liuzhiquan

Focus on the good and bad, not the bad.

liuzhiquan@newsletter.paragraph.com (liuzhiquan) — Mon, 03 Nov 2025 15:37:59 GMT

A friend bought me paper, brushes, and an inkstone, asking me to write a few characters to hang on the wall of his new living room. This made me somewhat hesitant, because I know my handwriting is poor, and besides, I haven't practiced calligraphy for many years.

My friend said, "What are you afraid of? I'd be honored to have your calligraphy displayed. I'm not afraid, so why should you?"

So, in front of my friend, I spread out the paper, ground the ink, and wrote four characters: "常想一二" (Always think of one or two).

My friend asked, "What does this mean?"

I said, "It means my handwriting isn't very good. When you see this, please be forgiving and think of one or two good things about me, then you'll forgive me." Seeing my joking attitude, my friend said, "Seriously, what does it really mean?"

"As the saying goes, 'Life is full of disappointments,' meaning that most of our lives are filled with unpleasant things, making living itself painful. But even after subtracting the eight or nine tenths of disappointment, there are still one or two tenths of pleasant, joyful, and comforting things. If we want to live a happy life, we should often think of those one or two good things. This way, we'll feel fortunate, learn to cherish what we have, and won't be defeated by the eight or nine tenths of disappointment." My friend was very happy to hear this and went home embracing the idea of "always thinking of one or two good things."

A few months later, he came to visit me again and asked for some calligraphy, saying, "I'm exhausted and frustrated at the office every day, but seeing that 'Always Think of One or Two' calligraphy when I get home makes me happy. But the wall is too big, and the characters look too small. Could you write a few more characters?" I always oblige good friends, so I wrote the second line, "Don't Think of Eight or Nine," and added the horizontal inscription "As You Wish," along with a freehand vase of flowers.

Unexpectedly, a few months later, I was troubled by many strange legends and rumors. One day, my friend called, saying he was sitting in his living room in front of the calligraphy I had written. He said, "I can't think of anything to comfort you, so I'll read you what I wrote: Always think of one or two, don't think of eight or nine, and everything will go as you wish!"

I was deeply moved by my friend's call. I often feel that it's easy to add to someone's joy, but difficult to offer help in their time of need—the ratio is roughly the same as "eight or nine" versus "one or two." Those who can't offer help in times of need aren't true friends, let alone those who kick you when you're down.

However, by the time one reaches forty, they've likely developed a calm and composed demeanor, unaffected by praise or criticism, and no longer care about those who offer help in times of trouble or kick someone when they're down. This is because we've already experienced life's pain and setbacks, and witnessed many encounters and separations in relationships, gradually discovering positive, joyful, and optimistic perspectives on life. This perspective is precisely the "always thinking of one or two good things" perspective.

The "always thinking of one or two good things" perspective is like finding a glimmer of dawn amidst heavy clouds; it's like finding tranquility in the midst of worldly chaos; it's like surfacing when suffocating, taking a deep breath.

Life is already bitter enough; if we were to sum up fifty years of unpleasant experiences, it would certainly make life incredibly difficult. Sometimes, being trapped in hardship in life and relationships is unavoidable, but if even one's thoughts and feelings are trapped in hardship, then it's self-inflicted suffering, adding insult to injury. From a young age, I enjoyed reading biographies and memoirs of great figures, and gradually I've come to a conclusion: all great people suffer; their lives are almost a testament to the saying, "Life is mostly unsatisfactory." However, they all maintained a positive outlook when facing hardship, always focusing on the positive aspects. Ultimately, they transcended suffering, and hardship became the most fertile nourishment for their lives.

What deeply moves me is not their suffering itself, because suffering is everywhere; what moves me is their perseverance, optimism, and courage in the face of hardship.

It turns out that "satisfaction" or "misfortune" is not determined by life's circumstances, but by a single thought.

It turns out that what determines the quality of life is not the "eight or nine" (unsatisfactory experiences), but the "one or two" (positive or negative experiences).

It turns out that suffering is measured in quantity for those who experience it, but becomes qualitative for those who overcome it. Quantity accumulates, quality is activated.

Since the joys and sorrows of life are merely processes, why should we abandon our own thoughts to conform to every single process?

Live happily in the present moment, making each moment meaningful, radiant, poetic, and melodious!

The true joy of life lies in simple pleasures.

liuzhiquan@newsletter.paragraph.com (liuzhiquan) — Mon, 03 Nov 2025 15:35:56 GMT

Love begins with a glance, and ends with the endless sky. We've weathered many springs and autumns, many cold and warm seasons, yet we still maintain our pure hearts, always yearning for the beauty of life. At the deepest part of my being, I will always believe: the most beautiful state of life is tranquil joy.

