千 里 之 行 ，始 于 足 下

千 里 之 行 ，始 于 足 下

A journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step.

道 德 經 ~ Dao De Jin

So said the legendary Laozi, Chinese philosopher and among the founders of Daoism. If a journey of 1000 miles starts with a single step, then what about a journey some 7670+ miles, across continents from one side of the globe to another? How does that begin? Life isn't about the starting point or the ultimate destination, but about the journey.

~ ~ ~

Read on about my journeys as I spend the fall semester of 2008 in Nanjing, China: a half a world away from my home in Beverly Shores but right here at your fingertips through the magic internet.

Looking Back on 30 Years of Reform

Streets a sea of bicycles, not a car in sight.
A population of people sporting, if not Mao jackets, then the simple uniform of a Chinese farmer.
In cities and countryside alike, people so fascinated by the 35-millimeter camera (now considered a simple contraption) pointed at them—and equally so by the foreigners holding the camera—it was quite possible they had rarely if ever seen the likes of my mom or her camera before.

That was a time when the eyes of China’s people were being opened to the surrounding world after a long period of isolation. Once my eyes were opened to the world outside the bubble I grew up in the States, the first time I was introduced to China, that was the China I met. A country just emerging from years of economic stagnation. The photos and stories my mom brought back from her trip here, just years following China’s 改革开放 or “Reform and Opening-Up” began in 1978, helped to form my mind’s eye image of the country. While the China of the early 80’s, the China my mom saw and then showed to me, was undergoing breakneck-speed changes, the images I saw of that era depict a static snapshot of China, a country trapped in time. Looking back at those photos and comparing to Nanjing nowadays (30 years after Deng Xiaoping first initiated the reforms that catapulted China out of the past and into its current status on the global stage), the country is barely recognizable.

2008 has been a banner year for China. With the Beijing Olympics this summer, the tragic Sichuan earthquake this spring, record snowfalls past February, contaminated milk powder and pet food, not to mention the not insignificant role the country plays in the world economy, China has hit international headlines this year more frequently than ever before. This past week marked yet another significant China-related event, although one apparently more important within the country than beyond its borders: on December 18th, China celebrated 30 years of “Reform and Opening-Up.” In a sense, at least according to official calculations, is the end of important chapter in the course of the country’s long history and the beginning of a new one.

31 yeas ago, Chairman Mao, while ailing, was still officially at the helm and the Cultural Revolution was about to run out of steam. 1978 rolled around and saw the passing of Mao Zedong. Deng Xiaoping stepped in to fill his shoes and set China off on a road to economic and political reform. December 18th of that year saw the start of the reforms that are being remembered this week. While I didn’t witness the effects of the reforms as many of the people living around me here in Nanjing have witnessed over the years, even though I’m not old enough to remember the start of the reforms, I was still welcomed to take part in the celebrations.

This week, I was welcomed to stand side by side with the people whose country I now call home, to look back at the changes and to look forward to the future… Oh my, I sound like a party official. Perhaps the sappy over-the-top rhetoric I’ve been hearing all week has sunk in. But really, even from an outsider’s perspective, the changes China has undergone are astonishing and worth celebrating. The Chinese Communist Party has played their cards well over the past 30 years and deserve some bragging rights. That’s not to say, though, that things here are happy and 100% perfect. By no means; there’s still a long way to go.

This past week, I wasn’t just a vicarious participant in the 30th anniversary celebrations of China’s “Reform and Opening-Up.” In addition to overhearing countless official speeches every time there happened to be a radio or television in the vicinity, I also experienced the celebrations in a more personal manner. In fact, if you had turned your TV on the __th and flipped to Nanjing’s city station, you might have even caught a glimpse of me on the air (the only obvious foreigner in a studio audience of over 1000).

