{101} Comments on the Journal

As for the Journal, the two Chinese characters that I translate as “journal” literally mean “daily record” (), although it was not kept on a daily basis. The mid-sixteenth-century scholar Zhang Gun praised Wu Yubi’s journal, calling it “a personal history. All that he recorded were his own affairs. This is unlike people who flippantly make sweeping statements as they append their own ideas to well-known theories or append well-known theories to their own ideas.”¹ In keeping a journal, Wu was not self-consciously attempting to present an account of his life just for its own sake. Rather he had the larger goal of contributing to his program of self-cultivation, as part of his pursuit of sagehood.

An earlier name for it was the Record of Daily Renewal, the idea of “daily renewal” coming from the Great Learning text: “If you can one day renew yourself, do so from day to day. Yes, let there be daily renewal.”² Lou Liang, a prominent Ming dynasty Neo-Confucian who studied with Wu and who himself kept a journal, described Wu’s Journal as something “in which he recorded the accomplishments of his ‘daily renewal’ program and expressed all that he had learned for himself.”³ As a teacher, Wu encouraged his students to keep records of their own personal behavior as part of their daily programs of self-cultivation:

When you return home, you are to each remember the teachings with which I have provided you.

With the practice of keeping your own private record,

Renew yourself day after day.⁴

{102} A Closer Look at the Journal

As we have seen, Wu’s lifetime pursuit of the goal of sagehood was anything but steady and smooth, but rather went in fits and starts. Nor were his accounts in the Journal consistently detailed and systematically maintained. The entries vary greatly in number and length from year to year. The subject matter ranges from personal expression of intense emotion and quotations from the classics to moralizing on human behavior. The very last entry in the Journal reads, “Although the myriad changes in the universe are numerous and bewildering, there is a definite principle with respect to responding to each of them” (11:42a, no. 328). So too, in approaching the many kinds of entries in the Journal, the reader must keep in mind that they all in some way, directly or indirectly, relate to the central theme of Wu’s pursuit of sagehood.

Given this great variety in the content of the entries, discussion of the Journal will be organized around three basic polarities. The first is that between what Wu perceives as the obstacles to his goal and what he feels are the sources of support in overcoming these obstacles. The second polarity is that found in his program of self-cultivation between disciplining and restraining the self on the one hand, and nurturing and expanding it on the other. The last one is that which he finds in his constant self-evaluations about his successes and failures in his undertaking. It is in the interplay of these polarities, and how they cause the tone of the Journal to alternate between light and darkness, that the contours of his life and interior self are brought out, giving the reader some sense of a three-dimensional human person. To be sure, the entries are not nearly as psychologically detailed as a modern reader would expect to find in a journal. But still, Wu’s personality clearly emerges from the overall work, unlike what we find with many other writings by Confucian scholars.

Obstacles and Supports

The Journal begins significantly with accounts of his two dreams about Confucius and Zhu Xi, the two principal figures of the Confucian and Neo-Confucian traditions, respectively. These two set the standard as models of sagehood for him and illustrate Wu’s sense that these two served as active presences in his life to guide him. Then he gets right down to more personal matters of his own conduct. The entries in the early years are {103} dominated by a rather dark tone, by his greater sense of the obstacles in the way of reaching his goal of sagehood. Because of the preponderance of this type of entry, our discussion begins here, with a focus on the polarities of what he considers the obstacles and supports in his endeavor. As for the obstacles, Wu sees them as coming from three sources: the difficult external or material circumstances of his life, the imperfections of the people around him, and his own wayward disposition.

Obstacles in Wu’s Endeavors

Among the features of his life situation with which Wu expresses dissatisfaction are his limited financial resources and his poor health, especially as these impinge on the responsibilities of managing a household. As for his poverty, Wu laments:

Near evening time today, I went to a neighbor’s storehouse to borrow some grain. I remembered then that I had not yet repaid my former debts. This new debt will only add to what I already owe. Oh, what should I do about this life of mine? (11:15a, no. 72)

As with other expressions of his poverty, he mentions having to put aside his books to go plant vegetables, enduring a leaky house during a heavy rainstorm, and lacking oil for his study lamp at night. Poverty contributed to the greater difficulty of managing his household, forcing him to worry about making ends meet in times of poor harvests and hard times:

The late-year crop of rice has turned out to be a poor harvest. This evening on my pillow, I’ve been thinking what sore straits I’m in with respect to household necessities and how I cannot concentrate on my reading. (11:20b, no. 116)

Wu bemoans not just his lack of financial resources but also his physical disabilities, in that he suffered from general poor health and a series of unspecified illnesses:

On my pillow tonight, I recalled the days when I lived in the capital and could study day and night without interruption, yet never got sick. But for these past ten years or more, various illnesses have followed one after the other, so that I have hardly been able to make {104} the same kind of progress as in those days. I am overcome with deep regrets, though there is nothing I can do about it. All this while, I have been poor and without the medicine to take proper care of myself. (11:17b, no. 23)

He typically speaks only in a general way of being sick without specifying the nature of his illness, though he does at times mention boils, rheumatism, and eye ailments. His condition was serious enough that he was forced in 1453 to make a major trip to Nanjing for medical care.

Wu’s reaction to these limitations is not one of ready acceptance. More often, it is one of anger and resentment:

His resentment stems from feeling impeded in his attempts at self-cultivation. These circumstances interrupt his reading schedule and destroy his inner equilibrium. He feels he is being kept away from his pursuit of sagehood by irksome distractions with which he should not have to bother:

Sick, exhausted, and tied up with household worries, I find I cannot give my full attention to the sacred writings of the sages and worthies. Inwardly, I feel mean and deceitful, lacking in the means by which to extend my knowledge. Outwardly, my manner has become more and more volatile and rude, with no energy for personal application of effort. (11:5b–6a, no. 18)

At times, he responds not in anger but in confusion and despair:

In handling an important matter recently, I was unable to do the best I could and so have been extremely dispirited in thought. At the same time, I have been suffering from chills, the tremors from which at times are strong enough to overwhelm me. As a result, my program of reading has been interrupted. Muddled and dazed all day, I am strongly moved to wonder by what means I can enter the realm of the sages and worthies. (11:15b, no. 74)

{105} In his frustration, Wu declares in a poem, “Difficulties I am willing to accept as part of life, / But I never thought they would be as extreme as this” (11:25a, no. 153), and wonders, “perhaps the ancients were not as poor as we are today” (11:12a, no. 57).

Wu has difficulty accepting not just the limitations imposed by his external situation but also by the imperfections of the people around him. He describes himself as prone to lose his temper, as impatient with the faults of others, and as being self-righteously critical of others:

Lately, in handling a certain matter with a neighbor, I have tried to be forbearing with him but haven’t succeeded in my attempts. Today I was at the end of my patience, and since he still didn’t understand the matter, I couldn’t help telling him off. This losing my temper over unimportant matters is something which I later regret. (11:1b–2a, no. 4)

Wu’s frustration with the limitations of his life situation and the shortcomings of the people around him is compounded by those of his own self, especially, he says, his tendencies to be stingy, lax, and prone to anger: “this stupid self of mine is plagued by an inability to control and eliminate the obstinacy of my natural temperament … when the least little thing does not accord with my wishes, I lose my temper” (11:3a, no. 10). He also admonishes himself for “lacking a magnanimous spirit” in handling household matters (11:6b, no. 20). As for his laxity in moral efforts, he reports: “For the past ten days, I have been neglecting my studies and moral cultivation” (11:18b, no. 101).

Disheartened by these various obstacles to achieving his goal of sagehood, Wu, nevertheless, owing no doubt to his headstrong nature, refuses to be ultimately overcome and defeated by them. He continues to struggle. Gradually what emerges for him is a more mature and refined notion of what sagehood is really about and how it has to be lived out in the context of his own particular situation.

