With the Easiest Heart, Be the Hardest-Working Person

Every morning at three or four I rise and, in the dead quiet, read alone in the living room to start the day. Around six I prepare breakfast for the family; after breakfast I see my wife to the shuttle bus stop, then stop by the vegetable garden to work and pick some greens on the way home.

Most days I am at work at home or in my study by 8:30, roughly the same as most people's working hours. But before starting the day's work, I have already read for two or three hours and done some housework and gardening.

The whole morning I handle patients' various issues; if there is not much work, I read and write. Lunch is around twelve—something simple I make myself: rice with one or two dishes, or a bowl of noodles, or fried rice cake, sometimes just a bowl of oatmeal. I eat alone at midday, so cooking is easy.

After lunch I move about a little, then take a nap of about half an hour. On waking I laze in bed and read for another hour or two. After the nap comes the time for answering consultations, reading, and writing. The pandemic has reduced my clinical load, and I now do some other medical-related work to supplement income, but not much.

Dinner is made by my wife after work. After dinner we usually go out to exercise for one to two hours. By the time we return it is eight or later; after washing up, the day ends and we prepare for sleep.

Before sleep I half-recline in bed and read a while, usually light humanities and social-science books that do not tax the mind—my favorites are anthropology monographs, being both enjoyable and soporific. Around nine I naturally fall asleep; occasionally at ten, rarely later. My family mostly stays up later than I. I usually fall asleep reading an e-book on my Kindle; after I drift off, someone turns it off for me.

I live near the National Library and, before the pandemic, frequented it on weekdays. On weekends and holidays I teach students, though not heavily. Lately, every weekend the family takes a full day for cycling in the Beijing hills.

My middle years have not been squandered at mahjong tables or endless wine feasts, nor have laziness and smoking/drinking wrecked my body, so I am full of energy. I count myself among the most diligent people; since high school I have been known to be far harder-working than average.

Many classmates wanted to sit beside me, hoping my diligence would rub off and restrain them. But I preferred to sit alone in a corner, undisturbed, immersed in my own world: studying, reading, thinking, writing.

From high school until now, my way of life has barely changed. I love reading and writing and lose myself in them tirelessly.

Reading's greatest benefit, I think, is that it carries a person ever toward a vaster inner world. As our horizons widen, perplexities fade and emotional swings diminish.

It is hard to put this state into words, but I believe many have experienced it—so many people love reading and benefit from it that I am nobody special.

A reader is not actually solitary; he is always in conversation, only with people who love thinking and writing. If one both reads and writes, one converses with countless authors and countless readers alike, differing from ordinary people only in manner of exchange.

Many find life exhausting, but I rarely do. As long as the heart is like a free cloud or wild crane, one moves lightly through whatever occupation. "Idle cassia blossoms fall; the night is still, the spring mountains empty." A heart that is empty can live at ease at every moment. Even when genuinely exhausted, a short rest restores full energy.

Some may think only the well-off can be so carefree. I disagree. In my early twenties I was desperately poor, truly not knowing where the next meal came from. But after getting over an initial spell of depression and anxiety (this was probably what Mencius meant by "actions thwarting his purposes, so as to stir his heart, toughen his nature, and increase his ability"), I naturally entered this carefree state. So I believe an idle heart has nothing to do with money.

Around the 2000 Spring Festival, I had less than ten yuan on me, renting a single room in a Beijing suburb. Next month's rent and the following meals were uncertain, yet I calmly read and amused myself in the courtyard, utterly unruffled.

The landlord's daughter probably took a fancy to me for this; she liked being near me. She was of marriageable age, and pursuing her might have succeeded. But my heart was already taken, so I did not start another romance—people in love are always prone to such folly. George Bernard Shaw later regretted missing an amorous adventure in his youth and felt the loss keenly. My story resembles his, except I missed not one but many. After enough regrets, there is less heart left to regret.

When my son was in middle kindergarten, I took him to collect mineral-water bottles. I told him: in this life, whatever happens, never fret; the worst trouble you may meet is perhaps not having enough to eat. If it comes to that, as long as you are diligent enough to scavenge by the roadside, you can earn enough for food. When there is nowhere to live, we can sleep under a bridge—though I have not slept under a bridge, I have slept in a station waiting room.

If a person can remain relaxed in the direst circumstances, then he will have no trouble in any state. I am not a Buddhist, but I have been influenced by Buddhist thought. The Buddha urged monks to "one meal at midday, one night beneath a tree," which I think is a fine way to live. In many Southeast Asian countries, young men take short monastic ordination; China lacks this tradition. If it existed, I would briefly ordain to experience the rule against sleeping three nights under the same tree, so as not to become attached to material life.

But I do not care to live as a true monk on alms, still less to abandon home and child. I also cannot believe only Buddhist doctrine is supreme—anyone who has studied anthropology likely feels this: the world is vast, every culture has its strengths, and boasting is unbecoming. Spiritual nourishment, like ordinary food, has its own nutrition; drawing from many sources is better for body and mind. So I cannot be a devout Buddhist.

If one is hardworking enough, whether one desires things or not, one will never suffer material want. Many feel the world is corrupt and that "heaven rewards the diligent" no longer holds. I disagree: in any society the law holds. The diligent, even without chasing wealth, will not want.

Some are diligent but have enormous desires and envy what others have, so they are never satisfied and call "heaven rewards the diligent" empty words. I do not have such desires; enough food and clothing suffice, a little surplus is nice, and its absence is fine. So I am rarely dissatisfied with life.

To still the heart is actually easy. When the heart wants nothing, it is at leisure here and now. The carefree find the world a paradise; though it has many imperfections, we have the enthusiasm to improve it. The heavy-hearted find the world a hell, every moment unbearable—and so many choose suicide.

If a person goes to the other extreme—not both diligent and content, but both lazy and greedy (sadly, the two usually go together like twins)—that is wretched. Such a person knows no peace all his life.

What is happiness? Happiness is living without shock or fear, with inner peace and joy. Many think happiness differs for everyone; I doubt it. I believe this is its essence; people merely use different tools to reach it. Some mistake the tools for happiness—a confusion of unclear thinking, taking the branch for the root—not the truth.