The day before the official anniversary arrived and I didn’t even realize it. That I attribute to my growing indifference to official broadcasts and banners that I still have trouble understanding. Because, had I been paying attention, I would have seen that word about the 30th anniversary of China’s reforms was all around. That day, a Japanese friend of mine gave me a call. “A friend of mine gave me these two tickets to a concert this evening.” Ruri-san explained in a mix of Chinese and Japanese. “Any chance you’re free to go with me?” She had no idea what kind of music would be featured at the concert. But since I had no plans and enjoy Ruri’s company, I decided to take her up on the offer.

Later that day, Ruri and I met at the subway station and took a taxi together through crowded city streets during the evening rush hour. On our way, the traffic flow was further slowed by the grand opening of a restaurant along our route. Like many new establishments in China, the owners wanted to start things off with a bang. Literally. The sidewalk in front of the entrance was spread with a red carpet, lined with colossal bouquets of flowers, and set with spread of fireworks that went off continuously for the fifteen minutes or so it took us to pass by. The night sky, darkness already muted by the light pollution of the thousands of neon signs lining the surrounding streets, was lit further by bursts of light and color from the fireworks (dangerously close to the surrounding buildings and street-side passerby’s, so I thought).

Despite the delay (and a fun and colorful delay it was), we made it to the Nanjing Broadcasting Corporation’s theater with time to spare, thanks to Ruri’s punctuality and planning (how Japanese…). It was only upon entering the theater that we finally figured out what kind of concert we were actually going to see: it turned out to be a commemorative program of China’s 30 years of reform.

Nanjing’s TV station seemed to pull out all the stops and spared no expense to commemorate the event in true Chinese style. Like the mass coordination of people into performance art as seen in this summer’s Olympics, the station invited a large-scale orchestra (all Western-style instruments, however), a number of local celebrities, and several choirs from around the area (the number of singers on the sidelines adding up to over 100) to take part.

When the start time printed on our tickets rolled around, the choirs were still in rehearsal mode and the announcer was still shouting directions from the sidelines. Coordinating such a large number of people seems to be China’s forte, so the people on stage all seemed to take directions well. The audience, on the other hand… not so much. The evening’s multi-media show interspersed live music and song with enthusiastic announcing and seamless film clips. In sync with these supplemental films, the MC wanted the audience to shout, “Nanjing, Ni hao!” (“Nanjing, Hello!”) at the appropriate time. It took countless tries and we still hadn’t gotten it quite right, but it was already time for the show to start, officially.

To a swell of bright lights and dramatic music, the choirs filed onto the stage, followed by the orchestra and trailed by the MCs. Beginning with an ode to Deng Xiaoping and his early initiatives that kicked off the era of reforms, the program then followed the changes that China in general and Nanjing in particular underwent in over the past 30 years. See, in my analysis, China’s Communist Party tries to replace religion with communist philosophy and God with the Party or a leader that embodies it. Until the reforms rolled around, China’s surrogate God was Chairman Mao. Since then, no leader has quite matched the charismatic appeal that Mao held for all those years. But, at least judging from the content of the concert’s program, Deng Xiaoping can be considered the hero of the era of reform.

Deng Xiaoping: his face appeared countless times in the course of the concert. China: the country has seen countless drastic changes in the course of the last century. After the monumental changes marked by the fall of the last emperor and the rise of the Communist Party into its current position of power, it’s reasonable to say that China’s—and indeed the world’s, for that matter—era of most rapid change occurred during the era of reform over the last 3 decades. After realizing that the old system (combining a highly-centralized, planned economy with doors closed to foreign policy) wasn’t working well, the Chinese people resolutely embarked on this historic journey of reform spearheaded by Deng Xiaoping.

After an opening ode to this late leader, riding a tide of patriotism (with plenty of propaganda thrown in), the evening’s program took the audience through a play by play of the changes that have come to China and Nanjing in particular over during this span of time (mind-bogglingly brief in comparison with the sweeping span of Chinese history). Between songs, innumerable staggering statistics—regarding China’s development and zooming in on the growth of Nanjing as part of it—were rattled off by the announcers. In terms of the number of people who call the city home and the standards of living they enjoy. In terms of construction. Business. Transportation. Production. Education, etc. Both the city and China as a whole have grown exponentially. Its no wonder that from an outsider’s perspective, well-developed cities like Nanjing are unrecognizable in light of their former incarnations: even locals who have lived through all this change still find it hard to believe.

