One rainy night in Beijing

On writing to unravel the mysteries of life

The taxi driver pulled up suddenly, jabbing his finger towards a side street and indicating that this was as far as my ride would go. I handed over a 20 yuan note, and stepped out into a downpour. By the time he had screeched off, rain was needling its way along my spine, my hair was stuck to my face, and I was questioning my decision to meet up with colleagues from the China office in some random Beijing bar.

The side street was all silver and black, moonlight reflected in rippling puddles as far as I could see. There was no sign of any nightlife, but the driver had been clear that it was down this way. A crack of thunder urged me on through the rain, following the narrow road around a bend. Wearing glasses made it harder to see, but I could make out an orange glow up ahead. Shoulders hunched against the weather, I hurried towards it and burst in, expecting excitable chatter, music perhaps. But as the door closed behind me muffling the storm outside, a bell tinkled – and then silence.

I removed my glasses, wiped them on my trouser leg and put them back on as my eyes adjusted to the light. I took in a man behind a counter in the corner, who nodded and went back to his book. None of the usual ‘huānyíng guānglín’ to welcome a new customer.

This was not a bar. It was a bookshop. But not a bookshop like any bookshop I had ever been in. It was tiny, with shelves and shelves of leather-bound old books in shades of brown and red. There was something odd about it, but I wasn’t quite sure what.

A head popped out from behind the tall stack at the back and said, in a Canadian accent, ‘Have you read the Dàodéjīng?’ ‘Sorry?’ I replied, apologising in the form of a question in the way we do when we’re nervous. I had an undergraduate degree from the Department of East Asian Studies at a good British university, and a Masters from another. I had a copy of the Dàodéjīng back home, having been inspired to buy it years ago after a late-night drunken conversation on the meaning of life. But East Asian Studies was vast, and I had majored in Japanese, which had taken up a lot of headspace, so this most important of ancient Chinese texts had languished on the shelf.

While I was searching my brain for the details of the teaching and wondering why the stranger behind the bookshelf was asking me about it, he glanced over to the shopkeeper and said something in rapid Mandarin. They both looked at me, then looked back at each other half-laughing, not unkindly, more out of pity. The shopkeeper shrugged and went back to his book.

‘Hmm ...’ the Canadian man murmured and wandered over to another bookshelf. As he traced his way along the spines, I realised that none of them had titles. That’s why the place felt so weird. His finger stopped at a small brown volume, not much bigger than my hand and about an inch thick. He pulled it off the shelf and handed it to me. ‘The Dàodéjīng’ he said. ‘I think you’d like it.’

I put my handbag down, conscious of the rain dripping off the hem of my coat and spreading into small patches on the floor. I stepped towards the man and took the book in both hands. It was soft to the touch, tied with a shoelace of leather. I’ll open it backwards then they’ll know I’m not just a tourist, I thought, hoping to claw back a bit of respect for knowing that old Chinese books, like traditional Japanese books, work in reverse, starting at what a Westerner like me might know as the back. The text is written and read from top to bottom, with the lines of characters stacked vertically right to left. Ready to impress, I flipped the book over, held it in my left palm and carefully opened the cover. But the inside was blank. Every single page was empty.

I looked to the others for an explanation – a copy of the Dàodéjīng should be full of profound ideas, not blank pages – but before I could say anything, the Canadian guy, who was now standing by the shop entrance, started quoting Confucius. ‘When a friend comes from afar, is it not indeed a pleasure?’ Then he called a greeting over his shoulder, held his coat above his head and disappeared into the wet black night.

The bell tinkled once more. Still the shopkeeper said nothing. Confused, I picked up a book from the display table in front of me, and flicked through the pages. Nothing there either. I went from shelf to shelf, pulling books down, but to no avail. It felt like some kind of Zen kōan: a doorway to some important truth. But all the words were missing.

These words open my book The Way of the Fearless Writer, and today I’d like to share some thoughts about writing to unravel the mysteries of life, along with an invitation to join me for a FREE challenge - 36 days of deep journaling, starting tomorrow (Monday October 9).  

The Dàodéjīng (often written Tao te Ching), or The Way and its Power, is a poetic and powerful compilation of wisdom, which has become the most translated of all philosophical work in Chinese. Dating back to around 300BCE, it is traditionally attributed to a figure known as Laozi (sometimes written Lao Tzu), although it is likely to have had a long gestation in different hands. Its mystical nature has generated a host of interpretations, but all centre on the notion of wú wéi, conventionally translated from the Chinese as ‘non-action’. This is not passivity, but rather letting things take their natural course, embracing spontaneity and not trying to control things. It means having your mind perfectly attuned to an activity or situation so that no conscious effort is needed to accomplish it.

There are also frequent references in the Dàodéjīng to the natural world, reminding us that birds are not always in flight and the skies do not always storm. In some ways it is an ode to zìrán, the Chinese term for naturalness, or embracing things as they are. The Dàodéjīng also emphasises de which translates from the Chinese as ‘power’ or ‘virtue’, not in the moral sense but rather as a property inherent in something. This is sometimes described as ‘authenticity’ or ‘skill at living’.

This is the wisdom of listening, practising and trusting without trying to force outcomes. In recent years I have discovered that this is also the wisdom of fearless writing. And I have learned that often it all begins with the questions we ask ourselves, and our willingness to wait and listen for answers, rather than rushing in to write what we think we should write.

This is why, starting tomorrow I am beginning a 36-day deep journaling practice and you are invited. It’s totally free. Here’s how it works:

• Each day (starting tomorrow, Monday 9 September) I will offer one thought-provoking journaling question from my new book KOKORO: Japanese wisdom for a life well lived. You will be able to find this in my feed on any of these channels: Instagram | Facebook | Here on Substack (also on Notes but it’s harder to find in amongst all the other notes!)

• In your own time (any time of day, each day for the next thirty-six days) I invite you to take out your notebook, write the question at the top of the page, and then fill an entire page with your response. If you miss a day you can just catch up the next day, so don’t stress, but do try to carve out the time if you can because regular practice deepens the impact.

• You might like to light a candle before you begin, or put on some quiet music, and then ask the question to yourself, take a deep breath, and listen for the answer.

• Allow the response to surprise you. Don’t force it. Don’t write what you think you should write in case someone reads it. Just write what comes.

• If you want to, I invite you to summarise your response in a single sentence and share it in the comments of that day’s post (on Instagram, Facebook or Substack Notes), but this is completely optional. You are very welcome to just enjoy this as a quiet solo practice.

Over the course of the next thirty-six days we will explore themes of transition, impermanence, grief, joy, legacy and the wonder of life itself.

This is no ordinary journalling. This is deep journalling. Who’s in?

Beth Xx

PS If you know anyone who might also enjoy this free challenge, please do share it with them and invite them to join in! Xx

PPS I would like to offer my gratitude to Don Starr, Director of Studies (Chinese and Japanese) at the University of Durham for advice on the Dàodéjīng and use of Chinese in this essay.

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