One of the principal problems Wu has to face is the immaturity of his notions about the sage’s state of inner composure. He feels that to be a sage he must develop a state of mind that is tranquil and calm without the least bit of inner disturbance. As soon as any one of the basic human emotions disturbs this equilibrium it means he has gone astray from the Way and let himself be overwhelmed by external things. He struggles constantly to achieve inner equilibrium and reports occasional successes. However, {106} success is more often than not followed by another failure, causing further discouragement on his part:

I began to suspect I was one of the stupid ones who could never in the least bit emulate the sages and worthies, and that there was nothing to prevent me from ending up as what Confucius described as a “mean and petty person.” (11:4b, no. 13)

A big part of the problem stemmed from his stoical sense of this equilibrium. In one entry, he declares that one should neither enjoy what is pleasurable nor dislike what is not. In my translation, I have qualified this stoicism with the phrase “too much.” Wu is suspicious of positive feelings of enjoyment and negative feelings of dislike because they disturb his sense of inner equilibrium:

Both enjoying and disliking things too much cause a disturbance of inner equilibrium that should not be upset. The mind of the sage or worthy is like still water. Whether situations are favorable or adverse, he deals with both using principle and nothing else. How could he let what comes from the outside determine his inner sorrow or joy? (11:6b, no. 19)

Though Wu can articulate for himself this ideal of sagely detachment, which clearly has its basis in Neo-Confucian views on human feelings, still his resolution to mend his ways at the end of this entry seems forced. He does not seem fully convinced of its truth or confident of realizing it. “Alas!” he cries, “How can I succeed in reaching this state?”

The longest entry in the Journal (no. 13), in contrast, chronicles a particularly arduous but fairly successful struggle over this matter of achieving inner equilibrium. Compared to the entry just discussed, his resolution at the end of this one seems more genuinely felt.5 The reader senses a real {107} release of tension, a breakthrough in understanding and an expansion of feeling. In this entry, Wu begins by describing the considerable improvement he has made since the beginning of the year (1425) in his attempts to maintain his composure when faced with adverse situations. Though still moved by events, especially difficult ones, on the whole he feels himself able to deal with much of the resulting agitation, not allowing himself to be overwhelmed by either his emotions or the situation. Suddenly, however, he finds himself confronted with a situation he could not get a grip on: “on the twentieth of this month, I found myself in another adverse situation, the inner agitation from which I could not rid myself. My mind became more and more discontented” (11:4b, no. 13).

Struggling with this discontent, Wu comes to perceive the faulty basis of the equilibrium he was seeking and at times thought he had obtained. In his immaturity, he says, he sought an inner peace wherein everything went according to his wishes, leaving him unencumbered by the all-too-human realities around him. It was as if, having dedicated himself to the lofty pursuit of sagehood, he could expect things to conform to his good intentions, that he would not be held back by mundane matters such as having a sick child or annoying neighbors. But such equilibrium, achieved only at times when he had things just as he wished, could be nothing but brittle and easily shattered. And once his composure was shattered, Wu’s tendency, as we have seen him admit, was readily to give way to anger or self-pity:

This [discontent] was because my usual practice was only one of negatively restraining myself and not one of positive nurture. I still lacked the intention of completely eradicating the root of the problem. Only after having reflected back and forth on it did I realize that my recent problem derived from wanting to have my mind and vital spirit at peace, yet at the same time, hating all those external things that go contrary to my wishes and that spoil my inner equilibrium. But this is wrong. (11:4b–5a, no. 13)

The reason for this approach being wrong, he comes to realize, is that it failed to take into account the complexity and diversity of the world around him, as well as the deeper basis upon which all beings, including himself, are grounded. His inner equilibrium had to be founded on something larger than his own wishes and his own limited conceptions of sagehood. It had to be based on something more flexible, enduring, and {108} inclusive, something that would enable him to deal with the multiplicity of life in truly sagely fashion. This, he realizes is the role of principle, the underlying truth and unity of the total order of things in which the myriad things have their being. Wu comes to understand that when rooted in principle, the core of his being, he is able to know how to respond to and manage his situation, since principle illumines and directs the mind to the proper responses. Looking at matters from the point of view of principle, in its unity and diversity, he begins to see that rather than antagonism between things, there is mutual resonance and shared identity. Thus, he need not fight his life situation or even himself. Principle serves the integrating function between himself and the multiplicity of the larger order of things. Moreover, principle functions right at the heart of his particular situation and must be discovered therein, not in some idealistic world apart from his own. The purpose of inner composure in this context, then, is not to achieve some escapist type of peace of mind, but to participate deeply in the life around one:

All things in the world are unalike. How can I hate those things that are contrary to my tastes? The correct thing for me to do, in the midst of the universal diversity of life, is to carefully examine the principle of each thing in order to respond properly to each of them. Upon realizing this, I felt a great unburdening inside. (11:5a, no. 13)

Human feelings are not to be left out, upstaged, or repressed, but are to be respected and given their due expression amidst this open-ended source, principle. The self is to be enhanced, not diminished, in self-cultivation. By focusing on the fundamental resonance between himself and things based on principle, Wu sees that he could achieve better results in his efforts at cultivation by emphasizing the nurturing aspect and not strict discipline alone. This, he is sure, will be a more pleasant and natural way, as well as lead to a more enduring type of composure, one that can sustain itself during periods of both calm and agitation:

Now the practice of negatively restraining and not positively acting is a rigid and painful approach, whereas using principle to deal with each situation is a flexible and smooth one. Thus, I thought, it is not that I have never before experienced the state of my mind and vital spirit being at peace, but that I have never experienced it {109} uninterrupted for eight to nine days like this. Furthermore, those were times in the past when the household was calm, with not much going on. (11:5a, no. 13)

Wu ends this extended reflection with firm resolutions about his conduct and the type of practice he hopes will help him achieve his goals, writing them down in a notebook:

“My goal is to progress to the point of ‘mastering myself and returning to the rites’ by means of the practices of reading books and plumbing principle, as well as by devoting myself to the cultivation of reverence and empathy.” Whether I succeed right away or it takes a long time, I dare not know. (11:5a–b, no. 13)

Reading books and plumbing principle are among the principal practices for self-cultivation in the Cheng-Zhu tradition. As for reverence, this involves a deep seriousness about the whole sagely venture and a profound respect for the deeper resources within the self. The quality of empathy would demand of Wu that he not live in his own idealized world but develop sensitivity and a sense of fellow-feeling with others in the wider world.

Related to the realization that his peace of mind must be rooted in principle, the ground of his being, was a growing understanding of the will of Heaven in his life. He sees that it is not enough stoically to put up with the distractions and frustrations in one’s life, but that one must comprehend what particular meanings these things have for him. Principle is not something abstract, static, and impersonal but related to Heaven and its will for him, the unfolding of his life purpose.

The notion of the will or mandate of Heaven (tian-ming ) here must be understood in the Confucian sense that Heaven has placed each person in a specific context within which to work out his or her sagehood.6 Context involves the resources and limitations in a person’s life over which he does not have control, such as wealth or poverty, short or long life, fame or obscurity, and good or bad fortune. Aware that “Each person’s life has its own fixed lot” (11:34b, no. 247), Wu reminds himself about Confucius’ {110} words that a person “who fails to understand Heaven’s will for him lacks what it takes to be a noble person.”7 What is required of a person is that he seeks to discern Heaven’s will for himself and then follow it though without any resentment. Wu thus resolves to be like the sages and worthies who “followed Heaven’s will in all cases with respect to good and bad fortune, without the least bit of inner disturbance” (11:6a, no. 19).

As arbiter or custodian of his fate, Heaven is not some remote, impersonal force for Wu. He quotes the Han Confucian Dong Zhongshu, who said, “In human actions, the extremes of good and evil in a person’s behavior penetrate, interact with, and mutually respond to Heaven and earth.” Wu’s response to these words is, “Alas, how awesome is the boundary point where Heaven and humans meet!” (11:16a, no. 77). This is so awesome for Wu that he maintains a special respect and reverence of this cosmic force (“What I depend upon is Heaven; what I trust in is its will for me” [11:31a, no. 203]), and is fearful of being cut off from it (“If there is even the tiniest bit of the Way that I have not exhausted, then I have cut myself off from Heaven” [11:19b, no. 108]). He expresses faith in the ultimate justice of Heaven: “The Way of Heaven is to bless the good and bring evil to the bad” (11:38a, no. 286).

In trying to discern his own fate, Wu decides that it is one of poverty and low estate, as well as one of sorrow and difficulty, taking these categories from section 14 of Practicing the Mean, which he frequently quotes. His pursuit of sagehood must be done within this specific context and not in some other, more ideal state:

Every day I work hard at my farming. This is my personal lot in life, so why be resentful about it? As the Practicing the Mean says, “In a position of poverty and low estate, the noble person does what is proper in such a position.” (11:11a, no. 52)

Given the various limitations in his life, Wu comes to realize that there is one thing over which he does have control—his moral character: “then slowly I began to realize that the only thing to which I could apply my efforts is my moral character. Outside of this, I know of nothing else. So what is that which I seek for myself? I seek only to strengthen this moral character of mine” (11:3b, no. 11). A person’s greatness is ultimately {111} determined not by his external status or achievements in life but by the quality of his moral character.