Several events and shifts in policy have shaken and shaped the country over the past 30 years. While significantly more subtle than the wars that shattered China in the early 20th century, the repercussions of the reforms are no less revolutionary. Beijing has been the main stage for all this action, but one such key occurrence happened not far from here, in the neighboring province of Anhui. Shortly after the reforms started in December of 1978, 18 farmers in the town of Xiaogang agreed to sign a secret agreement through which they decided to divide community-owned land into individual pieces, something unheard of at the time. Due to the success of these radical farmers, news of their community contract spread, secret no more. This small town in Anhui soon attracted the attention of Deng Xiaoping. He supported the model of land ownership they’d set up, later using it to reshape China’s rural areas.

It’s not just within the country that China’s changes are apparent, however: a lot of these changes were driven by the very same forces driving China’s booming economy. Consider: here’s a country that went from what was virtually a closed-doors policy in the late ‘70’s to become the world’s largest exporter in a span of 30 years. Foreign trade now accounts for roughly 70% of the nations GDP. The set-up of the special economic zones, encouragement of foreign investment, and stepped-up emphasis on exports are all forces fueling China’s supposedly socialist-style planned economy. This formerly isolated nation with an undeveloped economy has now become one of the key players in the global economy, intertwined so inextricably with the world economy that the recent financial crisis that originated in the U.S. is being felt deeply here too.

This occasion was certainly not one for focusing on the downsides of economic globalization though. All 100% positive, insert propaganda as needed and edit out the negative. In spite of the program’s overly upbeat dramatic sensational tone, or perhaps because of it, there was a palpable sense of restlessness in the audience. Many members of the crowd sitting around Ruri and me, all Chinese and mostly old enough to remember pre-reform China, seemed reluctant to sit through the concert, so there was a continual stream of people going and coming. Before the rousing song towards the tail end of the program singing the Party’s praises, around a third of the spectators were already out of their seats making their getaways. There seemed to be an unspoken attitude among the audience, “Yeah, 30 years, big deal. I’ve seen countless programs like this before. For all these reforms, its still the same old story.”

I, on the other hand, the one apparent non-Asian in the crowd and probably one of the few who had never seen such a spectacular sensational program being filmed for live TV broadcast, was impressed. In terms of the tides of time and the lifespan of countries, especially a country with a history as long and rich as that of China’s, 30 years is but the blink of an eye. In the blink of an eye, for a country to undergo a growth spurt and emerge almost unrecognizable: now that’s pretty incredible. Ruri and I remained in our seats until the end of the program, the only ones still sitting as the 100-member choir and the full orchestra belted out a song with a title that translates, “China, China, the Bright Red Sun Will Never Set on You,” as the audience around me became mobile and everyone else in the crowd was on their way to the exits.

Revolutionary reforms like those that have changed the face of China over the past 3 decades are often remarkable when viewed from afar: change is often astonishing from the outside looking in (as in the case of this silly foreigner hoping to get a grasp of Chinese culture). But for a person who lived through that change and (whether willingly or not) dedicated their sweat, blood and tears in its name, remarkable change can be converted into a mundane and unremarkable piece of the past.

Chinese Medicine, Up Close & Personal

Natural or artificial?
An art that’s been practiced and perfected for millennia
versus a system that just emerged in the past couple centuries?
In sync with the body or working against it?

When it comes to methods of medical treatment, which would you trust? While Western medicine undoubtedly has its merits and has worked wonders, the concepts underlying Traditional Chinese Medicine holds more appeal for me. Chinese medicine has intrigued me all along, inspiring me to try acupuncture treatment on my incurable knees back in the U.S. after 3 orthopedic doctors in the Western tradition ran out of ideas for un-invasive cures. All along, since I arrived in China this past August, I’ve been interested to learn more. No opportunities arose. Until, rather unexpectedly, today.

