Читать книгу Watching the Tree: A Chinese Daughter Reflects on Happiness, Spiritual Beliefs and Universal Wisdom - Adeline Mah Yen - Страница 6

Like many Chinese scholars, my grandfather (Ye Ye) was an ardent follower of the I Ching. He viewed it as his Bible: a book of wisdom as well as a book of divination. A few months after his death from diabetes, I came across his copy of the I Ching and a small bundle of sticks wrapped together in a piece of red silk. At first I thought the sticks were chopsticks but they were too thin even though they were all of equal length. Later I discovered that they were stalks from the yarrow plant.

We were living in Hong Kong and I had been allowed to come home from boarding school to prepare for my forthcoming education in England. It was the first time I had been home since Ye Ye’s funeral. I was sleeping in his old room and it was still full of his belongings and the odour of his cigars. Although I was euphoric at the imminent prospect of going away to a new school in a foreign land far from my stepmother, I missed my grandfather. The sight of his much-thumbed copy of the I Ching, yellow with age, brought a sudden pang that caused the tears to course down my cheeks. On opening its cover, I saw his name, Yen Qian Li , and the year Guang Xu 21 (1896) written with brush and ink. He was then eighteen years old and his calligraphy seemed to shimmer with all the hope and joy of youth. Knowing that my stepmother planned to discard his books and redecorate his room, I packed the tattered volume into my trunk and took it to Oxford with me.

Ten years passed. I graduated from medical school in London and was mired in a tormented relationship with my tutor, Professor Decker. Karl was a bachelor, sixteen years older than I, and already established in his scientific career. It was an impossible affair: Karl would vacillate from day to day between commitment and escape. Although he had warned me about his emotional instability, I was convinced I could weather his depressions and make him happy. He was terrified of marriage but tempted by my youthful optimism. His rejections were invariably followed by lengthy poetic letters tinged with love and regret – letters that bound me to him even as he verbally protested that we had to part.

This situation continued for seven years. I took a job in Edinburgh to distance myself physically from him. His letters followed and I began to live for them. One Sunday morning, as I lay in bed listening to the church bells ringing and feeling forlorn, I glanced up at my bookshelf and saw my Ye Ye’s copy of the I Ching leaning against the cardboard box in which I stored Karl’s letters. In the ten years since I had left Hong Kong I had never once opened the ragged tome. Under Karl’s influence, I now considered myself a westernised intellectual and had nothing but contempt for ancient Chinese books of divination.

I took the book down and saw with it the bundle of sticks neatly bound with a cord. They were stored in a special pouch sewn ingeniously on to the book’s cloth binding. On the back cover was a list of instructions on how to use the I Ching. The reader was informed that within the bundle there were fifty yarrow stalks as well as two sticks of incense. Yarrow, or milfoil, was a common plant in China and its stalks had been used since ancient times for purposes of divination. The incense was to be replaced after each reading.

Randomly, I flipped through the pages: the book consisted of sixty-four hexagrams ( gua), the margins of which were annotated in many places by my grandfather’s familiar handwriting. Next to no. 29 ( kan), he had written ‘pi ji tai lai’ (light at the end of the tunnel).

Curious and excited, I began to read:

The hexagram kan consists of two identical trigrams also named kan , one on top and one at the bottom. A yang line (continuous line) lies between two yin lines (interrupted lines) . Kan represents the heart locked within the body. Because kan is repeated twice in this hexagram, it means ‘repetition of danger’.

The word kan denotes ‘plunging in’. A yang line has plunged in and is enclosed by two yin lines like water in a ravine. This hexagram represents an objective situation that is very dangerous. It is a situation in which one is trapped as water is trapped in a ravine. Like water, a person can escape only if he behaves resolutely and with appropriate caution.

Thoroughly intrigued, I turned to the beginning. ‘This ancient book of wisdom,’ I read, ‘may be of help at moments of indecision. Treat it with reverence. Follow the directions meticulously. Phrase your question carefully. Receive the answer respectfully. Ponder its significance and act according to its guidance.’

For some reason, at that moment, the words seemed momentous: like a message sent by my grandfather from beyond his grave, delivered at that instant for a particular purpose. After studying the instructions, I followed them scrupulously. I bathed and dressed as if I was going to church, then made my bed, cleaned the room, locked my door and unplugged my telephone. Feeling somewhat foolish, I placed my bedspread on the floor, arranged the I Ching, a piece of paper and pen, a vase of flowers (brought by Karl on his recent visit) and the fifty yarrow stalks neatly next to each other.