Unlike the external circumstances of one’s life situation, one’s moral character is open-ended, with unlimited capacity and infinite possibilities. Wu reminds himself that, with respect to his moral character, he must “take the capacity of Heaven and earth as my capacity and the moral character of the sages as my moral character” (11:15a, no. 73). In an entry shortly after this, he sighs, “Alas, he who has not reached the way of Heaven and has not reached sagehood cannot be called a ‘complete person’” (11:15b, no. 75). Thus, though one must confront and reconcile oneself to the limitations of one’s life situation, one cannot compromise oneself when it comes to the call to sagehood, the call to fully develop one’s human capacities. There, any limitations are of one’s own making.

What Heaven ultimately expects of a person is that he does the best he can with what resources he has with respect to his particular life situation. Thus, Wu continually encourages himself to proceed with his learning and self-cultivation, not by the standards of men of the past or contemporary friends, but according to his own portion (fen ), with all that entails regarding his abilities and limitations:

Last evening, on account of being simultaneously bothered by poverty and illness, I couldn’t concentrate on my reading and couldn’t help feeling restless inside. After deep reflection, I realized that what is required is to direct my moral efforts right at this very problem spot, make myself composed inside, and, in every situation, to progress in my learning according to my given abilities. Then all will be as it should be. (11:23b, no. 138)

While Wu comes to accept the importance of discerning and following Heaven’s will in his life, he remains awed by the difficulty of actually doing so. He enjoins himself over and over again to follow Heaven’s will without any consideration of personal advantage: “Whether fate brings success or failure, short or long life, I will follow Heaven in any case. I will behave according to my sense of righteousness and that is all” (11:24b, no. 147). This sentiment is expressed with such frequency throughout the Journal, that it could not have been something that he was easily inclined toward or quickly able to master, but rather was something about which he had to constantly remind himself.

Though Wu often complains, tries to resist his fate, and take the easy way out, he gradually learns that hardship and difficulties have in fact contributed to his personal development and have their own positive value. He quotes the History of the Later Han to the effect that, “If you have not had to cut through twisted roots and gnarled branches, you don’t really know how to distinguish a sharp tool.”8 Hardships test a person’s mettle and strengthen his abilities. Wu realizes that they challenge him to go beyond a mediocre way of life, forcing him to examine himself more thoroughly and to search more deeply for resources within himself:

Today I realized that I have actually benefited somewhat from my poverty and difficulties. It seems people who have never exerted effort in circumstances of poverty and difficulty find that in the end, they don’t succeed and they end up weak and timid. (11:17 a, no. 84)

While Wu, after much reflection, comes to acknowledge that he is not to complain against Heaven for his fate and the limitations of his life situation, he still has to come to terms with the problem of “blaming other people,” that is, losing his temper over the shortcomings of others. The insights he arrives at include both a sense of his own hypocrisy in criticizing others when he himself is not faultless, and a sense of the need for patience and understanding with the imperfections of others, especially in his role as teacher with his students.

As for the first aspect, Wu takes himself to task:

Since I have no time left over from strenuously examining myself day and night for my faults, how can I find the time to engage in the practice of checking into the faults of other people? If a person {113} criticizes others in great detail, he will be careless in managing himself. (11:2b, no. 8)

To expect change in others before one has changed oneself is not only a total waste of one’s efforts but even more a mark of selfishness and a lack of understanding of others. One morning, feeling remorse for his critical nature, Wu composed this saying to advise himself: “The point is not that other people are hard to change, but truly that my own moral character is not up to par” (11:21a, no. 120).

He comes to realize that he lacks the Confucian virtue of empathy in judging others and cites as one of the admirable merits of the Cheng brothers their capacity always to be kind in their criticism of others: “their intent was only to rectify the situation, not to expose the faults of others” (11:41a, no. 319). That is, they were careful not to make a point of their own virtue at the expense of others with more obvious failings, thus showing a concern for the “face” of others. Besides lacking empathy, Wu’s impatient attitude reflects an unrealistic view of what behavioral change entails. His Journal testifies to the fact that to change one’s self takes time, and that one cannot expect to make progress straightaway without any relapse. He makes resolutions to be stricter with himself about criticizing others (“If I would judge myself in the same spirit as I judge others, I could fulfill the Way” [11:11b, no. 56]), as well as to be more generous in his treatment of others no matter what (“If another person treats me with deceit and stinginess, I shall try to treat him with fairness and openness” [11:36a, no. 264]).

Associated with this propensity to criticize others is a sense of loneliness on Wu’s part, a sense that he lacks sagely friends to help him advance in the Way: “Above I have no teacher, below I have no friends. As for my program of self-cultivation, I have grown more lax with it. How can I bear this life of mine?” (11:18b, no. 97). He often ends an entry with the plea, “where can I find a good friend to help me realize this ambition of mine to reach sagehood?” (11:18b, no. 101. See also nos. 63 and 98). He longs for friends with outstanding abilities and insights so that he can benefit from their goodness. Just as he is sure he could be a much better person if he had better health and a less limited financial situation, he also feels that he could be a better person if he had more sagely friends around him, as would have been the case, he supposes, if he were living in the time of Confucius, the Cheng brothers, or Zhu Xi. This frustration about his lack of sagely companions in time gives way to a better understanding of the noted Song Neo-Confucian Li Tong’s {114} achievement of sagehood: “it was not that Master Li had the benefit of associates who were all sages and worthies,” but rather that he was like “‘Tang the Completer,’ who ‘did not demand perfection in others but scrutinized himself as if he still had not reached it himself’” (11:3a–b, no. 10).

Aware that he cannot blame either Heaven or other people, Wu is left with himself and his particular disposition to make his way in his pursuit of sagehood: “In learning to be a sage, there is no other way than seeking within myself” (11:37b, no. 284). That is to say, one must search within to overcome one’s wayward disposition and make sagehood blossom from within one’s being.

Supports in Wu’s Endeavors: The Sages

Though Wu feels ultimately responsible for the success of his goal, he is not totally alone in the enterprise without any external supports in coping with its challenges. In this next section, we shall find his life to be far less bleak than the previous section may suggest. If there is much sorrow and difficulty expressed in the Journal, there is also plenty of joy and pleasure. We now take up these more hopeful aspects that encouraged Wu in dealing with life’s darker moments. His inspiration comes primarily from three sources: the sages (of both the classical period and the Song), his dreams, and the natural world. All three contribute to his sense of an expanded self—they are the things he celebrates, enjoys, and feels enriched by.

For Wu, sages are those men who have perfectly realized in their own lives the way of Heaven, heroically maintaining the transmission of the Confucian Way. In the Journal, he describes the excellence of the sages in these terms: they listened to the will of Heaven in all cases without any inner disturbance; they did not let what happened in the external world determine their sense of their own worth; they dealt with each situation in accordance with principle; and they were consistent in all this throughout their lives from youth to old age. Wu is convinced that the one way to be a complete person and to have a life free from defect is to follow the learning of the sages, and he resolves to be guided each day by their teachings. He aims to rid himself of anything unworthy of the sages and to cultivate all that is worthy. In his development, as the years go on, Wu declares that, “More and more I understand why a person must take becoming a sage or worthy as his personal responsibility” (11:31b, no. 207), and he reaffirms his resolve to spend the remaining years of his life thus occupied.

{115} Wu’s most direct and intimate encounter with the sages is through books, either the sages’ writings or accounts of their lives by others. He thus finds himself strongly attached to his books and to his program of reading. Therein he loses himself in a kind of all-consuming absorption and experiences the fundamental oneness of his being. It is his attachment to the works of the sages as a means of staying close to them in spirit that makes him so reluctant to be separated from his books and so resentful of interruptions in his reading schedule. Elsewhere in his Collected Works, he wrote: “Each time I savor the words of the sages and worthies, I regret that I was not born in their time, could not stand at their gates among their disciples, and in one leap reach their realm” (10:14b).

In a 1421 letter, Wu wrote that “The ultimate in sagehood was reached by Yao, Shun, the Duke of Zhou, and Confucius, and nothing further can be added” (8:16b, Letter 3). Elsewhere, in a poem entitled “At Night Cherishing Thoughts of the Ancients” (2:6b–7a), he divided the sages into three categories: the sage kings of antiquity (Yao and Shun), the sage teachers of the classical period (Confucius and Mencius), and the masters of the Song period. Though Wu had the utmost regard for all of these, it is to this third group that he displays his greatest personal devotion.

Wu shows his devotion to the Song masters not just by reading their books but also by visiting their shrines, harmonizing with the rhymes of their poetry, and meditating on their portraits. Once, while visiting a shrine dedicated to the Song Neo-Confucian Masters Zhou Dunyi and Zhu Xi, he wrote a poem to express his deep admiration for them that ends:

I only regret I have no way to hasten to the edge of their mat for instruction.