Tranquil joy is a way of life, a way of finding oneself, a supreme state of being. It doesn't come from elsewhere, but from our pursuit and love of a peaceful, simple, and unpretentious life.

Tranquil joy is the subtraction of life; when we relinquish worldly pursuits and the shackles of desire, returning to the simplest joy, it is the most flavorful state of life.

Drinking a cup of tea on a sweltering summer day; watching a candlelight in the wind of a snowy night; witnessing the sunset in the twilight glow; walking through a forest filled with the chirping of cicadas; thinking of a distant friend in the deep of night when pine cones fall; seeing the face of the one I loved most in a single white hair... Returning to the purest heart, sitting peacefully in the emptier place, let the lakes and mountains reveal their own beauty! Let the crowds walk away or brush past us! We only wish to cherish tranquility, to see the world with a pure heart, to live life with joy, to savor the moments with equanimity, and to remove obstacles with gentleness.

Tranquility is relaxing and quiet contemplation each day, like enjoying a pleasant meal or savoring the aroma of tea.

Tranquility is taking a walk in the mountains or by the sea, appreciating the changing colors of the mountains and clouds. It's like listening to the rain, the spring, and music; reading about people, love, and leisurely books.

Tranquility is reminiscing with parents about warm memories of the past, and listening to children tell childish jokes.

Life simply moves forward like this; there's no need to tell others. Just keep a lamp of tranquility lit in the deepest part of your heart... The occasional joys, insights, and spiritual lights in life are like pigeons or sparrows suddenly appearing at our window. When they fly away, I only need to retain that joy.

We should walk softly and live mindfully; we should breathe gently and care tenderly; we should think deeply and have boundless compassion; we should cherish every blade of grass and tread on the ground with utmost care. These are all forms of spiritual practice.

Every ray of sunshine brings joy, every corner holds a sense of tranquility. When I see the world turning, and I look up to see a beautiful, pure white cloud drifting by with a gentle and elegant gesture, I realize that living with a joyful heart is truly a blessing in this world.

