A change in our life situations is reflected in our minds, emotions, and decisions.

Perhaps, in such occasions of departure, the notion would dawn upon us: the world we know looks like a place we are passing through.

Impermanence becomes a lived reality.

We may even question whether we can claim that familiar space as home, as a shelter, or somewhere secure.

A door closes in the heart. And the mind is already set on what’s next.

Sojourning (ji 寄)

There is an old character for this in Chinese poetry and Taoist writings, ji 寄,1 meaning to sojourn, lodge, or stay as a guest.

It suggests a Taoist view that we are temporarily housed in a place. The world is like an inn, and we are simply living in a borrowed room.

There is a sober, inner lucidity in this Taoist perspective. If life is like a temporary lodging experience, then it is not meant to be clenched. And if we get this, then we are not likely to get ourselves tangled in a story of possession.

Untangled. Detached. And internally liberated.

But it is always easier to process this intellectually than experientially. Tao Yuanming 陶淵明 (365-427) expressed such feelings and his sorrows:

Luxuriant is the tree in blossom

It has planted its roots here (caicai rongmu jiegen yu zi 采采榮木 結根於茲).

In the morning it displays its flowers;

By the evening it has already lost them (chen yao qi hua xi yi sang zhi 晨耀其華 夕已喪之).

‘Man’s life is like a traveller’s stay’”

Yet there is time for suffering (rensheng ruoji qiaocui you shi 人生若寄 憔悴有時)

Quietly, I deeply brood;

In my heart I am sad (jingyan kongnian zhong xin chang er 靜言孔念 中心悵而)2

In the face of the traces of time on us, the greying hair, unfulfilled wishes in the heart, and the uncertainty lying ahead in this life, who can remain unperturbed?

Indeed, we are troubled by the sense of weariness, the quiet ache, that often arrives when we withdraw and look too closely, when we are most unprepared.

Despite viewing ourselves as guests, travelers, we continue to be troubled by interactions with our immediate realities.

Even though one learns to take oneself less seriously, that feeling of pain, suffering, fear, and anxiety still comes back, even more acute.

Cao Zhi 曹植 (192-232 AD), a poet from the early Cao-Wei 曹魏 dynasty (220-265 AD), was deeply troubled by the sense of rootlessness, the reality of a floating life. He wrote:

The whirling thistlebrush separates from its root and trunk

And is whirlblown, twirlblown, by the continual wind (zhuanpeng li ben gen piao yao sui chang feng 轉蓬離本根 飄搖隨長風)

Suddenly caught up in a gust of whirling wind,

I am blown up into the clouds (he yi hui biaoju chui wo ru yunzhong 何意回飈舉 吹我入雲中);

Higher and higher, unendingly upwards,

The paths of the heavens, how can they be exhausted?3

Cao Zhi resonated with the “roaming stranger” because he felt that he was drifting alone in this world.

This is sojourning with self-awareness still intact. The poet suffered from knowing it.

This shared sentiment reflects the tension between temporary staying and the wish to cling to something that fundamentally cannot be held. The mind can see the impermanence of things, but it still reaches for what is stable, guaranteed.

This is self-inflicted suffering. Seeing clearly is still not inner freedom.

Unoccupied (xian 閒)

The wanderer, or the traveller’s mind, cannot be liberated if it is deeply attached to the idea of the self, being driven by feelings, emotions, and varied sentiments, in changing life circumstances.

In other words, self-awareness guides toward inner clarity.

Yet it can still be captured by egocentricity and the senses in its interaction with the external conditions of the world.

There is the alternative path: to see through the world of appearances, including the perception of the self.

That is emptiness. The Buddhist notion of emptiness is written as kong 空 in Chinese. It denotes a state of mind, seeing the world as the impermanent flux of change, with everything in a process of construction and destruction, like the human cell renewing itself constantly, beyond our will, like the bubble that shatters, and the wind that flies away.

Emptiness is taken as the ultimate reality beneath the phenomenal world because the myriad things are locked in by external causes and conditions beyond themselves.

In this sense, all things, including the human person, are positioned in the state of dependent origination (hetupratyaya, yinyuan 因緣) — meaning the contingent relationships naturally arise and disappear, beyond individual wish, ungraspable, and therefore, are empty.

When the idea of emptiness becomes experiential, the mind becomes empty, allowing the Buddhists to rise above the illusions of phenomena.

This understanding of emptiness does not equal having an absolutely negative view of things. It indicates the practice of not anchoring.

The heart is no longer anchored to sentiment associated with the past, worries, fear, and anxieties about the future, and restlessness of the now. All emotions, desires, and expectations are fleeting, like particles that dissolve and disappear.