I lit the incense and sat cross-legged on a cushion facing the bedspread. Then I closed my eyes and thought of the last seven years with Karl, remembering the sweetness as well as the pain. After much deliberation, I wrote my question. ‘Will you please give me guidance as to how I should behave in my relationship with Karl?’

Next I started dividing the yarrow stalks exactly as instructed. Though simple, it was a protracted process that took almost an hour. During that time many thoughts went through my mind. Did my Ye Ye ever have such a relationship? Was he at times also unhappy? Why did he write the words ‘pi ji tai la’ next to hexagram no. 29? Will I be able to survive without Karl? Or will I be happier alone?

I found myself talking to my dead grandfather and imagining his answers. Am I going crazy? I thought. What would Karl say if he saw me now – his pupil (the would-be scientist) burning incense and having a dialogue with an ancient book purported to possess spiritual authority! Am I performing an act of ancestor-worship?

Finally, I completed the procedure: having manipulated the stalks I came up with six lines of numbers. After consulting the chart at the back of the book, I found gua no. 44 ( kou). ‘The hexagram kou,’ I read, ‘denotes a predicament in which darkness creeps back furtively after being eliminated. Of its own volition, the female arrives to meet the male. It is highly unlucky and dangerous and one must act promptly to prevent possible disaster.’

I wrote the answer next to my question to the I Ching. I felt the hair rising at the back of my neck as I read and re-read the phrases interpreting the hexagram kou. In all sincerity, I had asked my question and the answer was unequivocal. I must resolve to destroy Karl’s love letters and leave England as soon as possible. I must act promptly to prevent disaster and never go back. There was no doubt in my mind that the I Ching’s advice was sound.

That Sunday morning in Edinburgh was the only occasion I ever consulted the I Ching. After lunch I spent the day in bed reading the rest of the book. As I read, I remember being astonished by the many astute, profound and noble ideas conceived thousands of years ago. For a few hours that day, the book came alive and spoke to me personally. I could almost hear my grandfather exhorting me to continue searching for guidance from his favourite book.

Afterwards, all through the agony of breaking free, I would re-read my hexagram every time I wavered. Not only did it point to a course of action I needed to follow, it sustained me throughout the ordeal. At our final parting Karl asked for a token by which to remember our years together. I rewrapped my grandfather’s I Ching in its original silk and mailed it to him. For me, Ye Ye’s book had become a symbol of deliverance. By giving it to Karl I was declaring my independence … but I never did tell him what happened that morning in Edinburgh between the I Ching and me.

In China the I Ching has long been considered to be the oldest book in the world and a great classic, as well as the foundation of Chinese scholarship. Indeed, it seems to transcend time and national boundaries, providing perennial significance and solace. The ideas it contains have continued to play a dominant role in Chinese thinking from ancient times to the present. It is thought to have been written over 4000 years ago, but its exact age is unknown. The great seventeenth-century German mathematician Gottfried von Leibniz called it ‘the oldest monument of scholarship’. To Carl Jung, it was ‘the experimental foundation of classical Chinese philosophy’.

Legend attributes the authorship to Fu Xi* (2953–2838 BC), an ancient and mythical king of China who supposedly led his people into the age of agriculture. In ancient times the book was used for the purposes of divination: words from the I Ching were inscribed on bones known as ‘oracle bones’, some of which were discovered at the turn of the twentieth century.

Much later, around 1150 BC, King Wen , the founder of the Chou dynasty, rearranged the hexagrams (more on this later). He also wrote the judgements (or commentaries) known as Gua T’uan on the hexagrams. One of King Wen’s sons, the Duke of Chou , composed the Hsiao T’uan to expand these judgements.

The title, I Ching, is known in English as The Book of Changes. The word I , pronounced yi, means ‘changes’. This may have arisen from the ancient Chinese character for the lizard or chameleon, , which is known for changing its colour. A lizard can also drop its tail and grow another. The second word, Ching (pronounced jing), means ‘classic’ or ‘book’.

Divination was practised in ancient China for thousands of years. Initially, it was done by incising a tortoise shell with a red-hot stylus until the shell cracked. The diviner then foretold the future by reading the cracked lines. Later, the ancient rulers consulted the I Ching by clustering and dividing yarrow stalks.

The use of the I Ching for such occult purposes aroused suspicion and scorn in many scholars, including Confucius (born 551 BC), who had nothing but contempt for the practice. Having studied the book carefully for many years, Confucius said as he neared the end of his life, ‘If my life were to be prolonged, I would use fifty years to study the I Ching; so that I might escape falling into grave errors.’ He and his disciples subsequently wrote ten appendices ( shi yi) to interpret and clarify the main text of the I Ching. These appendices were strongly influenced by Taoism and expressed sentiments similar to those contained in Lao Zi’s Book of Tao.

