On Meaning

I often find myself musing on this beneath the moon. The moon hangs in the sky, unchanged since ancient times. It shone on Li Bai as he drank by its light, on Su Shi as he questioned the heavens; tonight, it shines on me. I smile to myself as I think — the moon must grow weary, watching countless souls pose it the very same questions: Where do I come from? Where am I bound? If we all journey toward the same dark end, what meaning lies in this weary, dust-strewn path? For thousands of years, these questions have echoed, unanswered. Perhaps there never was an answer. Perhaps the answer is the question: that you still ask means you still care. And to care is to find meaning. It is said that life is a sojourn, a temporary lodging. We check in, only to leave at dawn. The inn may be fine, with wine and blossoms, spring breezes and autumn moons — yet none of it can be taken with us. Not the bed, not the mountain view beyond the window, not the laughter from the next table. We depart empty-handed, having forgotten most of last night’s dreams. Why stay, then? Why not simply sleep beneath the open sky? It is not the same. Those who have rested in such an inn know the warmth of that night seeps into their bones. It is not stored in luggage, but woven into their very being. When you leave, you return the room, but the warmth travels with you. It sustains you long after — through the next inn, and the one after that. Even when you no longer need shelter, it still warms you. Meaning, I believe, is this quiet warmth. Look at the waters of Shantang Street. They have flowed for over a thousand years, since the days of Bai Juyi. Countless boats have passed, countless gazes have lingered, countless lanterns have shattered and reformed in their currents. The water remains unchanged. Yet every soul standing on the bridge feels the water flows just for them. The water does not deceive; they have placed their fleeting moment within it. The water carries away their shadow, their sigh. A thousand years later, another soul on the bridge might catch that sigh — in the ripples, in the twilight, in some unnameable instant. Is this meaning? No. Yet neither is it nothing. I once knew a man deeply learned, who built an entire philosophical system and wrote hundreds of thousands of words that went unread. He asked me: Have I lived my life in vain? I did not reply. I thought: if it were truly vain, he would not ask. To question is to believe he ought to be more than this. That quiet belief, that unextinguished hope — that is meaning. Not the works he completed, but the lamp still glowing in his heart. Even unseen, it burns. And as long as it burns, he has not lived in vain. Meaning is never in the outcome. Outcomes are ledgers, not meaning. How much you earned, how much you wrote, how renowned you became — these are accounts. Accounts clear; death returns all to zero. But along the road of striving, how many sunrises you beheld, how many rains you listened to, who stirred your heart, who warmed your soul — these unrecorded moments are meaning. Li Bai understood this. He wrote: “Seize joy while life is in your prime; let not your golden cup toast the moon in vain.” This is not reckless indulgence, but the recognition that every moment is real. In the instant you lift your cup, the wine is real, the moon is real, the joy in your breast is real. That is enough. There is no need to question tomorrow’s clarity, or what the wine shall become. It already runs in your blood. We all die in the end. This is true. But before “the end,” there lie endless nows. Right now, you read these words. Right now, wind stirs outside. Right now, something soft within you has been gently touched. These nows weave a life. A life is not a straight line from birth to death, but every footprint you press into the earth. Some deep, some shallow, some crooked, some straight. Yet each is yours. When you step, the earth knows. And that is enough. A man once asked an old monk: What have you gained from a lifetime of practice? The monk said: Nothing. I only eat when I eat, and sleep when I sleep. The man said: Anyone can do that. The monk replied: It is not the same. You think of sleeping while eating, and of eating while sleeping. I eat only eating; I sleep only sleeping. The man thought he understood, yet he did not. Let me clarify: the monk meant meaning lies not in what you attain, but in the act itself. To eat fully present is to give that meal meaning. To sleep fully present is to give that rest meaning. To live fully present is to give this life meaning. Not because you achieved greatness, but because you were there — unflinching, undistracted, not split between the moment and the doubt of its worth. Doubt destroys more meaning than death ever could. We fear death, but what we truly fear is having lived in vain. We fear looking back and finding nothing. Yet how can a path hold nothing? Where you stepped, the grass bent and rose again, but your mark remained in the soil. The footprint fades, but it was. To have existed is not to be nothing. I do not believe in emptiness. Emptiness is a human invention. Heaven and earth brim with life: green leaves bloom, flowers unfold, all things thrive vividly. Every leaf turns green earnestly; every flower blooms faithfully. They ask for no meaning. They are meaning. Perhaps this is the answer: meaning is not reasoned out, but lived out. When you drink wine, the wine is meaning. When you gaze at the moon, the moon is meaning. When you love someone, that love is meaning. When you ache, that ache is meaning. You need no higher proof to justify these things. They are worthy in themselves. As a line goes: “Life is a long journey; I too am a traveler.” Travelers walk without questioning why the road exists. The road is underfoot; you walk. As you go, wind is wind, rain is rain, clouds drift in their own shape. When it is time to rest, you rest. When it is time to journey on, you go. All know where the end lies. Yet none refuse to take a single step because of it. If anything, knowing the end makes each step more precious. Like knowing the wine will end, so you savor every sip. Like knowing the flower will fade, so you gaze with care. Like knowing company will part, so you cherish every meeting. This is meaning. It is no treasure hidden at the finish line. It is every breeze and moonbeam along the way. Sometimes I think: if mortals never died, life would truly be meaningless. Eternal life would let us put everything off till tomorrow — love later, see sights another time. With endless tomorrows, no one would ever truly live. Precisely because tomorrow is uncertain, today must be lived fully. Death is life’s countdown. A countdown awakens us. Knowing time is short, we do not waste it on trivialities. Knowing loved ones will leave, we speak the words we hold back. Knowing the wine will sober, we do not stare at the cup in idle hesitation. So do not fear death. Fear serves no purpose. Nor must you chase meaning endlessly. The chase itself is a form of meaning. That you still question means you still live earnestly. And those who live earnestly never live in vain. The moon still hangs in the sky. I finish a cup of wine, leftover from yesterday, slightly chilled. Yet cold wine has its own quiet flavor. Wind drifts through the bamboo outside, rustling softly. The sound is as it was centuries ago, and will be centuries hence. In this night, I write these words. Tomorrow someone may read them, or not. But I have written them. And in the writing, my heart was full.