The next day, it was already four in the afternoon by the time they returned to City A. On the road, Akikawa Yamaguchi told her that he had originally gone to her room the previous evening to tell her something. He had received a phone call — something had happened at the Japan headquarters, and he needed to return immediately to handle it. He was to go back to Macau today and then fly straight to Japan. But the moment he entered her room and saw her in her nightgown, her long wet hair draped over her shoulders, everything else had flown from his mind and he could only stare at her… “Still, if things go smoothly, I can be back in China in half a month,” Akikawa said when they parted downstairs. He did not kiss her. He only gazed at her in silence, and a light seemed to rise from the depths of his heart, filling his eyes with tender affection. In that gaze, feeling, desire, love, and the reluctance of parting wove together into an ocean of devotion that in an instant submerged Wu Aizhen completely. Her eyes grew moist. She did not dare look at him. After getting out of the car, she merely waved a hand toward the window. As she climbed the stairs, she heard the car start and drive away. In that moment, tears streamed down her face. She did not know if she felt joy, love, sorrow, or the ache of letting go — perhaps all of them…
For fifteen days, she hardly set foot outside. She stayed home, organizing and writing a book on psychology. When she was hungry, she boiled milk or made instant noodles. Sometimes when she paused from weariness, she would think of Akikawa Yamaguchi, of the moments they had spent together. In her hand she often fingered a round piece of jade, white as mutton fat, smooth and glossy, about the size of a silver dollar. The jade was shaped like the full moon of the fifteenth night, and on its rim a golden toad was exquisitely carved, nimbly crouching at the edge of the “moon,” lending a touch of liveliness to the thick jade. This piece was what Akikawa had left her when he departed, telling her it was his favorite. The surface of the jade had been rubbed smooth and lustrous by Akikawa’s touch. Seeing it, Wu Aizhen would always think of the cherry blossoms on his back and his smooth, bare skin… Akikawa had not called her, and she had not called him. It seemed to her that something between them transcended language. A dream bound her and him tightly together, and nothing could interfere — even a telephone call would startle that dream. The dream was in her heart and in his; no matter how far apart they were, they were dreaming the same dream. Everything about him, even his faintest scent, lingered around her. Every day she could feel him, hear him, smell and touch him. His love had never left… She lived alone for fifteen days in this dream of love.
Once, she did go downstairs, to the mailbox to collect a Buddhist magazine. She found a letter from Zheng Meiqin.
Dr. Wu,
As I write this reply to you, I do so with a trace of shame and repentance. Over these past few days, I have read and reread the letter you wrote me, listened to that disc, and looked through the magazine you sent. Most importantly, Ding Yiming had a long talk with me. He said you had been to see him. All of this touched me deeply and made me reflect on everything I have done in recent years. I have been asking myself, what on earth has happened to me? What on earth have I been doing? I once felt that Ding Yiming did not understand me at all, but now I finally see — how much did I ever truly understand him? It was I who measured him by my own heart. It was I who failed to understand him, that’s all. His criticisms of me in the past were really only his seeing that my words and my actions did not match. He wanted me to remedy those shortcomings, yet I grew distant from him because of it. That is what made him more and more disappointed in me and brought our relationship to the brink of collapse.
In my dealings with Ren Qingfei, he once said that I had a powerful need to control and possess, and that he could not bear it. At the time, I thought he was only making excuses to escape responsibility. But now I understand: infatuation with one’s own emotions inevitably creates an intense dependence on external feelings, and because of attachment comes fear of losing, and because of that fear comes the powerful need to control and possess. And it was this possessiveness and control that drove Ren Qingfei away. No one can bear it, for it is a cage for the emotions, a hell of love.
And infatuation with one’s own emotions stems from absolute selfishness and self-love. A selfish, self-loving person always puts her own feelings first in every relationship. Anyone who disrespects her, abandons her, or wounds her feelings becomes an enemy. That is who I am, and that is the mistake Mi Lang made as well. While we were savoring the thrill of revenge against each other, we lost the noble qualities that belong to a person of dignity. Both of us gained far less than we lost.