The text of the I Ching consists of sixty-four short essays (opinions or ‘judgements’) on important moral, social, psychological and philosophical themes. Each essay is represented by a different symbol known as a gua. Gua is one of those Chinese words which has no exact English equivalent. A rough translation would be ‘emblem of divine guidance and wisdom’. The closest example of a gua in the west would be the sign of the cross. In 1854 a British sinologist named James Legge translated the word gua (as used in the I Ching) into English as ‘trigram’ or ‘hexagram’. A trigram consists of a stack of three short straight lines, whereas a hexagram is made of two trigrams or a stack of six lines. These lines may be divided (broken), undivided (joined) or a mixture of divided and undivided. Every trigram and hexagram has its own name.

Altogether there are eight possible trigrams and sixty-four hexagrams which, with the ten appendices, supposedly represent every possible human situation that can occur in life.

The I Ching contains certain basic and important Chinese concepts. Among them is yin/yang, or the ‘Dualist’ theory. According to this theory, everything in the universe is divided according to the yin or the yang. However, yin and yang are neither competitive nor exclusionist. On the contrary, the two are complementary, interdependent and eventually transform into one another. They are each other’s universal counterparts. This notion may have been derived originally from the experience of ‘day and night’ as well as ‘winter and summer’.

Yin means ‘shady side of a hill’, and is associated with such words as female, moon, darkness, night, negative qi, or spirit of earth, water, absorbent; it is represented by a divided (broken) line in a trigram or hexagram.

Yang means ‘bright side of a hill’, and is identified with such words as male, sun, light, day, positive qi, or spirit of Heaven, fire, creative power; it is indicated by an undivided (joined) line in a trigram or hexagram.

Yin/yang is also represented by two fish in a circle.

The drawing is called Tai-ji Tu or Diagram of the Great Ultimate. One fish is black with a white dot in it. The other is white with a black dot in it. Yin cannot exist without yang and vice versa. Without night there can be no day. Without black there can be no white. Inside every yin there is a little bit of yang. Inside every yang there is a certain degree of yin. (This diagram has been adopted as the national flag of South Korea.)

According to Cheng Yi (1033–1107) of the Song dynasty,

Yin and yang are everywhere. In front and behind. To our left and to our right. Above us and below us. Darkness is the same as diminished light. Light is the same as diminished darkness. They are complementary. Universal counterparts. Yin does not exist without yang and yang does not exist without yin. Two in one and one in two.

Another important concept in the I Ching is that of wu xing , the five elements, five forces or five phases. These are wood, fire, earth, metal and water. They correlate with the five directions (north, south, east, west and centre); the five seasons (spring, summer, earth, autumn and winter); and the five colours, senses, tones, flavours, classics, etc.

On a Chinese map, south is depicted at the top of a circular chart and is associated with fire and summer. East is on the left and corresponds to wood (and growth) and spring. West is to the right and is associated with metal and autumn. North is at the bottom and represents water and winter. At the centre of the circle is the earth. Each direction or season is not unchanging but one phase follows the other continuously.

These five forces or phases are supposed to guide and control all natural phenomena. Sequentially, wood produces fire; fire produces earth (ashes); ashes produce metal (ore is extracted from the earth); metal produces water (dew is deposited on a metal mirror); water produces wood (makes possible the growth of wood). Conversely, water extinguishes fire; fire melts metal; metal cuts wood; wood penetrates earth by the use of the wooden plough; earth soaks up the course of water. The cycle is completed.

The number 5 is very popular in Chinese culture. A teaset frequently consists of a teapot and five cups. Chinese politicians often promise to accomplish five goals during their term in office. When President Nixon visited China in 1972, the Chinese Premier Zhou Enlai outlined five non-negotiable points before meaningful dialogue could begin.

Yin and yang and the five forces form the basis of Chinese thought. They underpin many traditional Chinese patterns of life such as feng shui (‘wind and water’ or geomancy), which is practised when purchasing a home, an office or a burial site; exercises such as qi gong and tai chi; the choice of foods; the practice of Chinese medicine; and religious beliefs such as Taoism and Buddhism. I shall expand on all these themes later in the book.

Before the twentieth century man perceived all matter as being composed of material particles whose movements were governed by partial differential equations and Newton’s laws of mechanics. Western man was preoccupied with causally sequenced events. He was out to conquer nature and fight the forces of evil. The world was thought to be as either for him or against him. Things were black or white. Death was the enemy of life.

