paint, "cast off one's robes like a cicada sloughing its shell, and wash one's feet in the Canglang," leaving the noisy world behind, returning to simplicity and giving free rein to one's body.

Return, then, and leave the stage to others; live as karma allows. Growing vegetables by the eastern fence, and looking up to see Xiangshan at ease—isn't that also quite fine?