In this holy shrine, I bow deeply as I reverently make my approach. (1:24a)

Several poems later, Wu speaks of contemplating the portraits of the major Song figures he has come across in his reading. In this poem he describes the greatness of these Song men in having restored the Way of Confucius and Mencius, making it shine brightly like the sun and moon for all to see. But he also laments his own inferior achievements by comparison. Meditating on their pictures helps to assuage his longing for them:

{116} By means of their pictures, I try to probe their minds.

More and more this serves to mold my careless nature.

Not as good as they are, I am still fearful of failing them.

Who knows how distressed this mind of mine is?

On occasion, I undertake to sketch their pictures;

At all times, I persevere in reverently bearing their trust. (1:25a)

The Song masters are more compelling models for Wu because they are closer in time than the other sages, and they accomplished their sagehood in everyday situations that seem not all that different from his own. There are also more detailed accounts of their lives available to him. In addition to his more intellectual and philosophical works, Zhu Xi compiled a number of books for pedagogical use, including collections of biographies to put before students models that could be imitated. These writings include the last chapter of Reflections on Things at Hand, entitled “On the Dispositions of the Sages and Worthies,” the Record of the Origins of the School of the Two Chengs, and the Records of the Words and Deeds of Eminent Officials of the Song Dynasty. Wu, in the course of his reading schedule, includes all of these, as well as another less-known work, Compilation of Exemplary Biographies to Alert the Self.9 We have already seen in the discussion of Wu’s life how he attributed his initial conversion experience to reading the Record of the Origins of the School of the Two Chengs and being inspired by the living reality of sagehood in the lives of the figures portrayed there. We shall also see how his attraction to the Song masters had more to do with the personal qualities they exhibited than with their abstract, intellectual ideas.

Wu was not attracted to all of the Song masters in the same way and with the same intensity. Certain figures he singled out for special devotion as models with which he felt a deep affinity. He was drawn to each figure for a different reason. The three principal ones are Cheng Hao (1032–1085), Shao Yong (1011–1077), and Zhu Xi (1130–1200).

Starting with Cheng Hao, we have already discussed how Wu attributed part of his conversion experience to the personal example of Cheng, who had struggled with and overcome his love for hunting. He also admired him for heroically assuming responsibility for the transmission of the Way after it had fallen into oblivion for a thousand years after Mencius:

{117} Only the Master carried on the line that had been transmitted for a thousand years. Each time I recite his poetry, read his writings, or imagine his features as a person, I regret that I was not born during his time. (9:7b)

Cheng had become a worthy in his own lifetime, not from superhuman efforts but in the very humanness of his being, making mistakes at times but correcting them through learning, as when he overcame his enjoyment of hunting. Wu always referred to him by his sobriquet Master Mingdao, or one who enlightens the Way. Wu took great delight in reciting out loud the Biographical Account of Cheng Hao, written by Cheng’s older brother, Cheng Yi. The effect of chanting this, by Wu’s own account, was always highly emotional:

This evening I was reciting the Biographical Account of Cheng Hao and found myself immensely affected by it. Whenever I came to a place that resonated with me, without realizing it, my hands and feet moved in joyful response. (11:23a, no. 136)

According to Wu’s student Lou Liang, the appeal of Cheng Hao for Wu had to do largely with Cheng’s mild and easy manner, one that Wu wished he had instead of his own intense and volatile nature. Besides his affable manner, Wu admired Cheng’s sense of self-possession and self-contentment. In a poem written in 1450, Wu wrote that he named his newly built pavilion “The Pavilion of the Self-At-Ease,” inspired by Cheng’s poem “Autumn Days.” The first half of Cheng’s poem goes:

With leisure, everything is relaxed.

When I awake, the sun shining through the eastern window is already red.

All things viewed in tranquility are at ease with themselves (zide)

The delightful spirit of the four seasons I share with all.10

For the classical Confucians, the meaning of the term zide () is more specifically the ease that comes from “appropriation of the Way {118} for oneself,” as in Mencius’ words that “The noble person delves into it [learning], deeply according to the Way, wishing to get it in himself.”11 Once one finds the Way for oneself inside oneself, then self-contentment and self-possession emerge, naturally and spontaneously, and one realizes a sense of oneness with all creation. As Wu’s own sense of self-contentment and self-possession increased with age, he found himself frequently quoting lines from Cheng Hao about the matter of sagely composure: “The constant principle of the sage is that his feelings are in accord with all creation, and yet he has no feelings of his own,” and one should be “broad and extremely impartial and respond spontaneously to things as they come.”¹²

Cheng Hao thus inspired Wu with his personal qualities of affability and mildness, of self-possession and contentment, ease and joyfulness, and spontaneity amid composure. As we shall see shortly, Wu also derived his important idea of the “vital impulse of things” (sheng-yi) from Cheng.

Wu’s poetic, nature-loving side found a great affinity with the Song thinker and poet, Shao Yong. In studies of Chinese thought, Shao is usually associated with his theories of numerology and commentaries on the Book of Changes. But for Wu, Shao’s appeal was his strong appreciation for the intimate relationship between human spontaneities and those of the natural world. In an early entry in the Journal, after describing his own sense of peacefulness in the context of a natural setting, he remarks that:

This experience verifies what Master Shao Yong meant in a poem:

One only notices the bright day when the mind is tranquil.

One only appreciates the blue sky when the eyes are clear. (11:3b–4a, no. 12)

This sense of affinity of the human and natural realms is best expressed in the poetic mode, and Shao is regarded as one of the outstanding Song Neo-Confucian poets in this respect.¹³ Wu is fond of quoting Shao’s poems in the Journal, and of writing poems following Shao’s rhyme schemes in his {119} collection of poems. In one such poem, Wu writes about teaching Shao’s poetry to his students, describing the effect Shao’s poems had on him thus:

Having finished chanting these wonderful poems, I forget my troubles amidst all this joy,

I also fail to notice how the months and years of my fleeting life are mounting up. (4:40a)

Along with this poetic sense of joy, Wu appreciates Shao’s conviction that many of the fundamental pleasures of life are free and thus cannot be denied to a person, even one who is poor. Enjoying nature and taking naps are among the best of these:

Today while resting, I read some of the poetry of Shao Yong. Subsequently, I fell into a deep sleep. When I awoke, my state of mind was quite excellent, just as Shao himself described in a poem, “no less than had I been enfeoffed or awarded money.” Even though I am extremely impoverished, that is my fate. But it cannot destroy this present happiness. (11:24a, no. 143)

Elsewhere Wu quotes Shao that “Even though I am poor, it does not affect the lofty peace I enjoy each day” (11:24b, no. 146). For both Shao and Wu, like Confucius’ disciple Yan Hui, there is the Confucian sense of being poor yet delighting in the Way.

One cannot help but observe that both Shao Yong and Wu have the same character, kang (), in the sobriquets they chose. Although in modern Chinese kang is used in the sense of good health and vigor, in classical literature it has more to do with a sense of peacefulness, tranquility, and harmony. Wu never mentions anywhere why he chose his particular sobriquet, Kangzhai (“Studio of Tranquility” ), but given his attraction to Shao Yong whose sobriquet was Kangjie (“Tranquil and Pure” ), it is likely that he had Shao in mind when he chose it.

Of all these Song Neo-Confucians, however, no one stands out more than Zhu Xi as an object of devotion for Wu. He puts Zhu in a wholly different class from all the others, as the following poem of Wu’s illustrates:

The former philosophers had noble characters, all of whom I respect;

But Master Zhu of Kaoting especially engages my attention.

{120} He is like the ocean in its vastness that swallows up all other bodies of water;

Like Mounts Tai and Hua whose lofty heights dwarf the myriad other mountain peaks. (1:34b–35a)

In 1179–1180, Zhu Xi spent time in northern Jiangxi province as an education official in Nanchang and worked to restore and expand the White Deer Grotto Academy there. This was a place that Wu tried to visit on his trips to Nanjing. He most often referred to Zhu by his sobriquet, Master Huian (). One indication of Wu’s special regard for Zhu can be seen in the fact that Zhu is the only non-classical figure who visits Wu in his dreams. These dreams about Zhu reflect Wu’s intense feelings for him. As discussed earlier, the second entry in the Journal records Wu waiting in attendance upon Zhu Xi and displaying his deep reverence and admiration for him. In 1456, he had a very moving dream in which he, along with three friends, tried to visit Zhu but were prevented from doing so by floodwaters. Wu found the anguish hard to bear, and in his sadness he composed this poem to express his feelings:

Though myriad of autumns separate us, we share deep feelings between us.