One star

liuzhiquan@newsletter.paragraph.com (liuzhiquan) — Mon, 03 Nov 2025 15:32:43 GMT

I don't know about others, but my first steps, my first words, my first fall… so many firsts in my life were experienced with my grandmother's presence. I am a girl who spent my entire childhood with her. When I was little, the villagers often talked about my grandmother. Some said she had a bad temper, some said she loved to scold people, and that she was a "fierce" woman when she was young. Whenever this happened, I would often peek out from the haystack, my face covered in scraggly makeup, and listen curiously to their discussions about my grandmother. Then I would find, with a puzzled look, that this seemed completely different from the grandmother I remembered. Every night, geckos would quietly crawl all over the windows, and the old white plaster would peel off piece by piece, revealing ugly gray patches. My grandmother would wave her straw fan and coax me on the earthen bed, "Oh, go to sleep." I usually wouldn't sleep, and then my grandmother would gently pat my back and tell me stories, albeit clumsily. So, my dreams weren't filled with fairy tales, but with the ever-vivid images of mountain insects, wheat seedlings in the fields, and running wild rabbits from my grandmother's words. When I grew older, my grandmother took me to the county town. She would often hug me tightly, looking at my textbooks with frustration: "Alas, why can't Grandma help me at all!" Then I would tease her: "Grandma, Grandma, can you tell me how to write the Chinese character for 'four'?" "Grandma can only write the characters for 'one' to 'three'." "Grandma, Grandma, can you tell me how to write your name?" "Sweetie, Grandma can't." Yes, my grandmother was a woman who couldn't write Chinese characters. But I asked her, "Grandma, what's 10 minus 3?" "It's 7." "Grandma, what's 50 minus 3?" "It's 47." "Grandma, Grandma, what's 1000 minus 3?" "It's 997." Little me would widen my eyes and give her a thumbs up: "Wow, no wonder you sold so many apples, Grandma! You're amazing!" Grandma would smile, her wrinkles like the apple blossoms she had once hoped for, finally blooming in spring, covering the land with a "smiling face." Yes, my grandma was a woman who worked in the fields her whole life. When the moonlight filled the roof, Grandma would start her needlework. The thimble on her fingers, like stars, shimmered with a silvery light. Whenever this happened, I would ask Grandma, "Grandma, why are there stars on this?" Grandma would smile and say, "I picked them from the sky." Then, wearing the star thimble, she would use the silvery needle and thread to make insoles, cloth clothes, cloth shoes, and exquisite embroidery. So, the next day, I hid the thimble and cried, refusing to give it to Grandma. Grandma said, "You silly child, you don't need it yet." But I still wouldn't give her the treasure. Grandma had to wait until I fell asleep before secretly taking it away to continue her needlework… Later, I stopped liking the moonlight streaming through the roof. On another moonlit night, Grandma didn't do her familiar needlework; the handicrafts she wove day and night were nowhere to be seen. That night, Grandma bought my favorite chestnut cakes and made my favorite fried eggplant fritters under the moonlight, then put me to bed early. When I woke up, Grandma wasn't there. I couldn't find her anywhere, and finally, crying, I accepted the fact that my parents had taken me away in my sleep. Later, I often felt that I had lost my childhood innocence and joy in the hustle and bustle of the city. Whenever I was depressed, I would think of Grandma, but she never came to see me again. I asked my father why he didn't bring Grandma over, and he only said, "Your grandma doesn't like living here and doesn't want to come." I was confused and cried, asking him, "Does Grandma not love me anymore?" "Nonsense, your grandma loves you the most." "Then why doesn't she come?" I was met with silence. When I was in fourth grade, Grandma finally came, and that was the happiest day of my life. I greeted her with great joy, but I was still angry with her for not coming to see me. Grandma just smiled and told me stories about the stars. "The stars in the sky were collected by a unicorn on Earth. It turned people's heartbeats into bright, twinkling stars. Every child sees a different star, and the brightest star is what the unicorn made so that children could recognize the person they most wanted to see." I laughed and said, "Grandma, I'm not a child anymore, and when did you learn to tell such cultured stories?" Grandma looked at the moon outside the window and said, "If I'm gone one day, you should look for the brightest star in the sky." I angrily slapped her hand, "What do you mean by talking about death right away?" Then, remembering that she didn't come to see me, tears started falling down my face. When Grandma saw me crying, she hurriedly wiped my tears, "Don't cry, don't cry." Seeing Grandma's flustered and clumsy appearance, even dropping her handkerchief on the ground, I giggled again. Grandma looked frightened and said, "Oh dear, you scared me to death! I mustn't have made the child cry." That evening, Grandma secretly called me into her room again, took out a chestnut cake wrapped in paper, and a red envelope, "Give this to your mother, let her keep it for you." I happily gave it to my mother, not noticing that my father, standing beside her, stared at the red envelope with red eyes, silent for a long time… People always have mixed opinions about Grandma. Some say she spoiled me too much, some say she was too biased among her grandchildren, and some say she didn't raise me well when I was little. All these comments pierced me like sharp needles, leaving me feeling powerless and in pain. Ah, that was the last time I saw Grandma. When I look up at the brightest star in the sky, I think, that's the person I most want to see, the one who gave me all her love when I had none. When I lost her, I lost the right to be a child. Only by her side could I be that unfettered child. I think I'll never forget that day. She was quietly hidden in a small black box, and no matter how much I called out to her, she could never return to my side—in my memory, Grandma's gaze shifted away from me, heading towards a deeper, more distant place. But when I remember her, I will always be like a child, looking up at her, searching for the person I most want to see, the star I most want to see. I'm slowly beginning to believe that every dead person is marked as a star by the living, becoming a guiding star in the darkness during our lowest points in life. The scythe of death cannot stop her from becoming a lamp, a beam of light, a path… forever illuminating the people she still cares about.