This is where the idea of being unoccupied (xian 閒) comes in. It does not mean having nothing to do, or choosing to do nothing, but a state of allowing the heart not to be captured by external things.

Wang Wei 王維 (701-761) describes this state of mind in his poem:4

Here, natural imagery is not only a sketch of what the poet sees, but also evokes the Buddhist state of mind.

To remain inwardly unoccupied suggests a tranquil state of being, an inner lucidity and calm derived from non-entanglement.

The traveler’s stop somewhere within the clouds, the distant mountains, the lone skiff, and fire on the shore constitute a picture of calm, harmonious arrangements. They register in the poet’s mind as peaceful, as the poet himself understood the empty nature of his own self, a temporary being.

In moments like this, the idea of xian 閒 is lived and tasted. It becomes a shared practice of the Taoists and Buddhists.

Parting can hurt, as it reminds us of the very act of clinging.

No matter how hard life can get, even if it often means going through the dark chapters, we know it will pass.

And, sooner or later, we may understand that to wander, drift, and get temporarily lodged somewhere in the world is unavoidable.

Yet, the heart will not be controlled by fear, as it is now liberated and released.

With constant practice in dissolving the self, we can still cultivate an inner space, inwardly unoccupied, with the heart flowing with the white clouds.

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I cannot remember when this thought came to me. That knowledge has both helped and failed me, this I know.

What I mean by knowledge here is the specific knowledge and skills acquired at school and picked up from work, which have taught me about demonstrated facts, how to collect and sift through those countless sources and data, and become familiar with certain ways to get things done.

But are they enough to carry me through prolonged uncertainty in this life? This I do not know.

All this reminded me that, most likely, there are some fundamental human skills that I should be aware of. Something about the capabilities of the heart and mind.

I think this kind of human skill should teach me something about how to be with myself, allowing me to be able to observe and know what I’m doing while entangled with the world.

What is implied here is the role of the spirit, the heart, or the soul, something intangible yet powerful and fundamental to the state of existence.

My understanding of spirituality and philosophical insights on living is about attitude, intuitive thinking, and perceptions of the general state of the heart and mind. It is an awareness, an inward seeing of the spiritual state in interacting with the world, in the hours and moments of living.

Emptying the heart

I think Chuang Tzu encountered a similar challenge regarding the two types of knowledge: one about the material world and the other about the heart and mind.

While a sophisticated understanding of certain things can guide our actions in particular undertakings, the ability to be aware of the state of the heart and mind can enable us to observe our actions and detach, if necessary.

In other words, concrete knowledge and skills shift the course of action in a circumstance. And an awareness of those actions cultivates a clarity of the state of existence.

Chuang Tzu’s idea of “fasting of the heart” (xinzhai 心齋) denotes the practice of making the heart empty. But how can we empty the heart?

As an essential part of the human body, the heart is constantly entangled with the external world while simultaneously working with the mind to direct our actions and thoughts. The heart, if left in an unconscious state, is constantly reacting to what is happening in the phenomenal world.

And the act of fasting, I think, is to cultivate a state of awareness of its interactions with the constant changes outside. On the one hand, it is about how we manage emotions and thoughts with inner stillness to dissolve them, as they are triggered by specific instances.

On the other hand, it involves seeing through our identifications with particular perspectives, notions, and ideas, and not being captured by them. In other words, the temporary death of the ego allows one to see and connect with the Tao.

…the spirit is an emptiness ready to receive all things. Tao abides in the emptiness; the emptiness is the fast of mind.1

In the story in which the practice of “fasting of the heart” is introduced, Yan Hui intends to persuade a tyrant to change his policies to spare the lives of innocent people.2 His master approves his decision to travel after he has mastered the practice of fasting the heart.

I think Chuang Tzu understood this universal predicament of existence: we are all entangled, at some point in life, with storms that we have to get in. There is no escape.

We will need to go through the ups and downs of this earthly life, taste, feel, and experience all the joyful, unknowable, and unbearable moments. In this process, we can begin to appreciate the tranquility that follows a period of chaos and confusion.

This Taoist spirit of living is defined by the idea of tranquility in disturbance (yingning 攖寧),3 which is characterized by the unity of action and tranquility.

So we learn to hold things and ourselves lightly in this temporary life.

Freedom from pain

At the same time, while it is possible to change our positions on specific beliefs, ideas, and perspectives, it is indeed challenging to rise above the emotional part of human nature.

