My father

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Editor’s note: “There is no tree of enlightenment, nor a platform for a mirror; in truth, there is nothing at all—where could dust then arise?” ”The world is inherently empty; everything in the world can be seen as embodying the concept of emptiness. If the heart is originally empty, then there is no need to resist external temptations; everything passes through the heart without leaving a trace. This is a very high state in Zen Buddhism; those who attain this state are said to have achieved enlightenment. The protagonist of this article is such a person who is able to attain a high level of Zen enlightenment; his heart is empty, and external opposition and rumors cannot leave any trace in it, not even for the sake of his dreams. At the same time, his heart was rich; it was his dreams of writing poetry and winning the Nobel Prize in Literature that reignited his life at a time when it was on the verge of ending, and his dreams became synonymous with his life. This is a true story that deeply moved the author. In today’s materialistic society, it is remarkable to hear someone say, “My purpose in writing poetry is to let China’s splendid culture shock the world!” ”There are not many people like that left. Perhaps some consider such an attitude to be shocking, insane, or even foolish, but the author believes that this kind of madness, this sense of foolishness, is a form of invisible driving force, a precious spirit. Everyone has dreams, but it’s not easy to stick to them. Let’s pay tribute to those who persevere in pursuit of their dreams, even at the cost of their entire lives! My father was born in Ruijin, Jiangxi, the historic red city, in the mid-1950s. My father’s grandfather was General Zhong Hui, the former deputy commander of the artillery force of the People’s Liberation Army of China. My father inherited from his ancestors that determination and perseverance in pursuing their dreams, as well as a somewhat rebellious personality. He was a poet and calligrapher from the common people, with the blood of a general flowing in his veins; he was a poor poet who was full of ambition and dreamed of winning the Nobel Prize in Literature for China. A scholar who doesn’t take good care of his own family, yet is concerned about world affairs. (A group photo of my parents and grandfather; I was born at that time.) In his youth, my father was a handsome and artistic young man famous in our small town, and he had always been passionate about literature and art. In the early days, he worked at Ruijin Wire Factory. After the reform and opening up, as the factory’s performance was poor, my father chose to go into business on his own. At a time when there were reports in the media about certain people who had earned 10,000 yuan per month, my father was already able to earn that amount each month. (Foto of my father when he was young) As I grew older, I noticed that my father no longer went out to do business. At that time, I didn’t quite understand why my father gave up such a well-paid job; he would sit at home every day, holding a pen and writing something unknown to me, while talking about poems I couldn’t understand and that elusive Nobel Prize. Whenever classmates or teachers ask me what my father does for a living, I’m at a loss for words; I only vaguely realize that my father is a poet who will win the Nobel Prize in the future, but I don’t know anything else. In short, from that moment on I began to despise my father. I spent every day writing at home, with my mother taking care of everything there. My once beautiful mother seemed to age very quickly; she left home early and returned late every day. Life at home became increasingly difficult due to the lack of my father’s income, and my mother had to take on several jobs at once. I felt sorry for her, but there was nothing I could do. (A photo of the parents when they were young) Yet, when dining with relatives on regular occasions, one could see the uncle with his large belly reminding the father, \"The top priority is to make money; only money can buy everything one needs. One shouldn’t follow Cao Xueqin’s example – it’s not worth becoming famous after death.\" ”The aunt also mocked, \"How can there be such a treasure in the world? Poetry can serve as food, poetry can serve as wine; poverty is something that those in our family simply cannot tolerate... While feeling sorry for him, his relatives also advised him pragmatically: He should write more pieces that suit the current situation and trends, so that they can be published in newspapers and earn money at the same time – why not gain both fame and fortune?\" ”A poet friend of his father gave him insightful advice: “Don’t retreat into an ivory tower.” ”The father, moved, said, “I’ll be the one to do it; after all, it represents the literary and artistic standards of this great Chinese nation with its five thousand years of history!” The purpose of my writing poetry is to let China’s splendid culture shock the world! ” (Father was also an enthusiast of calligraphy; aside from poetry, practicing calligraphy was another major hobby of his.) When poverty persisted, and when the opposition from relatives and friends grew louder. Yet the father persisted in his writing and in his pursuit of a Nobel Prize in Literature. Every six months, he would ask his mother for some money for transportation so that he could travel around in search of someone who would publish his poems. Along the way, he met many poets who appreciated his work and encouraged him, saying that his poems were excellent. But every time he received the same reply: \"We truly appreciate his talent, but we are unable to do anything to help him.