In the Analects, Confucius says that a gentleman should “repay injury with justice — otherwise, how shall one repay kindness?” That is the conduct of a gentleman. After reading your letter, I understand that in Buddhism, the Bodhisattva “repays injury with virtue and repays kindness with love.” Although I cannot yet comprehend this “great loving-kindness and compassionate love” of the Bodhisattva, nor can I act as a Buddhist Bodhisattva does, I believe that in this life I can at least become a modest gentleman.
I will not trouble Mi Lang anymore. I have even had a talk with him. Though we cannot be friends after our parting, I hope that neither his heart nor mine will harbor hatred. And I have now accomplished this — inspired by your wisdom and loving heart. Dr. Wu, I thank you sincerely.
As for my relationship with Ren Qingfei, I do not know whether he is with you now. But if you see him, please tell him that I will no longer blame him for his irresponsibility, nor fault him for leaving. I offer him my apology for the way I behaved in that relationship and my gratitude for the happiness and fulfillment he once brought me. People often say that love and hate grow side by side, that they are two faces of human love. But from you I have come to understand that if each of us will only temper our selfishness a little, we can let the ones we love bask in the sunlight of love rather than imprison them in the cage of hatred. The love that grows alongside hate is not true love — it is possessiveness, jealousy, control, and anger. It torments others in “love’s name” while wounding oneself as well…
The truths that the Dharma proclaims — I truly encountered them for the first time through the letter and magazine you sent. Though I have not yet genuinely awakened to the heart of the Dharma Realm of Loving Kindness, Compassion, and universal love that you spoke of, I have seen in your magnanimity, your goodwill, and your freedom of spirit the charm and grace of a person who practices the Buddhadharma — even though you keep saying that you have grasped only the barest surface of the teachings. The Buddhadharma is vast and profound, and the writings of the Buddhas and Bodhisattvas are as boundless as the ocean, but I am willing to set foot in them. I wish to immerse my heart in the ocean of the Buddha’s wisdom, and I hope that you, who have gone ahead on this path, can give me guidance and help.
There was a time when I prided myself on undertaking the work of spreading and upholding traditional Chinese culture, yet I myself never drew nourishment from the essence of that culture to cultivate my character, establish my life’s purpose, or perfect my personality. Every day my mouth spoke of spreading traditional culture, but my heart thought only of my own feelings and my company’s profits. Ding Yiming was right: I am only a corporate leader and book merchant driven by greed for profit, vain and fond of the spotlight. Mencius said, “Knowing shame is the beginning of courage.” I hope that this little courage to correct my errors, born of knowing shame, can bring me a new life, a new character, a new outlook on life and values.
It is true that a person’s life matters, and the emotions matter deeply. But living is a matter of relationship between oneself and all things in the world. By being born human, we are already situated within a vast and complex web of life and relationships. Each person within it is unique, each has an independent character and dignity — whether they are labeled good or bad by our moral standards. To face things squarely, to handle the gains and losses of one’s feelings well, to manage one’s various relationships with everyone, and to dwell in harmony with people and with all things in the world — that is the true meaning of life. Otherwise, life is nothing but water without a source. And those who can live in harmony with all things while finding joy in themselves must surely possess the broad and encompassing heart of Buddhist Loving Kindness and Compassion and universal love. For only thus can “harmony” be achieved; only thus can one avoid letting the cravings of personal emotional gain and loss betray the impartiality of the Way and the tolerance of Virtue. Only thus can one truly realize the noble gentleman’s aspiration: cultivate oneself, establish one’s purpose, regulate the family, govern the state, and bring peace to all under Heaven. I have rambled on at such length only to express a few thoughts that have stirred in me these last few days. I am sorry to impose upon you. If you do not think me unworthy, I would like to become your friend and often receive your guidance and correction.
P.S. I have purchased all the Buddhist books you recommended. I will read them diligently.
Wishing you everything that your heart desires!