Unable to part, I do not understand the state of mind I’m in.

The golden cock suddenly announces the dawn at the spring window.

With regret, my injured spirit gives out a cry of sorrow. (11:33a, no. 223)

Later, in a dream recorded in 1461, Zhu and his son honored Wu with a visit. The next year, 1462, Wu made a pilgrimage to Zhu’s birthplace in Fujian province. That one of Zhu’s descendants came out to greet him during his visit was a great source of honor and pleasure to him. In all of his various travels, Wu would note if Zhu Xi had ever traveled or lived in the same area, taking pleasure whenever he sensed that their paths had crossed, even though it was hundreds of years later.

For Wu, Zhu was the master teacher, and thus, “Ordinarily I am never without Master Zhu’s instructions on my belt” (7:12b–13a). The force of Zhu’s writings was powerfully transformative for him: “Today I have been reading Zhu Xi’s Collected Works. Being in intimate contact with the {121} Master’s teachings allows a person to transcend the ordinary world and eliminate his numerous worries” (11:40a, no 309).

It is not surprising that Zhu’s philosophical works would predominate in Wu’s reading program, such as Zhu’s Collected Works and his Classified Conversations, but what is striking is the role Zhu’s poetry played in Wu’s relationship with the sage. Many of Wu’s poems mention reading Zhu’s poetry and composing his own poems following Zhu’s rhyme scheme (1:34b–35a, 2:12a, and 2:16a–b). In one poem, he speaks of the cooling effect of reading Zhu’s poetry in the hot summer (2:14a). In the Journal, he describes one occasion of teaching his students a collection of Zhu’s poems: “The emotion in my voice rose and fell in cadence with the poems’ rhythms. We were all immensely affected by them” (11:23b, no. 139).

Although one might easily comprehend Wu’s attraction to Cheng Hao and Shao Yong with their warmer and more genial personalities, his particular emotional response to Zhu Xi is likely to be somewhat mystifying. The stereotypes of Zhu in contemporary scholarship are far from the type of person associated with objects of warm devotion. Acknowledged as a brilliant scholar and a skillful architect of the Neo-Confucian tradition, Zhu has often been characterized as pedantic, stuffy, aloof, and humorless. Whether these characteristics are indeed accurate or not, what is of interest is how Wu perceived him so differently. He saw Zhu as a helpful, sympathetic presence who could meet some of his deepest spiritual and emotional needs. He dreams about him; he writes poetry “with” him. One might go as far as to speculate that Zhu replaced Wu’s father as the chief source of authority in his life, as the chief object of his loyalty and devotion.

The dynamics at work in Wu’s relationship with all of these models might be seen as a resonance with personal, human qualities that transcend time and place. Wu’s reverence for these models is such that he feels he is able to enter into their presence, participate as it were in their being, and have new energies evoked within himself. To him, these figures do not represent strict standards outside himself with respect to which he must suppress his own individuality in order to become like them. Rather, he sees them as sources of access to his own greater participation in the larger order of things. To be sure, his relationship to the sages is not a simple matter. While a powerful sense of the presences of these sage models in his life provides him with inspiration and encouragement in his own attempts to achieve sagehood, at the same time, it also contributes to a feeling of {122} disgruntlement with his own situation and a sense of nostalgia for the past. Frustration arises from his wanting to participate more fully in their sagely inner circle yet being unable to do so, cut off from them as he is in time.

Sources of Support: Dreams

Besides the inspiration that comes from the models of the sages that have gone before him, Wu derived great support from his dreams, which play a prominent role in his life. The phenomenon of using dreams as a guide to one’s behavior is not something new or unusual in the Confucian tradition. In the Analects, a disconcerted Confucius was moved to cry, “How extreme is my decline. For such a long time, I have not seen the Duke of Zhou in my dreams.”14 In the Ming dynasty, dreams took on more widespread importance. According to Ming scholar Lienche Tu Fang, “the Ming people seem to have been over concerned with dreams. They recorded their own dreams and those of others and wrote stories about dreams. Dreams were told and retold. Even in recounting a dream which may sound like utter nonsense, there is little indication of embarrassment.”¹⁵

As for the centrality of dreams in Wu’s life, we have evidence in the way the Journal itself begins with accounts of three dreams, two of which have been mentioned, and also how Wu dreamed about his father frequently before and after their reconciliation. In his poetry, Wu has occasion to mention numerous dreams, mostly of relatives and friends, either living or dead. In the present discussion, however, we are more interested in dreams that relate to his program of self-cultivation, those dreams that inspire, direct, and support him in his efforts. What he calls dreams is an odd mixture, and I have tried to classify them into three groups: those involving the sages; those involving symbolic images or lines of poetry; and those with cautionary warnings or advice. Although these dreams tend to be inspiring and “bright” in tone, he also records some rather “dark” dreams that leave him in tears upon waking.

As for the first category, those involving the sages, these are the most famous of all Wu’s dreams. These are the dreams that have drawn the attention of writers about Wu. According to the editors of the Catalogue of the Imperial Manuscript Library, Wu had such devotion to the sages that {123} it translated itself into these images in his dreams: “This can only be said to happen as a result of extreme admiration, such that a person’s mind could produce images related to principle.”16 Confucius and Zhu Xi are the principal sages that visit him, most often to offer him advice and show their concern for him. The Journal, as mentioned earlier, begins with the recording of two dreams about these men.

The first is of Confucius and the founder of the Zhou, King Wen, paying a visit to Wu’s father’s residence in Nanjing. Wu wishes to ask for their guidance, but before he can do so Confucius provides some nonverbal advice by picking up and leafing through King Wen’s genealogy. In the Confucian tradition, King Wen and his ancestors are considered sage rulers who have articulated the Way for all who come after. Wu can do no better than to follow in their footsteps. Immediately following this entry, Wu records a dream of appearing in Zhu Xi’s presence, an appearance he finds awe-inspiring. He is moved to wait upon him with a great show of reverence.

The Journal continues with other dreams involving these two sages, including Wu’s aforementioned thwarted attempt to visit Zhu (1456), a visit by Confucius’ grandson (1457), and a visit by Zhu Xi and his son (1461). In the dream of Confucius’ grandson, we can see the depth of the emotional effect these dreams had on Wu. The grandson arrived, announcing to Wu, “I have come here commissioned by Confucius.” Then Wu notes, “The two of us were moved to tears; then I awoke. Even now, I can still distinctively remember his features” (11:34a, no. 238). Four years later, in 1461, the year before he was to visit the birthplace of Zhu Xi, he dreamed that Zhu and his son paid him a visit: “After eating today, I was tired so took a nap. I dreamed that Master Zhu Xi and his son graced me with a visit” (11:35b, no. 258). This was the last of his recorded dreams about the sages.

One of the most fascinating dreams in the Journal is not one of his own but rather one of his wife’s, although Wu takes it as if it were his own. In this dream, while Wu was away from home erecting a new house for the family, his wife dreamed that Confucius showed up with three disciples. One of the disciples came in and asked for Wu. When his wife told him that Wu was away at the time, she was told by the disciple to give Wu the message that Confucius had come to teach him how to advance in his {124} learning. When Wu returned home and heard his wife’s dream, his reaction was intensely emotional:

When I heard my wife recount this, I was at once alarmed and apprehensive, excited and overjoyed. In gratitude, I got up repeatedly to pay my respects to Heaven and earth. I felt shivers go up and down by spine on account of this.

The aforementioned editors of the Catalogue of the Imperial Manuscript Library, with a degree of skepticism about Wu’s dreams in general, comment, “Wasn’t this a case of his wife teasing him and his not even being aware of it?”17 But Wu took it seriously, regarding the dream as if it were his own, seeing that it was a sign for him to exert himself more: “From now on, how dare I not make my mind and vital spirit calm, and fully concentrate on my learning and moral character? How dare I be stingy with my energies, worn-out and inferior though they may be?” (11:19a–b, no. 103).

Among these dreams of the sages, Confucius and Zhu Xi stand out as the primary figures. In a real sense, they are the archetypal figures of the Confucian and Neo-Confucian traditions, respectively. Dreams related to Confucius seem to have in common a concern on the part of Confucius to provide Wu with instruction, either directly himself or indirectly through some emissary (Wu’s wife or Confucius’ grandson). The dreams related to Zhu Xi seem more personal. Wu is either waiting on him, or trying to visit him, or is visited by him. What is striking in all these dreams is Wu’s faith in them as reflecting the active concern on the part of these sages to provide guidance to those aspiring to follow the Way in their lives.