It’s always slightly flustered me when I see a small cut or bruise somewhere on my body that I don’t remember cutting or bumping. So when two horrendously huge and uncomfortably itchy blisters appeared on my upper thigh for no apparent reason I can remember, I was more than slightly flustered. Rather flustered, you could say. And slightly concerned, too. It’s been over a month now since those two unsightly blisters appeared and they still haven’t gone away. In fact, they’ve long since popped and ripped off, leaving two even more unsightly sores in their place. It itched incredibly, but didn’t hurt, so I thought, “I’ll just wait it out until they heal…”

No such luck. Now, (not to alarm anyone) over a month later, one of the sores cracked open. Puss and pain ensued. “I guess it’s about time I mention this to my host family…” I thought. My host dad, who I casually asked for a Band-Aid, asked to have a look and seemed a bit alarmed and arranged to take me to the local public hospital the next day.

The Jiangsu Province Hospital for Chinese Medicine, conveniently located less than a kilometer from my current home, is a huge and happening facility that combines Traditional Chinese Medicine (TCM) with ultra-modern technology (and, as far as I could tell, hygienic standards too). One of the best hospitals in the region, according to my host family. Xiao Kong, my host mom, and I set out together from our home and arrived within a few minutes. After pushing past a bustling crowd of people selling and buying refreshments outside, she and I entered.

Apart from the initial sensation of being impressed by how modern the facility looked, the first thing that made me take notice was the smell. Not unpleasant. But not exactly pleasant either. Knowing that there are countless curious natural compounds used in the herbal component of TCM (extracted from anything from an array of plants to animals—or parts thereof—that would be considered rather disgusting in the West, such as seahorses, shark fins, bear bile, etc.), I figured the aroma must have been an amalgamation of their pungent smells.

I was so glad I had Xiao Kong to accompany me: if not, I’d never have been able to figure out which one of the multiple desks on the first floor at which to register, and I’d certainly would have had difficulties figuring out which one of the multiple departments on the upper floors was the one I needed to visit. Finding the small room that housed “General Surgery” (not what I thought the doctor would prescribe) wasn’t an easy task, even for a local like Xiao Kong.

Once we found the general General Surgery Department tucked away on the top floor, we were shuffled around from room to room seeing different doctors dressed in white and blue jackets, filling out different forms. Finally, all the preliminary business was out of the way, and Xiao Kong went to pay on my behalf (around $8 for an initial visit, a week’s-worth of treatments, and medicine to boot) while I waited in line to see what the doctor had in store for me and this welt on my leg.

People with injuries of various degrees of seriousness (from the invisible-under-clothes like mine to the glaringly obvious like a man missing the features on half of his face due to scars) waited together. It wasn’t the most courteous of lines: when queuing up in China, it does no good to wait your turn, or your turn will never come. No, like my grandmother taught me, you’ve got to elbow your way to the front of the line without thinking twice about manners. People were pushing through the door into the room where others were undressing to unveil their wounds and undergoing treatment.

After losing my spot in the manner-less line a few times, Xiao Kong returned and helped me be more aggressive: she’s about as polite and mild-mannered as me, but at least is used to how things are done in her country. Soon, it was my turn to sit in front of a doctor and her desk filled with shelves covered with mystery jars and tins and boxes. In order to see my wound, I had to pull my pants down, and in order to keep the line moving along, I had to do so quickly and in front of a dozen or so other people pushing to get a prime spot in line.

Compared to the man with a half-featureless face, the welt on my leg was nothing. A mere flesh wound, as the Pythons would say. And the doctor seemed to treat it as such. She took one look at the welt on my thigh and dived after it with a pair of tweezers. The hardened cap of flesh that formed over one of the former blisters was pulled off in a flash, but the other was a bit more stubborn. The doctor picked and pulled at that scab with no mercy for at least a couple minutes (which seemed significantly longer).