A deeply ashamed and grateful friend,
Zheng Meiqin
XX/XX/XXXX
After reading the letter, the images rose again before Wu Aizhen’s eyes: Zheng Meiqin’s imperious way of speaking, the warmth of instant familiarity, her fox-like smile, scene after scene of her holding a cigarette between long, slender fingers, sunk in thought. But because Wu Aizhen was at that moment wholly immersed in the stillness of love, all of this now appeared utterly endearing — so full of personality, so spirited. Even Zheng’s hitting Mi Lang seemed like two children playing, getting angry and fighting. And recalling Mi Lang with his head wrapped in bandages — so ridiculous and comical — cursing viciously, Wu Aizhen now felt it was nothing at all, just the mischief and pranks of a naughty child. In the presence of love, everything turned wondrous and beautiful. There was no wrong that could not be forgiven. Wu Aizhen marveled at how beautiful this love that had risen in her heart truly was. It seemed to fill the whole room, to fill all of time and space. In this love there was no loneliness, no solitude, no sense of loss, no fear of gain and loss. This love could carry one’s felt experience beyond time and space; it could transform decay into wonder.
Wu Aizhen immediately sent Zheng Meiqin a brief text reply, telling her the letter had arrived and conveying her love-filled greetings. Zheng replied that she was away on a business trip and was overjoyed to receive the message; she would visit Wu Aizhen when she returned to City A. Reading Zheng Meiqin’s cheerful words, Wu Aizhen found herself thinking that if people in this world could be happy and joyful every moment of every day, what a beautiful world it would be.
That same evening after receiving Zheng Meiqin’s letter, Wu Aizhen also got a call from Ding Yiming. He said he was now studying at the Central Party School. He had originally planned to invite Wu Aizhen again to go see her Master together, but he had been in such a rush that he could only wait until he was back. “That day was such an extraordinary experience. I even forgot to ask how you got home and just left by myself. And I forgot to give the Master the red envelope I had prepared.” “It’s nothing. The Master doesn’t mind such things. I took a taxi home.” “How long will you be studying in Beijing?” “About half a year, but if there are days off in between, I can come back. I tried calling you several times, but couldn’t get through. Later I mentioned it to Zheng Meiqin and realized I had written down your number wrong. I’m really sorry.” “It’s nothing. Between kindred spirits, this sort of thing often happens — when hearts are connected, phones often fail to connect.” Ding Yiming burst out laughing at that…
Fifteen days passed, and Wu Aizhen still had no news of Akikawa Yamaguchi. She called him on her own initiative, but both Akikawa’s and Keiko’s phones were switched off.
A small knot of anxiety formed in her heart. Still, she thought, it had only just been fifteen days, hadn’t it? How could he time his business so precisely? As long as father and daughter were both safe and healthy, that was enough. But what if Akikawa did not come? What if she never heard from him again? The thought had barely formed before she dismissed it. Absolutely impossible. Something must have happened that prevented even Keiko from being reachable. A faint unease crept into her heart.
And so she did her best to adjust her state of mind, to remain in a happy and joyful state of waiting, and went on writing her novel about psychology.
On the seventeenth day, Wu Aizhen finally saw Zheng Meiqin arrive. She had returned from her business trip and came laden with delicious things to eat, and she had bought Wu Aizhen a Tang-style outfit. The soft pink top was long, nearly reaching the knee, and the trousers beneath were a golden red. Wearing it, she looked like an Indian girl. Wu Aizhen modeled it walking back and forth across the living room imitating a fashion model, and Zheng Meiqin clapped her hands with delight. “I knew this Tang-style outfit would look wonderful on you.” Wu Aizhen said she loved it too.
As they chatted, when Zheng Meiqin learned that Wu Aizhen had been eating nothing but instant noodles, milk, and bread for the past several days, she immediately decided to stay and cook for her for a few days. Wu Aizhen protested repeatedly, explaining that she had been absorbed in her writing and her mind had simply not been on cooking, and that normally she was perfectly capable of making dishes that were pleasing to the eye, fragrant, and delicious. Zheng Meiqin paid no attention to anything she said. She rolled up her sleeves and marched straight into the kitchen. A moment later she ran out, announced that the refrigerator was completely empty, and dashed off again with great bustle to buy a huge load of groceries. Wu Aizhen had no choice but to let her be and returned to her writing.