Wheat and Rain

liuzhiquan@newsletter.paragraph.com (liuzhiquan) — Mon, 03 Nov 2025 15:31:27 GMT

When I was little, textbooks described wheat as golden, and I believed it to be so. Thinking of wheat conjured up images of a golden sea; how comfortable it would be to lie on it! Whenever I imagined that scene, I would smile and dream of that warm harbor. I studied in the county town and rarely helped my parents with farm work. It wasn't until after graduating from high school that I finally had the chance to see the golden sea of my imagination. But when I saw the real wheat, I couldn't quite describe the feeling—disappointment or something else entirely. The color of the wheat ears wasn't the golden yellow I had imagined; the color of the soil clung to the wheat, making them indistinguishable. Of course, wheat grows in the soil; how could they be separated? In the countryside, people often hope for rain, especially during the autumn harvest. At this time, my grandmother would mutter seemingly incomprehensible words, but upon closer listening, they sounded like either cursing the heavens or thanking them. People always entrusted their harvest to the heavens. If it rained right after planting, they would be radiant, their faces beaming with joy even without a smile. When it drizzles, they don't seek shelter. Walking along the road, they tell everyone they meet, "This year's crops will definitely be good; this rain is perfect." Someone else chimes in, and the group starts chatting for a while. But if it rains when it's time to harvest, watching the torrential downpour, the whole family's faces will show worry. Grandma's face changes the fastest. While eating, she'll suddenly blurt out, "That damned heavens! It doesn't rain when it should, and now it's pouring down! It'll ruin two of my crops!" Her tone is strange; she draws out the word "damned" long and heavy, followed by short, rapid words, thick with her local accent. Actually, farmers hope for rain not just for a good harvest, of course, this is just my conclusion based on my observations. People in the village are never idle; even if there's nothing to do, they'll find something to do. It's as if everyone is busy, and being idle is a terrible sin. So people sweep the floor four or five times a day, lay out the kang (heated brick bed) two or three times, and then go out for a while to "make noise" until sunset and dinner before they finally stop. Of course, their busyness isn't the fast-paced kind; it's a natural, unhurried kind of busyness. Working at sunrise and resting at sunset is a very healthy lifestyle, ensuring at least eight hours of sleep. In this constant "competition" of being busy, the villagers aren't unable to rest, but rather afraid to. Rainy days become their chance to catch their breath. My grandmother and mother say that in the past, the village women would gather together to chat about everyday matters, each with a shoe insole in hand—you see, even at such times, they weren't idle. Unfortunately, the widespread use of mobile phones and short videos has gradually diluted this relationship. For me, wheat is now dispensable; at first, I really didn't understand why people were so fixated on it. Spring planting and autumn harvest—for three seasons of the year, they toil tirelessly guarding their wheat, fearing it would be eaten by Himalayan marmots, ravaged by deer, and utterly destroyed by a sudden hailstorm. They cherish their wheat like children, afraid of anything happening to their precious crops. Later, I learned that this was because they had experienced times of hunger, hence their extraordinary attachment to food. As for rain, I feel nothing, even a little disgusted by the marks it leaves on my skin. Yet, these two things I feel nothing for constitute the lives of farmers; wheat and soil are inseparable, and rain is inextricably linked. I was born and raised here, and even though I am about to leave my hometown, I can never truly separate from it, much less from my family. Perhaps every student who shoulders their backpack is like a stalk of wheat, indispensable to the nourishment of the earth and the irrigating of rain.

May in the Human World

liuzhiquan@newsletter.paragraph.com (liuzhiquan) — Thu, 30 Oct 2025 12:25:36 GMT

At midday, the hazy sunlight, tinged with a purple glow, enveloped me in layers of warmth, drawing heat from my body and making my face slightly flushed. In the northern May, this delicate, almost ethereal warmth was a rare blessing. The chirping of birds outside the window woke me. Just as I was about to leave for work, the phone rang. It was my cousin, Fatty, from faraway Chongqing. He asked, "Brother-in-law, are you busy at work this afternoon?" This subtle question immediately made me realize something important was amiss. We usually had a tacit understanding when we talked, so this wasn't the case. I asked him urgently, "Tomorrow is May Day. There's not much to do at the office this afternoon, but judging from your tone, something's definitely wrong. What's up?" He paused for a moment before replying, "Nothing serious. My dad's at the hospital now, and I'm worried my mom won't be able to manage alone. My classmate is with him too. I have a 6 PM flight back. Could you come over if you have time?" Hearing this, my head buzzed, and I quickly asked, "What happened?" The fat man said, "A few days ago, my dad said he felt a little unsteady on his feet, and today he suddenly couldn't speak clearly, so we rushed him to the hospital." I quickly replied, "Okay, don't worry about things here, I'll be right there. Don't be too anxious, take it easy." I put away my phone and hurriedly drove to the hospital. When I arrived, my usually robust brother-in-law was already lying on a bed in the emergency room, his face pale and his expression tense. His hands and feet were attached to various medical instruments. Seeing family members, tears welled up in his eyes. I didn't dare ask too many questions. We had a brief conversation, and I could hear that his speech was clearly slurred and labored—symptoms of a stroke. I tried my best to comfort him. Actually, when someone is ill, words of comfort are like cotton in the wind, weightless.