One last painful pluck of the tweezers and the scab was off. Blood and tears began to flow and I felt closer to fainting than I ever recall feeling in my life. But the worst was over with. In the blink of an eye (much faster than it took to pull off the scabs in the first place) nurses dressed my wounds with gauze, tape, and cotton balls soaked in yellow liquid. Before I knew it, I was limping down the stairs and back out onto the street, Xiao Kong a little indignant and apologetic that my first experience with Chinese medicine had to be so traumatic.

A Leap in Faith

December 16, 2008

Ever since my high school geography class with Mr. Sensibaugh introduced me to the basic concepts of Buddhism during our unit on world religions, I’ve been captivated. After that initial encounter, it seems the threads of Buddhism have become more and more intertwined with the tapestry, drawing me continually closer to this philosophy foreign to my ancestors. Between my life and Buddhism, the connections are countless and increasingly uncanny.

It all started in high school geography and, soon after, the ever-inspiring Buddhism 101 sessions given by the charismatic ministers of Chicago’s Midwest Buddhist Temple during their annual Japanese Ginza Festival. Not only was it the content of Buddhist philosophy that captured my interest: it was also the way it was presented. Never before had I heard a religious teacher say to me,

“What I’m explaining to you now is one path that one man many years ago found to help himself and others reach a higher state of being, to become a better person. In the thousands of years since Buddhism was founded in India in the 5th century BCE, many of people have followed the path laid out by Sakyamuni Buddha (recognized as the religion’s founder). I’m also following that path. But that’s not to say that you should, too. These ideas I’ve explained to you today: you can take them or leave them. You can pick up parts that you think might work best for you and try them on for size. You can accept them whole-heartedly or reject them entirely. It’s up to you.”

Every time I’ve heard Buddhist teachers speak since, their comments seem always to be prefaced with this same message of tolerance. What a pleasant contrast to the attitude of Christians in my community (some among them constantly trying to convert heathens like me)! By my high school years, I had been turned off to religion altogether. It was only after hearing those words that my own spiritual quest was sparked. Then, the perhaps less-enlightening but equally inspiring visits to just a few of Kyoto, Japan’s countless Buddhist temples, which struck me at the time as the most sacred, awe-inspiring, and exquisitely beautiful places I’d ever been.

The 3 months I spent traveling around North India with a group of other U.S. students via Global Learning Across Borders took me closer to Buddhism than I’d ever been before. At times, frankly, closer than I wanted to get. The week we spent doing a silent meditation retreat at a Buddhist retreat center in Bodhgaya (the very town where Sakyamuni Buddha is said to have attained enlightenment all those years ago, under the legendary Bodhi Tree) was intense enough. The death of a friend and fellow traveler that followed directly on the heels of the retreat took the intensity to a whole new level. As the remaining 11 students in our group plus our leaders attempted to cope and come to terms with such a traumatic incident, we were all brought closer to each other. And Buddhism, too, as the circumstances surrounding our friend’s passing couldn’t be separated from the Buddhist context in which it occurred.

The 2 months to follow was, for me, not only a physical journey that took me to the heights of the Himalayas and the dirty depths of Delhi, but also a spiritual journey of sorts. All along, my path was intertwined with Buddhism. And again, once I started school at Indiana University, my periodic participation in programs at a Buddhist center close to campus kept the connection alive.

Lately, here in Nanjing, I’ve been a “Buddhist” out of convenience. When my Chinese friends ask why I was a vegetarian back in the States for so many years, when they ask about the jade Buddha pendent perpetually hanging around my neck nowadays, I’ll explain it away by saying, “I’m Buddhist,” by way of avoiding the complicated explications that often ensue if I answer otherwise. Vegetarians are rather rare in China, unlike India. Historically, practically every person who decided go veg and forgo meat did so because of their Buddhist faith. (Note: while I’ve refrained from various forms of meat not any more in China, though, to avoid being a burden on my friends and host family).