At noon, when Zheng Meiqin’s booming voice called Wu Aizhen out to eat, she could hardly keep her mouth from falling open in surprise. Zheng Meiqin could have rivaled a master chef: in a short time she had prepared a whole table of chicken, duck, fish, and meat, and had even simmered a delicious pot of soup. As she ate, Wu Aizhen could not stop praising her. She said Ding Yiming was too blessed to have married her—a woman who could shine in the parlor and work wonders in the kitchen, and whose cooking was this superb. Zheng Meiqin’s smile, however, was strained, and a shadow of something sad crossed her face. Wu Aizhen fell silent and did not mention Ding Yiming again.
After the meal the two of them rested a while, lying down and sharing a great many intimate whispers. When Ding Yiming came up, Zheng Meiqin said, “Gratitude is not love.” Wu Aizhen felt a flicker of doubt and a small impulse to defend Ding Yiming, but she held back and asked, “Then are you saying that all you feel for Ding Yiming now is gratitude?”
“That’s not what I mean. After all, we’ve been in love since college, and as the saying goes, one day of marriage breeds a hundred days of kindness—we do have a certain emotional foundation. It’s just that Ding Yiming’s generosity makes me feel deeply ashamed. When I’m with him, I sometimes feel weighed down by guilt. My heart can’t return to that initial passion, to the equal love we once had, and what’s left is more a mix of shame and gratitude.”
Wu Aizhen smiled. “How silly you are. If even now you can’t sweep these obstacles out of your heart, then you really are failing Ding Yiming and betraying the love that belongs to you both. Perhaps everyone makes mistakes in life, and you are lucky—you’ve met a tolerant, generous man who cherishes the bond between you without regret or resentment. You ought to wake up. If you still care for him, then what you should do now is love him with your whole heart, cherish him, treasure every kshana you still have together, and not let any external condition or the inner doubts and affected sentimentality destroy that love. That would be the true shame and true gratitude inside your love. From the perspective of the Dharma Realm, every kshana of ours is a rebirth, a new life. Every day and every kshana of your love with Ding Yiming is new—each is a first meeting. If you think of it that way, you may not only recover that original passion and warmth, but also the mystery and romance of first love.”
Zheng Meiqin smiled too, but her smile held a trace of sadness. “You understand love so freely and so deeply. I envy you. I’ll try to do as you say. Still—can you tell me about your own love life? I’m curious.”
Wu Aizhen fell silent for a moment, then said, “My current love is waiting and devotion. What I’ve experienced in the past was all beautiful.”
Zheng Meiqin looked puzzled. “I heard Ren Qingfei talk about your romantic life. He said you once had a boyfriend you were with for a long time, and that you broke up later because of your cultivation. Your relationship with Ren Qingfei didn’t really go anywhere either. I got the sense that Ren Qingfei still feels some confusion and resentment toward you, and yet you’re so wise, so penetrating on so many things—why couldn’t you just talk it through with them? Is there some conflict between practicing the Way and love?”
This time Wu Aizhen was silent a long while, and a faint, barely noticeable gleam of tears shone in her eyes. “Actually, it’s not all because of cultivation. Having a perfect family life does not interfere with cultivating the Mahayana Bodhisattva Path. But at certain moments a cultivator’s way of life really does clash with ordinary expectations—our orientation toward life and values, for example, or the fact that practitioners who follow the path of direct realization do need, at a certain stage of Cultivation and Certification, a period of retreat from emotion and desire. All of this can look like heresy in the eyes of worldly people. Because cultivation takes a long time—sometimes a whole lifetime and still the goal is never reached. Sentient beings cling to appearances; even if they can understand your choices at first, if they don’t see a halo of success for a long time, they begin to doubt, to speculate, to slander what you’re doing. Besides, before a cultivator has attained the Way, she still carries unrefined habitual tendencies and desires inside her, which makes it very easy for others to misunderstand everything about her practice—and that misunderstanding is only natural. Even practicing alone isn’t easy. Emotional affinities can be found everywhere in this world. Even with the restraint of the precepts, it’s very hard for beings with deep emotional ties to resist the physical and mental temptation, and this is even more true for a Mahayana practitioner. Someone of the highest faculties and capacity can emerge from the mud unstained, but for an ordinary practitioner, the moment one encounters such karmic conditions, one may be left with little more than a heart set on the Way.