The second group of dreams, that of symbolic images or lines of poetry, has in it some fascinating but enigmatic dreams. They are described so briefly, without any elaboration or explanation, that we can only speculate as to their meaning. These dreams all come in the later years of Wu’s life, from 1449 to 1461.

The first of these, described in the only entry for the year 1449, is a dream in which “a piece of jade produced orchid-like blossoms which filled the whole ground” (11:31a, no. 202). Jade is a precious stone, prized for its beauty, purity, and durability. Could it be a symbol of the Way flourishing in the world, producing virtuous sages like orchids? This dream is {125} followed two entries later, in 1451, by a dream with even more dramatic content: “On the night of the second day of the eighth month, I dreamed that there was a complete eclipse of the sun. When I, Yubi, breathed fire into it from the side, it flamed up immediately, its full brilliance thereupon restored” (11:31a, no. 204). Here the sun, like the jade, can be seen to refer to the Way, which, Wu was aware, declines with each day and could be totally eclipsed as it was for the period of a thousand years from Mencius to Cheng Hao when its transmission was not carried on. Wu seems to be pointing to his sense of responsibility to restore the Way to its previous brilliance and power, just as he does in the dream to restore the sun to its full brightness.

Two extremely puzzling dreams include both an image and a line of poetry. First the dream with an image: “I dreamed that a clear breeze swayed the tall stately trees of the myriad households” (11:34b, no. 246). And second, the dream in which Wu is chanting lines of poetry: “Again I tell you, do not cut the trees in front of the eaves of my house, / Rather, listen to the Red Apricot Song in my lofty hall” (11:35b, no. 256).

The third group consists of dreams of advice given to Wu, either by ghosts or spirits or by unidentified sources. For the Neo-Confucians, ghosts and spirits are regarded not as spooky things but spirit forces in the universe. Once Wu dreamed that he was reciting the line, “How can I preserve and nourish the oneness of my mind?” When he awoke, he commented, “Wasn’t it the ghosts and spirits who taught me this?” (11:38a, no. 287). But some of the advice that comes to him in dreams is not attributed to any one thing directly: “I dreamt that I was advised that ‘a person who limits himself makes no progress in his moral character’” (11:35a, no. 253). These dreams echo on a general level the admonitions and reminders he already has been giving himself. No doubt there is more of an impact when Wu senses that forces beyond him, like ghosts and spirits, are concerned to alert him in matters of moral conduct than merely his own conscience.

What is interesting about Wu’s dreams is the whole matter of Wu recording them, his taking note of these nocturnal happenings and regarding them as means of support and guidance in his undertaking to achieve sagehood. The range of Wu’s dreams themselves suggest an imagination that is not narrowly or dryly moralistic but rather one that is more poetic or even mystical. Wu’s primary concern is with the Way: he sees the Way as dynamically functioning even in his dream life. Ghosts and spirits are forces in the universe that do not exactly belong to either the human or the natural world but overlap both. These powers, too, serve the purpose {126} of the Way by offering explicit though generalized advice to followers of the Way.

Sources of Support: The Natural World

At least as sustaining for Wu as the sage models and dreams is the whole natural world, if not more so. “Contemplating the flowers and trees around me today, I feel one in spirit with them” (11:9a, no. 36). Some of Wu’s more exalted and tranquil moments in the whole Journal are when he is on his way to and from his fields or on some outing in the neighborhood, in direct contact with nature. In approaching Wu’s appreciation for the natural world, it is helpful to keep in mind that Jiangxi province where Wu lived is part of the fertile and scenic south-central part of China, where waterways and mountains abound, and where the climate remains temperate most of the year—where nature presents a benign image.

As for Wu’s contact with nature through his farming, it prompted complaints from him, especially in his early years as a farmer, when it interfered with his program of study. But it also inspired in him a sense of joy on the occasions when it made him aware of the connectedness of all things. “Today, I was harvesting the rice fields around Qingshi Bridge. On my way to and from the village, I felt a tremendous sense of joy with all that was around me” (11:20b, no. 115).

Although we do not know for sure the extent of Wu’s direct involvement in farm work, it was probably not inconsiderable, especially in his earlier years when his financial situation was so limited. He saw his profession as both a farmer and a teacher. What is of interest here are the links he saw between the two professions, and between the natural world and the moral principles of the Way. Farming was not just a way to make a living, but a way to participate in the creative processes of the world. We shall go into this in more detail in the section on Wu as a moral teacher.

Besides farming, Wu had contact with the natural world through frequent outings in the surrounding areas. His poetry and Journal are filled with descriptions of the beautiful local scenery and of the great delight he takes in it. The dominant tone on these outings is one of leisure and ease, as well as joyful exuberance: “Roaming on the far side of the stream today, I picked some flowers. The late spring weather was such that I was filled with pure joy” (11:29b, no. 233).

Though often alone in his ramblings, Wu also delights in the company of his students and his children (and later, his grandchildren) on these {127} outings. He also takes great pleasure when he is joined by special friends to enjoy the scenery with wine and poetry. In one entry, he recalls these special pleasures:

While randomly picking flowers at the fare edge of the stream today, I became nostalgic about old friends and thought of two lines:

By chance, I am at the place once visited and enjoyed with old friends.

We picked flowers at the bend of the stream and delighted in the spring waters. (11:33b, no. 231)

Wu’s appreciation of the natural world does not conflict with his intense devotion to the sages of the tradition and his program of reading books. Indeed, Wu experiences an extra special pleasure when he is able to be in intimate contact with the world of the sages and the world of nature at the same time, as when he is able to engage in his studies outdoors. At these times, he becomes aware of the integration or coherence of these two worlds, between what he is reading and the spirit of life in the natural world. Both share in the essential creativity of the universe, sustaining and furthering life in their respective ways:

Today, I have been sitting outside my gate, my table covered with diagrams and books. Surrounded by my students, I take advantage of the shade of the trees and enjoy the cool breeze. The vital impulse of the manifold things fills my view. The beautiful mountain stands as guest and host. Contemplating this glorious view, I experience a great sense of expansiveness. (11:20a, no. 109)

Even when he cannot be outdoors, Wu tries to do such work as reading, writing up his lessons, practicing calligraphy, or composing by his window, so that he can be fully aware of and in contact with the larger natural scene beyond.

The most striking thing in the entries dealing with Wu’s relationship with the natural world is the complete absence of any sense of constraint or dark brooding. There is none of the depression, frustration, or heavy tone of his “inside” life. Instead, a sense of openness, brightness, spontaneity, and lightness prevail. The contrast between Wu’s life in and out of doors at {128} times is so striking, especially in the early parts of the Journal, that one is tempted to advise him to stay out of doors as much as he can. Nature seems to exert a transformative influence on him. He himself is not unaware of how the natural world affects him—how it calms him down so that he can realize the depths of tranquility, and how it loosens the inner constrictions so he can experience the expansiveness of the larger cosmic order:

Today I was out inspecting my fields. On account of an ailment from boils, I lay down on the grass for a leisurely rest. The extreme tranquility I felt there on the path between the fields was as if there were no human world. (11:8b, no. 33)

In nature, the goals that Wu struggles to achieve in his self-cultivation program—purity, openness of mind, tranquility, freedom, and a sense of expansiveness—all seem to come about of themselves, directly and spontaneously. While his nature imagery displays no profound originality, nevertheless, it reflects a deep appreciation for the beneficent aspects of the natural world which contribute to his transformation. He is thus sensitive to the way the sun and the wind, trees and rocks, water and mountains, flowers and birds—indeed, all of nature—each in its own way of functioning, works for his benefit, warming and brightening, soothing and calming, cooling and cleansing, opening and broadening him.

In doing so, the various forces of nature serve to place Wu in a larger context than his own narrow and limited self, and give him a sense of participation in the greater workings of the universe. In this larger context, harmony rather than competitiveness and friction among parts prevail. Each thing has its particular purpose and work, and all function together in the smooth operation of the Way. Later in the Journal, Wu speaks of coming to understand Cheng Hao’s saying: “A person really has no obstacles between Heaven and earth. To find joy in both the great and the small is true happiness” (quoted in 11:39a–b, no. 301). Once a person rids himself of petty, divisive selfishness, he realizes that there are no obstacles between himself and others. Once aware of this, a person is able to realize his expanded self that fills the whole universe and to take pleasure rather than offense at the multiplicity of things.