The thinking mind is constantly fixated on things and outcomes. The heart is disturbed and driven by desires and expectations, such that the inner self is struggling for peace and calm.

There was a period in which I’ve been wrestling with a notion from the Heart Sutra,

…live with an unhindered mind,

Without hindrance, the mind has no fear.4

I know it teaches us the lesson of seeing the emptiness of all things in the phenomenal world. I know it is not taking a nihilistic position when the script talks about the empty nature of all the transitory, impermanent things in the material world.

It suggests to me that I should not be controlled by the thoughts and emotions arising from my entanglements with the external world, which is constantly changing, for all such identifications between “I” and the world, and artificial distinctions, are arbitrary.

In this sense, even my existence is dependent on something unsubstantiated and, therefore, not real. And spiritual liberation arises from not being attached to those external things that trigger our desires, pains, and distress.

Even if I can accept that my heart and mind are constantly intertwined with all the appearances in the world that are undergoing a process of construction and destruction, it still takes time and experiences to come to peace with this understanding.

The sense of existential distress, all the sadness, fear, and suffering, will still be there. A melody from a familiar piece of music can trigger my memory, evoking long-buried pains from loss.

Yet, I think the idea of the unhindered mind allows us to see the emptiness around us, not denying the world, but loosening the knot between “I“ and appearances.

I can see now that I was suffering from those pains and distress. And because we can see, we are freed from the existential pains.

Realizing that everything around me is transitory, I’ve felt an increasing gratitude for the simple joys of life. After all, we are temporary beings, lodged somewhere on this earth, like the clouds that move and disappear, the wind that blows and flies into the sky.

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In Part 3, I explored how to build and maintain a stable state of mind using two helpful ideas from Chuang Tzu and the Diamond Sutra. In this article, I investigate the mindset and practical practices that can assist us in overcoming constant worry and restlessness in our pursuit of specific goals in life.

Many of us need specific goals to stay engaged in the present moment and drive us forward on life’s journey. Deprived of meaningful goals, we risk floating and drifting without a clear purpose. Yet, being aware of the impact goals have on us is a critical but often overlooked lesson.

Goals hold particular significance. They push us from what is familiar into the unknown—ushering in new circumstances filled with unpredictability, risks, disappointments, and new hopes.

To a large extent, the transition from our past lives to what lies ahead can be seen as a process of disillusionment with our imaginations and unrealistic expectations.

It is a fruitful journey that awakens us to the reality that we must assume full responsibility for our life paths. With responsibility, we can become sober about our interactions with external circumstances. In this sense, it is inevitable that we will encounter constant worries, anxiety, and pressure in our lives.

Going into uncharted waters

Setting goals is a conscious action in the midst of an often irrational, mysterious, and unpredictable environment. It is an assertion to craft a clear path ahead that makes us less worried and more grounded in reality.

In essence, assuming responsibility with concrete goals encourages us to become the captain of the ship we are steering on the voyage of life.

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In Part 2, I explored the themes of regret and guilt. and how we might confront them. Now, as we navigate a world of constant change and uncertainty, it becomes clear that cultivating a psychological order or a stable state of mind is essential to guide us through external challenges. This post draws inspiration from the concept of attachment to appearances (or external characteristics 相) from the Diamond Sutra and Chuang Tzu's idea of “tranquility amidst disturbances” to examine practices that can help us endure turbulent times.

In today's society, we are constantly bombarded with allure and distractions that seem to suggest it is acceptable to succumb to our desires. In following this way of life, we instinctively chase anything that promises immediate satisfaction.

We take instant gratification for granted. After all, everyone seems to be indulging in it, so engaging in activities that offer quick pleasure with seemingly minor consequences appears harmless. Similarly, society has conditioned us to believe that seeking accomplishments, status, wealth, and power is entirely acceptable because these things can elevate us to new heights of experience.

At first glance, this pursuit of happiness through material success seems justified—after all, history shows that human actions have often been driven by such desires. But is this the only path to happiness? And perhaps more importantly, does happiness even matter?

There is nothing inherently wrong with using our creativity and agency to pursue material well-being and accomplishments. The drive to innovate and improve our social conditions has been a fundamental force behind human evolution and social transformation. The problem arises when this pursuit becomes an unconscious endeavor fueled by societal conformity.

But what if, suddenly, everything we’ve achieved at a particular stage in life is taken away? Do the losses of material possessions, status, and power necessarily equate to the loss of a happy life? Or the loss of our ability to regain happiness?

Resilience in the face of uncertainty 

Living in the world, we cannot escape external disturbances and troubles. Often, our sense of happiness is disrupted by the constant pressures and unease these disturbances bring.