As for my own romantic experience, even if I hadn’t practiced, I think these things could still have happened. Only the person toward whom my emotional affinities ripened might have been different. Love between two people is not sweet and lasting just because one’s heart is willing to give. Everyone is easily seduced by all the forms and appearances of this world. I can’t deny that the feelings we shared back then were real; we did love each other. But how changeable it all was. Perhaps very few people truly know, at any given moment, what they should have and what they shouldn’t do; most are busier thinking about what else they could have, and whether they could have more. I lose my way sometimes, too. But in Buddhism there are Mahayana bodhisattvas who return by the power of their vows. Their vow-power determines that in this life they can only put attaining the Way first, that they can live only for the benefit of sentient beings in the Three Realms, and everything they do is only for the swift fulfillment of that vow. For the sake of sentient beings, they sometimes cannot attend to the emotional gains and losses of individuals or families. My master once talked with me about this. In Chan samadhi I have also contemplated my own past-life affinities, but no matter how great a vow one may have once taken, I am still an individual human being right now, and I must fulfill my human obligations and responsibilities, attending to the emotional feelings of others. Yet because the tasks and requirements my master gave me call for me to personally try many different dharma doors of accomplishment—while an ordinary practitioner only needs to choose one—I have far less personal time and space for myself during cultivation. I have deeply reproached myself over the filial devotion and the feelings I have been unable to fulfill. The only thing I can do is dedicate the merit of my practice to all the people who love me and have given me help, and also to all the sentient beings still wandering in the Six Paths of Rebirth.”
Zheng Meiqin, sitting on the edge of the bed, had been quietly watching the half-reclining Wu Aizhen as she spoke, taking in that kind and tranquil face, the glimmer of sorrow in her eyes, and suddenly she felt something stir in her heart.
“Doctor Wu, to be honest, when I heard Ren Qingfei talk about you, I felt some jealousy and misunderstanding. I thought, what good is your practice? When it comes to feelings, aren’t you still just like any ordinary woman—up and down, wavering and indecisive. But after talking with you, I realize how open and magnanimous your heart is, how full of love and wisdom you are. A person like you shouldn’t make a mess of her emotional life. You ought to have the strength to steer your own emotional course, to know clearly what to do and what not to do—open, decisive, with right and wrong sharply drawn. But now I understand: you and I really are different. Maybe we’ve both had disappointments and setbacks in love, but you act out of a vow to benefit all living beings, whereas I was only seeking to satisfy my own selfish desires. So in the gains and losses of emotion, you keep purifying, perfecting, and elevating yourself, while my feelings, driven by selfish craving, can only make me self-indulgent, degraded, and lost. That’s why I feel you grow wiser and more peaceful, while I grow narrower and more selfish.”
“I’m not as good as you say. But you’re right about one thing: the vow-power that persists life after life is crucial to attaining the Way. The Dharma teaches that whatever cause you plant, that kind of fruit you will harvest. But before the Way is attained, even when you act for the sake of a vow, habitual tendencies and desires will surface from time to time. Having a vow doesn’t mean you won’t degenerate. I, too, constantly examine myself and ask whether my conduct matches that of a true cultivator.” Here Wu Aizhen paused, then smiled and went on, “And you shouldn’t be too modest. Your insight, passion, and loving heart are things I’ve always appreciated, and you’re so talented—equally at home with the zither, chess, calligraphy, and painting.”
Hearing Wu Aizhen’s praise, Zheng Meiqin laughed happily…
In the afternoon, Wu Aizhen went back to writing, while Zheng Meiqin tried sitting meditation in the study. But before ten minutes had passed she got up, grabbed a book to read, and said her legs had gone numb. Wu Aizhen teased her for having no perseverance, telling her that when you first start sitting meditation you have to learn patience, you have to persevere. Zheng Meiqin said her mind was too agitated and wouldn’t settle. She went into the living room, smoked a cigarette, and only then sat down again. Casually flipping through Wu Aizhen’s manuscript, a certain passage caught her eye.