\" ” It wasn’t until I entered university that I felt great resentment toward my father, and even hated him. My mother thought I had grown up and noticed my extreme lack of respect for my father; she told me some stories about him. My father originally came from a wealthy family involved in business, but he grew tired of spending his days with a group of friends who only cared about drinking and pleasure – a life that offered no joy other than alcohol and sex. He refused to go along with that lifestyle and began to reflect on things and write. When the father was immersed in the world of poetry and unable to extricate himself from it, he told his mother that he no longer wanted to engage in business or spend time with unsuitable friends. The money needed for the two children’s college education was sufficient, so he decided to strive for his ideals, and his mother supported his decision. My mother told me that my father was not a man without a sense of responsibility, nor was he a man who did nothing; he was a man with a strong sense of responsibility, a man with ideals and ambitions, a man who was willing to persevere in pursuit of his ideals for over a decade. For his dream, our family must support and understand our father; even if he fails, we still need to be there for him. My mother’s words deeply moved me; I couldn’t believe that there could be such a wonderful mother as mine in the world. She also told me that having this family, she doesn’t feel tired at all and is very happy. (Father writes, while the villagers watch.) Gradually, I changed my view of my father as well. But unfortunately, misfortune struck again our family, which has a history of many hardships. At the beginning of 2007, due to prolonged mental work combined with a lack of exercise, my father suffered from high blood pressure; his blood vessels in the head burst, and he collapsed at my uncle’s house, his life hanging in the balance. Fortunately, my father was rescued in time and narrowly escaped death. After the surgery, my father was still in critical condition, his life still at risk. The doctor told us that we must find a way to wake up our father. The family tried various methods in anxiety and panic, but no matter how we called out to him, our father could not wake up. When the family was overwhelmed with grief and nearly lost hope from their repeated attempts, my sister suddenly remembered my father’s poems. She rushed home to get them and read them to my father over and over again, right by his ear. My sister cried for three days, constantly reciting his poems in my father’s ear. Drawn by the call of family bonds, the almost numb cranial nerves were awakened by his father’s poetic dreams. On the third day, we saw tears streaming from his father’s eyes, and he tried to wipe away the tears from his sister’s eyes with his hands; such an action was very difficult for a patient who was still in critical condition. I believe it was the unyielding dream hidden in his subconscious that served as the source of strength and motivation for him to survive, giving him an unimaginable courage to go on living. The father woke up, awakened by his poetry, by his dreams, by his Nobel Prize. . . . . . (The father after the surgery) His condition was so severe that during the surgical attempt to save him, the entire right side of his skull was removed; the nerves were damaged due to ruptured blood vessels, resulting in paralysis on one side of his body and a loss of speech ability. Our father now acts like a child; he is paralyzed in his right limbs and unable to speak. Every time we try to encourage him, we tell him firmly, \"Dad, we will definitely make an effort to publish your poems; we will surely win the Nobel Prize!\" ”Whenever the topic of his father’s calligraphy and poetry came up, his father would immediately become excited and show a proud smile, as if he were certain to win the Nobel Prize in Literature. (My father recovered well after his illness, but he was unable to communicate with others or walk; he could only move his left hand. My mother, who had to take care of him, grew even older as a result. Yet she always told me that as long as our family stayed together, we were happy.) This is my father – a poet and calligrapher, a folk poet who persisted in pursuing his dreams for 20 years while being ridiculed by others, a poet who strived to win the Nobel Prize in Literature. A name, not what he sought ； Profit is not what he loves. Writing from the heart and expressing genuine feelings – truth, goodness, and beauty were his unwavering beliefs throughout his life. Constantly faced with disdain from the world, his heart longed for a vast expanse of blue sky… His father, who could neither speak nor move, still held hope for life