The underlying principle evident in the natural world that links Wu to the larger order of things is that of sheng-yi , “the vital impulse {129} of things,” or as one scholar prefers, “spirit of life.” This vital impulse is related more specifically to the spirit of growth in plant life:

Early this morning, how enjoyable it is to observe the vital impulse of things. The waning moon is still in the sky, the dew-drenched flowers fill my view. The subtle appeal of this scene is not something words can describe. (11:25b, no. 157)

Wu got this concept of sheng-yi from Cheng Hao, the Song master who, as we have seen, was one of Wu’s great heroes. According to Cheng, “The most impressive aspect of things is their spirit of life. This is what is meant by origination being the chief quality of goodness. This is jen.”18 Zhu Xi later glossed this passage as: “In the growth of all things and in the operation of the mandate of Heaven, from beginning to end, principle is always present; however it is particularly easy to see when things begin to grow and its purity has not been diffused.”¹⁹

The concept of sheng-yi is thus bound up with ideas of creativity and moments of origination when principle is most pure and vital. These moments, more than any others, point to the fundamental nature of a thing, as well as to its direction of growth. The fundamental nature of the universe, according to the Book of Changes, is to produce life again and again, and not only to give life but also sustain it. The natural world, where plant life abounds, is a rich source for reflecting this fundamental creative intentionality or impulse of the cosmic order. This appreciation for the creative impulse of life is not merely an aesthetic one, in the sense of a person being a passive spectator of the beauties of nature. Rather there is an {130} awareness of how the human directly participates in these natural dynamics, of how the human and natural orders share in one total life process. Wu feels himself drawn to the vitality of nature not as an aesthete but as a participant who is refreshed, purified, and energized by it.

The equating of the creativity of the natural world with that of the larger Way reflects the ultimate creative nature of the Way to which humans aspire to participate. While not a dominant aspect of Song Neo-Confucianism (but not an insignificant one either), this insight has often been overlooked in studies of the tradition. The best representatives of this orientation are Cheng Hao and Shao Yong, both of whom exerted a special influence on Wu, as we have seen. In an article on Neo-Confucian poetry, the scholar Wing-tsit Chan has noted:

No Neo-Confucian philosopher has expressed this feeling in poetry better than Shao Yong…. The feeling of ease, serenity, and harmony with Nature is equally strong in Cheng Hao … To him, Principle is not merely an abstract concept but a living reality found in the wind and flowers.20

Chan goes on to describe how for both Shao and Cheng, if the Way indeed prevails in the world, it reveals itself everywhere, in everything. The distinctions between the realms of Heaven, earth, and the human lose their sharpness from the perspective of the Way. The crucial thing is that, as Chan writes, “All things merge into one and are at ease, and joy is shared by all.”²¹ This sense of joy and ease suggests an appreciation for the more intuitive and mystical aspects of the Way which underlie its more rational and moral aspects. It is not surprising that Shao and Cheng thus turned to poetry to express these aspects of the Way, and that an integral part of their thought found expression in the poetic mode.

With Wu, too, there is a great attraction to the poetic mode for expressing his thoughts and feelings, as can be deduced from the fact that seven out of the twelve juan²² in his Collected Works are collections of his poetry. His joy in writing poetry can be seen from this entry in the Journal:

{131} Today, the twenty-eighth day of the second month, is such a beautiful, clear day. I have been composing poetry in my outer southern studio. The sunlight reflecting through the mountain mist shines on the flowers and trees, while birds flutter up and down in song. What a joyful mood I’m in! (11:8a, no. 29)

His student Lou Liang described Wu’s poetry as “rooted in his nature and feelings, and having its origin in righteousness and principle. It is easygoing yet vigorous throughout, with the lively spirit of High Tang poetry.”23 The editor of Wu’s Collected Works with Appended Sources commented on his poetry as follows: “Whenever there was something he understood, right away, it took form in a poem. What is more, all his poems came from the genuineness of his nature and feelings. Once he put the brush to paper, he did not have the problem of having to revise it.”²⁴

Though Wu cannot be said to have been a great poet, still, several of his poems were included in such anthologies as the Compilation of Ming Poetry () and the Record of Ming Poetry ().²⁵ The eminent twentieth-century scholar of Neo-Confucianism, Qian Mu,²⁶ placed Wu beside Shao Yong and Chen Xianzhang as the foremost Neo-Confucian poets, singling out Wu for including the agricultural aspects of nature in his poetry, not just nature as seen in landscapes. Qian cites this couplet as best representing the spirit of Wu’s poetry:

As placid as the autumn waters is the taste of poverty;

As peaceful as the spring winds is the result of tranquility. (11:37b, no. 16)

Disciplining and Nourishing (Weeding and Watering)

Having thus examined the first polarity, of the sources of difficulty and support for Wu in his quest for sagehood, we turn now to the second set of {132} polarities, between disciplining and nurturing himself in his daily program of self-cultivation. Here he is preoccupied with making progress in his xuede (), or learning and moral character. At one point in the Journal he remarks that, “As for what Practicing the Mean speaks of, ‘the virtuous nature’ and ‘constant inquiry and study,’ I dare not be remiss in the least bit with respect to either” (11:37b, no. 283). He is alluding to section 27 of Practicing the Mean, which is about “honoring the moral nature and following the path of inquiry and study,” taken to be the two sides of a coin in Neo-Confucian self-cultivation. I have taken xuede to be Wu’s shorthand for this dual concern, xue (), for following the path of inquiry and study, and de (), for honoring the virtuous nature.

Wu does not aim to be original in his program of cultivation but largely follows the general approach advocated by the Cheng-Zhu tradition, which essentially is a combination of book-reading and self-reflective practices. The polarity here is the interplay of efforts at self-discipline with those of self-nurturing. His book learning and his meditation both functioned to help him reach a balance between restraining the negative aspects and expanding the positive aspects of the self.

The reading of books constituted an essential part of moral effort in the Cheng-Zhu tradition. To advance in virtue, a person first had to know and understand the principle involved in various situations, for, it was believed, one who knew principle would naturally and joyously follow it. One had to be clear in his mind about what the truth of the situation was in order to act properly therein. Though all humans have an innate sense of principle and goodness, they have need of outside points of reference to evoke and develop this innate sense. The investigation of things was aimed at doing this.

In the Cheng-Zhu tradition, the different ways one could investigate the principle of things included reading books, evaluating people and events of the past and present, and handling affairs. But of all these, “For the extension of knowledge, nothing is more important than reading.”27 In this activity of reading books, the emphasis was not on the quantity but on the quality, being able to grasp the essentials of what was read. Asked about the methods of study, Cheng Yi advised, “One must explore and get the real taste of the words of the Sage, remember them, and then exert {133} effort to put them in practice.”28 In doing so, one should be transformed as a result of his reading. “If after having studied it, one is still the same person as before, he has not really studied it.”²⁹

As one who sees himself in the mainstream of the Cheng-Zhu tradition, Wu Yubi approaches his reading in the spirit of Cheng Yi’s words. Reading books is a great joy for him in that it brings him into contact with the sages of the past, whom he sees as guiding and supporting him with their words and example. Reading serves the crucial function of collecting his mind in the process of self-cultivation:

The mind is a lively thing. If I am not thorough in my nourishing of it, then the mind cannot help but be shaken and moved by things. Only by constantly settling it down by reading books will the mind not be overwhelmed by external things. (11:18a, no. 92)

Elsewhere he describes the effect of reading on him in these terms: “Every time I am in intimate contact with the words of the sages and worthies like this, my mind experiences its fundamental oneness” (11:38a, no. 288).

Because reading helps to collect the mind and effect its oneness, Wu readily turns to it to help him deal with a variety of situations. One of the most important uses, especially in the earlier parts of the Journal, is in coping with distressful situations:

In the midst of poverty and distressed circumstances, I find matters keep coming on me one after another. At the same time, I am suffering from painful boils. I can’t help from time to time getting angry and frustrated by it all. At times like these, I slowly try to order my attire and turn to my reading. Often then I immediately become aware of a loosening up within me. (11:2b, no. 9)

Reading is not a burdensome task for Wu, but something in which he takes great joy. “After putting household matters in order today, I read in my southern studio. There is great joy in this, and I am thereby able to gain insight into the original pure mind” (11:6b, no. 22). We find Wu not only {134} reading in his studio at home but also taking along a book or two with him to the fields or on an outing.