A lay disciple once asked a dhyāna master, “Master, what is love?” The master replied, “Love is devotion and tolerance. Emotion is respect, understanding, and trust. Put all of that together and you have love.” Another time, a female lay disciple asked the same master the same question: “Master, what is love?”
The master said, “For you, love is endurance plus discovering the beautiful things in another person, and then affirming them, appreciating them, praising them.” The female disciple asked, “And what if I can’t discover anything beautiful in him and can’t stand him either? Does that mean love is over?” The master replied, “Not at all! That is precisely the moment when you can observe for yourself how your own pain, afflictions, and unease are impermanent. Then you can repent of being a petty person, for a noble person can always find beauty in others; only a petty person cannot…”
“Hey, what kind of master is that? Did you make him up for your novel? Once, in a monastery, I met a nun who was said to have very high attainment, and I asked her a few questions about feelings. The nun said, ‘Everything is like a dream, an illusion, a bubble, a shadow; like dew and like lightning—thus should you contemplate it.’ I can contemplate others as empty, but I can’t contemplate my own as empty. And now you come along and tell me I have to be loving and compassionate, love universally, not treat other people’s feelings casually, be equal, respectful, tolerant, and all the rest—now I can’t even contemplate other people’s feelings as empty!” After this machine-gun barrage, Wu Aizhen smiled and said, “You’ve never truly contemplated anyone else as empty, and you’ve never contemplated yourself as empty either. If you had truly contemplated emptiness, you would treat everyone equally. You’ve been following your whims all along: the two you like, you can’t contemplate as empty at all; the ones you don’t like, you can’t be bothered with and so you casually dismiss them with the dream-and-bubble phrase. That’s not contemplating emptiness; that’s selfishness. You’ve misunderstood that line from the Vajra Sutra. Let me give you a copy of the Vajra Sutra—read it once a day and let it sink in slowly.”
“The Chan master in your novel—is that your own master? I heard Ding Yiming mention him.”
“No. Although my master has never answered questions about love, he is someone who teaches according to the occasion, and I have benefited immensely from him.”
She remembered three people who had asked her master the very same question. The first was extremely arrogant; he believed he had already attained a certain mastery of the Tripitaka—the sutras, the vinaya, and the treatises. He asked the master, “Master, what is a Buddha?”
Hearing this, the master sat in silence without saying a word. As the man waited in stillness, he suddenly had a realization, bowed, and left.
The second person was in a dazed and unsettled state. He asked, “Master, what is a Buddha?”
The master replied, “Let go of what you are holding in your mind right now, and that is it.”
The third person was filled with fierce anger and resentment. He asked, “Master, what is a Buddha?”
The master replied, “The Buddha is tolerance.”
“Every answer a Chan master gives is meant to break through the student’s deepest attachment. My master is able to answer in a way that suits your faculties and capacity and the state you’re in when you ask the question. And even when he doesn’t say a single word, his stillness and silent concentration seem to exhaust all the words and language of the Dharma Realm, to exhaust all dharmas, so that a disciple with a connection can awaken from his quiet to the principle of the non-duality of emptiness and existence, or receive an inconceivable blessing. He has that level of realization.
But there are some masters who only speak lip-service Chan. Even if they are eloquent and clever with words, they can’t really give their disciples much in the end.”
As Wu Aizhen recalled her master’s words, his voice, face, and smile were vividly before her. She did not know why, but every time she remembered him, she felt an urge to cry. Her master was now in retreat. It was when Akikawa Yamaguchi said he wanted to meet the master that she called and found out. The one who answered the phone was a monk, a disciple who was guarding the master’s retreat, and he said the master had already entered retreat and would no longer see any students or visitors. Wu Aizhen calculated the date he had entered—it was precisely the day after her visit with Ding Yiming, yet on that first day the master had not breathed a word about it to her. She did not blame him; she only wondered whether the master’s sudden retreat meant something was about to happen, and deep inside she felt a faint unease.