I always feel guilty for saying so, since I’ve never reached the level of belief that makes it feel appropriate to begin calling myself a Buddhist. All these years, I’ve just been curious, fascinated. An enthusiastic student of the faith’s philosophy. But nothing more.

Until perhaps today.

On my way to meet my friend for lunch, I was walking along a side street that usually tends to be teeming with life. Today, that street was surprisingly deserted. It felt strange to have the street all to myself, as though this atypical street scene had been staged. Then, an imposing figure wearing monks’ robes turned a corner and started walking towards me. As our paths converged, the monk greeted me silently. I greeted him in return. He then reached into his monks’ bag at his side, pulled out something small and red and gold, and offered it to me with a smile. I accepted, grateful and slightly stunned. The monk continued on his way, soon turned a corner, and vanished once more. Again, I was the only sign of life left on the street.

It all seemed, and surely sounds, so bizarre, like some serendipitous scene out of a film. What was it that this mysterious monk offered me? After I snapped out of the surprise of the moment, I finally turned to examine it: a small red envelope, gilded in gold with an image of Guanyin, the Buddha of Compassion, on either side. Inside was a gold card with a similar but more intricate inscription. In China, they call her Guanyin. In Sanskrit, he’s known as Avalokiteshvara. In Tibetan, Chenrezig. Following that unexpected exchange ensued an inexplicable sensation: Guanyin (regardless of what you call her/him) is protecting me, watching over me somehow. The feelings and thoughts that ensued are perhaps too profound to be put into words.

As I continued walking, out of that weird warp in time and space that cleared a typically crowded street in the center of this city of over 7 million emerged and merged again with the flow of Nanjing’s masses, I saw, with a clarity I’ve never had before, the indescribable depth of the suffering surrounding me. Written in the lines of every face that passed me by, even behind the smiles and the sound of laughter, was the pain and sorrows inherent in everyday existence. But, at the same time, buried behind the smiles and the lines, lies the key to release, release from the suffering that ties us down. There is a sense of sight that surpasses what ordinary eyes can see. Once unlocked and awakened, it can clue us into the realization that, in the game of our earthly existence, the rules are just illusory as are the temporary gains and losses.

That small, simple gold-plated card carved with the image of Guanyin and the unexpected encounter with the monk who presented it to me provided a temporary key for me. I had a revelation of sorts right there on the street. I describe this key as gold, which makes it sound like something of significant monetary worth. In reality, such trinkets can be purchased for around a dollar at any temple in this country. But, as I found, this little talisman had great value, albeit not of the monetary kind.

For years a fan of The Simpsons, after having seen just about every episode made before I went off to college and didn’t make time to watch the show (or TV in general, for that matter) anymore, there is one scene that always sticks out as one of my favorites. Lisa (need I say my favorite character—those who know Lisa and me, see any similarities?) is the hero of this episode (and, if you ask me, the whole series!). After realizing, like I did at around her age, that Christianity has some aspects that under inspection make it a little hard to swallow, Lisa goes on a quest to find a form of spirituality that better suits her. Eventually, in an epiphany not unlike mine today, Lisa’s quest leads her to Buddhism.

“I’m a Buddhist,” she shouts at the top of her lungs, announcing her new faith to the world. “Hey, everybody, I’M A BUDDHIST!” Flanders, the Simpsons neighbor that takes Christianity to an extreme, hears these heathenous words and covers his sons’ ears. “Uh oh,” Flanders says with dread, “my Satan sense is tingling. Down to the root cellar, boys!” “Yay!” scream his sons, Rod and Tod, in unison.

My moment of realization didn’t make me shout out loud. I didn’t banish any good little Christian boys to any root cellars. Even if I had announced my new-found faith to the world, it’s probable that few people would understand. But that simple moment, that unexpected exchange between me and the mysterious monk that unlocked some insight that years of reading books on Buddhist philosophy had yet to lead me to. Now, I don’t feel so guilty anymore about telling people, “I’m a Buddhist.”