Written in a Dream

Because the illness came on suddenly, the doctor, after observation, immediately administered a thrombolytic agent to dissolve the plaque in the blood vessels. However, there was a risk of bleeding at any time, but fortunately, it was a close call. I asked the doctor about his condition, and the doctor said, "Judging from his medication, he's doing well so far, with no bleeding reaction. Some patients can't use this thrombolytic agent at all; it can easily cause a brain hemorrhage. He was caught in time, and he's young, so the medication is working well for him." After completing the admission procedures and settling him into the ward, the moment I laid my brother-in-law flat on the bed, I saw traces of blood seeping from the corners of his mouth and gums. I wiped them with a cotton swab. My brother-in-law said, "It's nothing, I was perfectly healthy, and suddenly this happened, sigh." I comforted him, saying, "Medical technology is so advanced now, this is nothing serious. Just get treatment promptly and rest well. Although illness strikes like a landslide, medication will alleviate it." As I spoke, I looked around the ward; all the patients were hooked up to medical equipment, lying there groaning, with their families carefully attending to them. I've never been to a hospital, so I don't know how precious health is. Life is like that; no one can predict what will happen each day. It reminds me of a line I saw in a video: "The best release in this world is to release yourself." Don't dwell on the past, don't fight against reality, because you still have to live. In real life, having a healthy body is the best asset.

Written in my heart

This department in the hospital is the busiest. The corridors are full of patients' families, and near the walls are rows of makeshift beds with luggage on them. There are also many nurses, including several large male nurses pushing medical supply carts, hurrying in and out of the wards.

I know the head nurse well; I've been to the hospital to accompany patients before, but not in this department, and I know she's very busy. This time, I happened to be in her ward and witnessed her work. I rarely see her at the nurses' station; the nurses say, "The head nurse spends most of her time in the ICU." I didn't want to bother her, but we happened to run into each other at the nurses' station. She was sitting there on oxygen. When she saw me, her eyes lit up, and she pulled her nursing cap up a little. The blue cap had left a mark on her forehead, and she looked exhausted. She said, "Brother, what brings you here?" I smiled and told her what had happened. I continued, "Coming to your department today, I saw how really tired you are. You're the most dedicated and responsible head nurse." She said, "Brother, I can't let myself not give more. There are so many patients in this department, and only 39 nurses. The patients in the ICU are always in a hurry, so I have to keep an eye on them. As the head nurse, I have to understand each patient's condition, especially the critically ill patients. It's a matter of life and death; even a slight oversight can be dangerous. My respiratory system isn't good, so if I stay in the ICU for a long time, I have to come out and use oxygen. I picked up this problem while assisting with the Wuhan epidemic." I thought about it, and it was true. The nurse who bravely and fearlessly faced the Wuhan epidemic back then had matured even more today. Time, with its added years of age, had also brought wisdom and maturity to her mind and abilities. We don't usually have time to chat, but this time we talked a little more during her break. Last year, when I was accompanying a patient in the hospital, I witnessed the nurses' hard work, especially late at night. In the quiet of the night, with all the lights off in the wards or only a dim light on the bedside of a patient receiving an injection, the nurse on duty would gently push open the door, turn on her phone flashlight, and go to each bedside to check on the patient, tuck them in, or check their temperature. Their dedication under their nurses' caps is silent. I've always wanted to write a song about nurses, and since Nurses' Day is approaching, and my brother-in-law was hospitalized this time, I witnessed the nurses' busy day again in the ward, observing and understanding their work up close, and gathering material for my writing. The song title is "The Poplar of Life": Like the poplar standing tall between heaven and earth / Supporting the cycle of spring and autumn / White coats accompany an unregretful life / Giving life peace and health / Ah, the weariness of each day / Shouldering the burden of saving lives / Just for that little bit of life to lean on... We know that nurses, doctors, and we, when others need help, whether out of professional duty or out of kindness, bravely extend a helping hand. This is a great act of love; helping others is often helping ourselves, accumulating immeasurable merit.

Written in the poem: The May sky is clear and serene. Ordinary days, the stage of human life unfolds, sometimes joyful, sometimes sorrowful, sometimes sweet, sometimes bitter. Occasionally, there is continuous rain, a gentle westward breeze, also a kind of support and nourishment for life. As long as humans exist, they have desires. When people are sick, they often envy those who walk and laugh healthily beside them, their eyes revealing a longing for freedom and a yearning for recovery. However, once recovered and health restored, desires arise again amidst the mundane realities of daily life, leading to struggles and conflicts, exhaustion, and a dazed indulgence in sensual pleasures. May in the human world is shrouded in a light, hazy mist. The flow of time, with each tick of the second hand, records our days and lives, neither hurried nor slow. Looking back at our footprints, deep and shallow, winding and turning, is like listening to a melodious melody. Whether smiling or bitter, the memories linger in our deep gaze.