Zheng Meiqin was sorry to hear the master had gone into retreat. She said how much she longed to meet the old master as soon as possible. Wu Aizhen observed that Zheng Meiqin understood many Dharma principles the moment they were brought up; her comprehension was extremely quick, and she could immediately connect them to reality and form her own opinions. Wu Aizhen thought that sentient beings of the modern age were widely experienced and knowledgeable, and in terms of understanding the Buddhadharma they were no worse than the disciples who lived when the Buddha was in India. Yet they could not attain the fruit of the path. The crucial difference, she suspected, was that they only talked and did not practice. In those days, the Buddha’s disciples listened to his teachings and immediately accepted them with faith, upheld them, and put them into practice.
Zheng Meiqin said that her unwillingness to follow the practice came from not yet treating the Dharma as the most important thing in her heart, or as what she desired most. The second reason was that she had not yet seen any practical benefit from Cultivation and Realization of the Dharma. Zheng Meiqin said the Buddha should fashion some toys for sentient beings, so they would find the Dharma enjoyable. Before their mental faculties matured, sentient beings would never know what they truly wanted; it changed from one stage to the next, shifting from kshana to kshana. She hoped the Buddhas and Bodhisattvas would make more toys; someone like her, who forgot righteousness at the sight of profit, was greedy for food and play, yet had sharp eyes, would certainly be the first to seize them.
Apart from eating and sleeping, the two of them spent almost all their time talking. Only on rare occasions did Wu Aizhen find time to write or Zheng Meiqin time to sit in meditation.
Zheng Meiqin brought up the Children’s Classics Recitation Project that her company was promoting, and as she spoke her face lit up with an irrepressible joy and excitement. She said that when she heard children in their teens fluently reciting the Analects, the Three Character Classic, and the Standards for Students from memory in Chinese, and Shakespeare’s Sonnets or the Declaration of Independence in English, she was sometimes so moved that hot tears filled her eyes. The children’s power of memory surpassed her imagination. They did not yet understand the meaning of these texts, but the words of sages and great writers had already been poured into their minds. Someday, as the children grew, those words would seep into the depths of their souls and become one with every arising and movement of their thoughts. Though they would never meet the sages face to face, their hearts would resonate with the sages, and their words and deeds would follow the moral compass of those ancient worthies. In the children’s fluent recitation, in their courteous manners and cultivated bearing, she seemed to find the root of China and to glimpse the future of her homeland. She was running pilot programs in several cities, and hoped that one day the selections and the planned model for guiding children’s growth could be adopted into the national curriculum and enter regular schools, so that every child in China—and even children around the world—could benefit, linking traditional Chinese culture with the world’s advanced science and technology. She said it had already been ten years. Many people had dedicated themselves to this cause, and she had walked a difficult road amid a clamor of opinions, but she had persevered. Children, after all, live in a new age, and as their own wisdom and understanding grew, they would naturally sift through the outdated and ill-fitting elements of Confucian ritual within traditional culture, keeping what was valuable and discarding what was not. But there was so much that was good that we could not afford to lose; we must inherit it and carry it forward. The return to simplicity and naturalness in Laozi’s non-action, the gentleman’s path of self-cultivation and fulfilling one’s destiny in Confucius, and Mencius’s witty humor and his carefree attitude of beating a clay drum and singing—all of these could offer limitless inspiration to modern people whose bodies and minds could not relax. They allowed people, through the classics and their words, to glimpse the bearing of the sages and to reflect on how, as fellow human beings, we should face life and how we should spend our time on this earth.
