By Liu Yu
"My current happiness lies simply in wanting to drink a cup of light tea in my leisure time and read some new books—whether they speak of the songs of insects and birds or record the thoughts of sages, the carvings of past and present—all are enough to make me feel the joy of life." — Zhou Zuoren
Lately, I always seem to be busy, yet if you were to press me on what exactly I've been occupied with, I wouldn't be able to give you a clear answer. I no longer have time to ponder over world classics, so I rely on fragmented moments to skim through essays and miscellaneous writings, treating them like gulps of fresh air, just to grasp a little delight.
"To enjoy a bit of beauty and harmony in this imperfect world, to glimpse eternity in an instant"—yet it was during such aimless flipping that I happened upon a passage discussing life and death, and suddenly, boundless interest surged within me, and the floodgates of my thoughts burst open once more.
In Tibetan Buddhism, some scriptures mention that people's fear of death stems mainly from their lingering attachment to the beauty of this world. Coincidentally, Zhou Zuoren also agreed with this explanation, though his perspective might align more with those struggling to survive in turbulent times. Perhaps they would rather lose themselves in fleeting pleasures to forget immediate suffering. Since they can neither attain immortality nor bear the thought of becoming ghosts, they settle for the middle path—avoiding thoughts of life and death altogether. Besides, the process of dying is so painful. Maybe people are terrified of the physical agony that comes with it. If euthanasia had been an option back then, there might have been long queues at the gates of heaven.
Since death is not an easy escape, one might as well seriously consider how to live. Zhou enjoyed "stealing moments of leisure," reducing the burden of self-imposed, lofty demands—perhaps this is also a gateway to happiness.
"Drinking tea should be done under a tiled roof with paper windows, beside a clear spring with green tea, using simple and elegant ceramic teaware, shared with two or three companions. A half-day of such leisure can offset ten years of worldly dreams. After tea, one may return to their respective pursuits, whether for fame or profit—it matters not. Yet those occasional moments of idle wandering are absolutely indispensable."
Dark is the brew of black tea, pale the green—yet either suffices. Ah, but how exquisite! A cup of clarity, graced with modest delicacies, becomes a moment's reprieve. Such is the art of stolen leisure—though I hesitate to dress these tea-time murmurs in too fine a praise.
In this world's ceaseless churn—where one steps forward or back, yet all must seek their footing—it is only in these quiet, pilfered instants that time stills. The mind empties. Life, briefly, is tasted.
Tea flows through this land like a silent creed. From the imperial city to the humblest hamlet, none are untouched by its lure. Years passed, and I lingered in Sichuan's mist-cloaked hills, where the streets of Chengdu became my sole indulgence. A circle of mahjong tiles, cups of jade-hued tea, a dish of salted peanuts—thus the locals pass their days. The tea is replenished, and with it, kinship. Weekends unfold so; on working days, the mahjong fades, but the ritual remains. Always, the tea persists—this fleeting truce with toil, this necessary theft of stillness. And when the last sip is drained, all disperse, returning to their separate hungers.
I know the British share a similar passion for tea, yet I can't help but lament: are both truly born of pure interest? In Chengdu, I caught a faint whiff of resignation, rising from the pressures of a tightly wound life. In Oxford, I felt the same distaste for their proud and unyielding devotion to the tradition of afternoon tea. Perhaps it is but vanity in different forms, yet Chengdu and Oxford stand in striking contrast, each revealing its essence in its own way.
I, too, am striving to reach this state, though it is truly a long process. You see, first I pretend to be a child—preferably one in the midst of crying. Why? Because at such a moment, a single lollipop can turn my sorrow into joy. Such easily attainable little pleasures come much faster than grand ambitions. If it were now, only a major delight could give me a sense of fulfillment.
This plan seems successful in theory, but putting it into practice brings all sorts of challenges. Even if happiness is attained, in my view, the final outcome is either fleeting or turns into joy so extreme it circles back to sorrow, and once again, we return to the great dilemma of life and death.
Liu Yu is the lead editor of the cultural commentary "A Thousand Hamlets." Liu holds a BA in English Literature from HKBU and an MA in History from HKU.
The views do not necessarily reflect those of DotDotNews.
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