We tend to believe that happiness will come once all potential problems are resolved, but such an attitude can lead us to a bigger problem: illusion.

The universe is in a state of constant flux, as is the society in which we live. If we confine ourselves to what we have grown accustomed to, we only end up shackling ourselves. This is the predicament of our human condition: clinging to specific things, objects, or appearances.

Moments of joy and episodes of pain are simply part of life. They arrive unexpectedly, often generating emotional turmoil.

Yet, instead of being overwhelmed by these emotional storms, we can still cultivate inner strength in the face of the unexpected. As Chuang Tzu explains:

…to him, the destruction of life did not mean death, nor the prolongation of life an addition to the duration of his existence. He would follow anything; he would receive anything. To him, everything was in destruction, everything was in construction. This is called tranquillity in disturbance. Tranquillity in disturbance means perfection.”1

We cannot always prevent unwanted incidents, surprises, or even misfortunes from occurring, but we can control how we respond to them. We can choose not to be devoured by them.

Attributes vs Reality

On an existential level, we often perceive something as a source of disturbance or joy because our perceptions and emotions are attached to that external object or pursuit. In other words, we are captivated by the appearance of things.

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In Part 1 of this series, I discussed depression and anxiety and the use of wu-wei in mingling with people suffering from these psychological and emotional problems. The current post delves into the enduring sense of regret and guilt and explores practices to make peace with them.

Some people say that a life without regrets is not complete. This may be a reasonable statement based on truthful living and reflection. We may regret not sticking to a hobby or a childhood passion. We may feel dismayed that some things we want to pursue turn out the other way. And sometimes, a deep sense of sorrow dawns upon us from an end in social relations.

Reflecting on the temporary nature of life, we can feel the moment of time sliding in front of us, whether it is a friendship from primary school that does not last into a mature age for various reasons. Or it might be a brief period of romance that turned into a bittersweet ending. For years, we may have thought that the sentiment along with it has long flown away, but experiences tell us that it still lingers in some random corner of our memory.

Some of these regrettable experiences helped make us who we have become, enriching our understanding of life. The regrets, pains, and sorrow associated with them make us realize we are human. Nevertheless, we may still cling to them, a specific experience and a particular person, no matter how long it has been. A fixation on the past, for good or worse, holds us from living fully in the moment and embracing what is to come in life.

In such a circumstance, simply persuading someone who is experiencing such a problem to let go may not work. They can not move on because they have deeply taken the blame on themselves, so they are constantly involved in overthinking and self-doubt.

As a result, they experience a lasting sense of guilt and inner disturbances all the time. To recover, they must make peace with the past and embrace changes in life.

The perils of self-blame

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This article is the beginning of a new section, The Quest, in which I explore topics and issues relatable to modern life. For instance, in this post (and a few more), I start with the problems of depression and anxiety. Mental well-being is the foundation of all aspects of life. Therefore, the purpose of this series is to serve as a spiritual space where we can find some consolation and answers.

We live in a complex modern world, and for most of us, it can be challenging to navigate external circumstances: intricate social relationships, tricky situations occurring now and then in everyday life, and unexpected crises that seem to come from nowhere.

Therefore, we are inclined to find some quick-fix solutions for most of the problems and challenges we encounter. By doing so, we hope we can easily and quickly get back to the routine of moving the wheels of life. Undoubtedly, we can overcome those external problems in front of us. Yet, we may not realize that, as we move along with the changes in external situations, we are also dragged into internal battles.

As we age and accumulate life experiences, our emotional burden can sometimes become enlarged to the extent that it overwhelms us. We may find it hard to break free when positioned in a psychologically closed situation. An internal crisis may strike us when we can not find ways to loosen up.

Like a storm, emotions entrap us in a sequence of different flavors: worry, anxiety, regret, pain, joy, and uncertainty. They come and go without us inviting them and sending them off. Sometimes, we can get caught in one or a few mixed emotional turbulences from which we cannot find an exit. When negative emotions drive us to the extent of disrupting our everyday lives, we become the captives of emotions. Life becomes like a prison, and all we see is a bland world, and we cannot stop doubting our identities in such a world. Depression and a deep sense of existential crisis hit hard in the core.

What does Chuang Tzu say about tackling emotional burdens and psychological problems? Is there a cure that he can offer us to deal with such challenges in daily life? Can we get ourselves and others out of these problems with stories that heal and inspire?

Befriend your emotions

A reliable way to approach problems is to investigate the fundamental causes and possible reasons before we look into solutions. Thus, to understand the complexity and nature of a problem is the first critical step.

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