These days, physical reality is represented by continuous fields governed by partial differential equations. At the sub-atomic realm, Newtonian physics has been replaced by quantum mechanics and the ‘super-string’ theory. Matter and energy are interchangeable. Time and space are no longer separate realities but complementary to each other. The three dimensions of space have incorporated a fourth dimension: space/time.

At the beginning of the twenty-first century our thinking seems to be veering towards the teachings of the I Ching. In contrast to the thinking of the twentieth century, we now agree with the ancient Chinese philosophers that our world is neither static nor absolute. Everything is relative, as in the duality of yin and yang. Change is the only given, nothing remains the same, and all standards are relative. We are born, we mature, grow old and die. Then the cycle begins again. Life and death are but temporary manifestations of the same central reality. Midnight at home just means midday somewhere else. Only the fact of change itself is unchanging. Eventually, everything will return to the beginning of all things – to the tao (way) or Divine Intelligence of the Universe – because that is how the cycle began initially.

Perhaps it is this belief that no state is permanent but that the pace of change cannot be forced that gives us Chinese our forbearance. I remember being shocked and saddened by my aunt’s poverty and dismal surroundings when I visited her in Shanghai in 1979. She had been driven out of her home by Red Guards during the Cultural Revolution in 1966 and was forced to live in one small room in a neighbour’s house. When I invited her out to lunch, she asked permission to take a bath in our hotel room. She was in the bathroom for so long that I went in to check on her. I found her luxuriating in the tub staring at the ceiling. ‘Are you all right?’ I asked. You have no idea,’ she answered, ‘how delicious it feels to lie in warm water like this unless you have been deprived of a proper bath for thirteen years. It feels so good that it was almost worth the deprivation to have this hour of bliss.’ Then she added, ‘Things are bound to change for the better now. This too will pass. I must not despair when life gets too hard nor be too complacent when I’m too comfortable.’

The German mathematician and philosopher Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz (1646–1716), the inventor of calculus, was introduced to the I Ching through his friendship with the Jesuit priest Father Joachim Bouvet, who served as a missionary in China. Bouvet showed Leibniz the diagram drawn by Shao Yung (a Song dynasty scholar), an arrangement of the sixty-four hexagrams. When told that the hexagrams were analogous to seeds containing all the potential answers to everything in the universe, Leibniz said of Fu Xi, author of the I Ching, ‘He is the founder of scholarship in China and the Far East. His I Ching table, handed down to the world, is the oldest monument of scholarship.’

Looking at the hexagrams of the I Ching, Leibniz recognised his own system of binary mathematics in the symbols by representing yin (the broken line) as zero and yang (the unbroken line) as one. Thus a hexagram with one divided (yin) line and five undivided (yang) lines would have the sequence of numbers 011111; whereas a hexagram with one undivided (yang) line and five divided (yin) lines would produce 100000. Some scholars suggest that Leibniz was inspired by Shao Yung’s diagram to invent binary mathematics in the first place.

In our time, both the number system in computer science and Larry Fullerton’s recently patented digital pulse technology use Leibniz’s binary mathematics to carry out their functions. Like the computer, the I Ching was also designed by ‘wise men’ as a mechanism to facilitate man’s thinking in processing information. Aptly, I Ching has been nicknamed the ‘poor man’s computer’, the ‘archetypal computer’ and the ‘most archaic computer’.

Carl Jung began studying the I Ching during the late nineteenth century and continued to consult it frequently until his death in 1961. Jung viewed the conscious and the unconscious as having a correlating function in man’s behaviour, where the unconscious normally plays a complementary role to the conscious. Occasionally, however, this becomes impossible and then the unconscious is forced to be the adversary of the conscious, thereby causing inner conflict.

Undoubtedly, there are moments in our lives when we find ourselves stuck at a psychological impasse. Inside, we are in turmoil yet we are unwilling to admit the problem to ourselves, let alone discuss it with anyone else.

At such times, the conscious and unconscious may become successfully reunited through psychotherapy. It is important, however, that the patient in search of peace of mind be healed as a whole person, not treated merely for a particular symptom. Carl Jung agreed with the I Ching that there is a little yin (female) energy in every male and a little yang (male) energy in every female. He advised a holistic approach in treating patients, calling it ‘the process of individuation through a creative integration of opposites’. The key to success, according to Jung, was to make the patient aware of his unconscious as he goes about his conscious everyday life.

Jungian psychotherapy aims to reveal to the patient certain vague and unformed primordial images which may have manifested themselves in his dreams and fantasies. It is none other than a symbolic quest for his unconscious. The sixty-four hexagrams in the I Ching have been considered by some to be the union of psychic opposites. Each hexagram is composed of two trigrams. This combination may be seen as representing the union of the unconscious (inner trigram) and the conscious (outer trigram).