When Zheng Meiqin was immersed in these words, Wu Aizhen saw her eyes sparkle, full of hope and full of wisdom. A soft radiance and a smile rested on her face, and her whole being seemed enveloped in a transcendent, otherworldly grace that irresistibly drew others in, making them willingly accept her views. She was utterly different from the Zheng Meiqin who was normally sunk in lust and desire. The Little Shramanera’s infatuation with her had probably come from seeing this finest side of her. Why, Wu Aizhen thought, could people not let this finest side shine forth from their bodies and minds at every moment? She was pondering Zheng Meiqin, and she was examining herself as well. The brilliance that Zheng Meiqin radiated at that moment came precisely from no longer thinking only of herself, but thinking of thousands upon thousands of children, of the happiness and well-being of everyone in the world. If a person could stop calculating solely in terms of personal gain and loss or entanglements of emotion and resentment, and instead think from the standpoint of benefiting others and benefiting all things—even if she only thought it and did nothing—she would naturally give off a transcendent, otherworldly grace. It was an impartial grace born of loving kindness and compassion, of universal love. It was not hard to attain; it lay within every arising and movement of thought. Every person, no matter how insignificant, possessed this ability and could, in a single moment, shine with such brilliance. The instant you set aside a selfish thought and tried to stand in another’s shoes, to be tolerant, respectful, and selflessly loving, others could see that extraordinary, uncommon grace in you. It was a grace possessed by sages, possessed by Bodhisattvas, and possessed by every ordinary sentient being as well.
Wu Aizhen finally received a call from Akikawa Yamaguchi. He said he could not return to China; his situation was very dangerous and the matter was exceedingly thorny and complicated. It was not convenient for him to contact her often, nor could he say when they might meet again. He said he missed her very much, and told her to take care. Before Wu Aizhen could say anything, Akikawa hung up abruptly. For days afterward, scenes of gang shootouts from television kept flashing in Wu Aizhen’s mind, along with a failed assassination somewhere, and Akikawa himself being hunted down. She had always sensed the coldness and cruelty lurking deep in Akikawa’s heart, but she had never actually seen him act on it. Instead, before her, he had shown his calm, composed, wise, and loving side. Whatever kind of party boss he might be, in Wu Aizhen’s heart there was now only tender love and concern. She often sat quietly and wondered: in the eyes of some people, was he perhaps an utterly irredeemable demon king of this world? If she discovered the evil deeds and foul acts he had committed, would she sacrifice her personal ties for the sake of righteousness? Perhaps he would always hide that side of himself perfectly before her, never revealing it, and she would never catch any evidence of his wrongdoing. He was in Japan, across distant waters and long roads; she might never know what he was doing there. When he had leisure, he came to China for a hurried meeting with her. What future could possibly await them? As the saying goes, “Those who follow different paths cannot work together.” She and he were on completely different roads. In conduct, on the level of consciousness, their pursuits and views seemed diametrically opposed, yet they had come together in harmony. It was because there was love between them. At this, Wu Aizhen sighed. How long could such love last? Love was impermanent, but perhaps human tolerance, understanding, and selflessness could rekindle it in a single kshana. She thought of Ding Yiming’s tolerance toward Zheng Meiqin, of the remorse and gratitude that had welled up in Zheng Meiqin’s heart—these were the sparks that rekindled love. Those who were promiscuous or who lightly shifted their affections were, on the contrary, the very ones who extinguished their own spark of love. They might reignite love and desire in another person, but if they lacked tolerance, remorse, and gratitude, if they did not possess the beautiful qualities that make us human, then love for anyone would be a river with no source and would one day dry up. A person without love would be miserable and coldly indifferent; a life without love would leave one as if trapped in a long, dark night, lonely and afraid. But love springs from all the beautiful qualities of humanity. Only when we ourselves possess those qualities can we never lose love. There is nothing to condemn in whatever life a person chooses. But the attitude with which one faces that choice is something that must be learned, through the religion one believes in, through every friend and book one encounters, through constant searching, reflection, and self-examination in the course of living. Only then will one’s life be vivid and splendid at each stage.
After Zheng Meiqin left, Wu Aizhen found herself thinking deeply. From Ding Yiming and Zheng Meiqin, she suddenly gained a new insight into love. She would never again feel lost over love; she would never again believe that there was no lasting true love in this world. Of course, for this insight of body and mind, she also had Akikawa Yamaguchi to thank. It was he who, with an evil image and a loving heart, had shattered her attachment to “goodness” from within. She decided to return to her hometown to visit her parents. She felt that once a person no longer had any doubts about love, once love no longer had barriers of time and space, she would no longer be lonely, no longer adrift, no longer have any anxieties or worries. At that moment, she stopped worrying about Akikawa Yamaguchi. She firmly believed that love would bring him good fortune.
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