When we look at the books he read and his comments on them, we see that he did not approach books as a professional scholar engaged in research for its own sake. Rather his purpose with books had to do more with the moral and devotional, and he thus conducted his reading with intense emotional involvement. Wu rarely tells the reader specifically what he learns from the particular books he cites, but rather only describes his emotional response. These responses are not without significance in understanding his overall approach. As we have seen earlier, they range from feelings of great joy and even intoxication to those of alarm, fear, and apprehension, depending on the sense of resonance or discrepancy between his conduct and the ideals set forth in the books. The positive feelings come when he comprehends certain passages in a personal way from his own experiences, or when certain books provide helpful insights into the current situation with which he is grappling. The more negative responses of alarm and fear arise at those times when he is painfully aware of his lack of progress and his failure to realize the values and ideals illustrated in the reading.

The Four Books (which include the Great Learning, the Analects, Mencius, and Practicing the Mean) are the most frequently mentioned books in the Journal, followed closely by the writings of Zhu Xi and the Cheng brothers. To give a sense of the particular flavor they each had for Wu, I include some of his remarks about them. Of the Four Books, Practicing the Mean is the one that seemed to give him the most consolation and inspiration. It was this text on which Wu lectured when he was called to court in 1458. His devotion to this particular text is reflected in the frequent mention of his silently chanting it on his pillow at night or out in the fields during the day or evening:

This evening, slowing walking through the fields, I was silently chanting passages from Practicing the Mean. I took my time, going over each word and phrase, chanting them with great feeling. Realized in my mind, verified by my experiences, this book has given me a good deal of insight. (11:10b, no. 49)

In 1430 Wu composed a poem about how one day, while chanting it on his pillow, he had a sudden insight into its meaning, after many years of studying it:

{135} Having read each line and section for several tens of years,

I have always been vague in my overall understanding of it.

This one morning, it seems I’m able to immerse myself in it in a long and leisurely way.

In appreciation, I applaud and heave a deep sigh of admiration for Zisi, worthy descendent of our dear sage Confucius. (2:14a–b)

He elsewhere opined that Zisi wrote it “in order to discuss their [the sages] utmost achievements. He also wrote it to raise up the Way of Heaven and earth, that the sage might be their counterpart” (11:15b, no. 75). The most frequently cited passage of Practicing the Mean in the whole Journal is section 14, which Wu usually quotes in parts, not as a whole:

The noble person acts according to his position in life and does not desire what is beyond it. In a position of wealth and honor, he does what is proper to a position of wealth and honor. In a position of poverty and low estate, he does what is proper to a position of poverty and low estate…. In a situation of sorrow and difficulties, he does what is proper in a situation of sorrow and difficulty. The noble person can find no situation in which he is not himself. When holding a superior position, he does not treat his inferiors with contempt. When holding a lowly position, he does not try to get in good with his superiors. He rectifies himself and seeks for nothing from others, so that he is not an object of criticism. Above he does not blame Heaven, and below his doesn’t criticize others. Therefore the noble person is quiet and calm, waiting for the appointments of Heaven, while the mean and petty person walks in dangerous paths, looking for lucky occurrences.30

Dealing as this excerpt does with the challenge of realizing sagehood in terms of the limitations of a person’s life, it both consoled and distressed Wu in difficult times. Accepting his lot in life, as we saw earlier, did not come easily for him.

As for the Analects of Confucius, a favorite passage is one which echoes the lines from Practicing the Mean just quoted: “I do not complain against {136} Heaven nor do I blame other people. I study things on the lower level but my understanding penetrates to higher things.”31 Wu’s various comments after quoting this passage include: “Who but a sage would appreciate the meaning of these words of Confucius?” (11:26a, no. 159) and “I must treasure this saying for the rest of my life” (11:35a, no. 252). Aware of his tendency to be impatient with life and critical of others, Wu finds further guidance from the Analects in the idea of “mastering myself and returning to the rites,”³² as well as being hard on himself and easy on others in terms of criticism.³³

As a teacher, Wu hopes to learn from Confucius how “by orderly methods skillfully to lead others on” (11:17a, no. 85). Several times, he mentions occasions when he is teaching the Analects to his students and to his daughters. Upon these occasions, he finds himself being made aware of his own shortcomings with respect to the teachings and records his reactions to doing so as those of alarm and fear: “While teaching my daughters the Analects today, I was moved by the subtle and profound words of the Sage. Frightened, I found myself moved to step up my efforts” (11:18b, no. 101).

In some ways, Wu’s appreciation for the Mencius was even more personal that for the Analects. He was reassured and heartened by Mencius’ perspective on the role of suffering in one’s life, especially for those persons committed to the Way. Mencius explains sorrows and difficulties as part of Heaven’s way of preparing a person to assume important responsibilities: “When Heaven intends to confer a great responsibility upon a person, it first visits his mind and will with suffering, toils his sinews and bones, subjects his body to hunger, exposes him to poverty, and confounds his projects. Through this, his mind is stimulated, his nature strengthened, and his inadequacies repaired.” Wu had occasion to allude to this quote in his famous letter to his father (Letter 1) when he acknowledged the constructive value of the difficulties of his life with respect to his moral development. He realized that difficulties are not just something sent by Heaven to those with special responsibilities, but rather they are a necessary part of life. Thus when he quotes the very last line of this Mencius passage, “From this we know that we thrive from experiencing sorrow and calamity, and {137} perish from comfort and joy,”34 Wu adds, “Still, for those whose strength of learning is weak, there are few who are not exhausted by it all” (11:26b, no. 162).

Besides this perspective on difficulties, Mencius is also a source of important notions concerning the meditative aspects of self-cultivation, something we will be dealing with shortly. These include Mencius’ comments about “neither forgetting nor helping to grow,” “maintaining firm the will and doing no violence to one’s vital energies,” and “turning and seeking within.” Of all the Four Books, the Mencius deals the most with internal reflection on the mind, emphasizing as it does the internal spontaneities and promptings of the self and their need to be cultivated and channeled. It is not altogether surprising, then, that we usually find Wu reading Mencius in the context of a peaceful, meditative setting:

Today in my southern studio, I have been taking great delight in reading Mencius. My mind is clear, receptive, and bright, permeated by what Mencius described as the rejuvenating “effects of the calm air of the morning,” unvexed by anything. Amidst the shade of the trees in the clear morning, a warm breeze languidly blows, while the far-off mountains and forests stand so still. (11:3b, no. 12)

The spirit of the Mencius seems to resonate with the natural world for Wu. In one entry, he records having to set aside his reading schedule to plant vegetables. Nevertheless, he manages to slip in some reading of Mencius, attached as he is to it.

This accounting of what Wu read and how he responded to his reading (and even the setting in which he described his reading) should give a clear indication of the particular approach he took to book learning. As we have already observed, he is not a professional scholar in his approach, but nor is he a simple-minded, anti-intellectual devotee who scorns learning or who keeps his reading to a minimum. He read not only the basic classical texts that are more explicitly moral in purpose, but also the histories, memorials, and poetry.

Along with reading books went self-reflection, conducted primarily in the form of the Neo-Confucian meditation practice called quiet-sitting. {138} Cheng Hao, Wu’s hero, had extolled the merits of this practice in these terms: “When there is nothing to put into practice, go and do quiet-sitting. For while doing quiet-sitting, we can cultivate our original mind and become calm to some degree. Although we are still not free from chasing after material things, when we come to an awakening, we can collect and concentrate our mind and then there will be a solution.”35 Quiet-sitting can be seen as a Confucianized version of Buddhist meditation. This practice involved contemplating the state of the self in tranquility before the feelings have emerged, as well as examining and scrutinizing the feelings after they have emerged in their active state. Based on these insights into the self, one then cultivated the self with a balance of nurturing its deeper spontaneities of goodness, as well as chipping away at the impediments that block their full expression. The virtue of reverence was seen as serving the crucial integrative function of these two reflective aspects of self-cultivation:

A person must order his mind with principle so that it will be bright, pure, and always alert. Only then will all be right. This is the practice of using reverence to straighten the inner life. Alas, if there is no reverence, then there will be no straightening; if there is no straightening, then a person will stumble in confusion, and, as a result, all his affairs will fail. (11:16a, no. 78)

Here, reverence or seriousness is directed to care for the deep moral life of the individual person. It affirms the value of interiority and of the integration of the self with the larger order of things.

In the Journal, Wu rarely talks explicitly about the practice of quiet-sitting, although most of the entries in fact represent the written expression of his reflections. Many of these come while on his pillow, either at night (often quite late) or early in the morning. He describes his activity at these times variously as “carefully considering (),” “quietly reflecting upon (),” “deeply pondering (),” “slowing reflecting upon (),” or simply “reflecting ()”:

{139} Tonight on my pillow, I have been reflecting on my lack of success in rejuvenating my vital spirit so that I can advance in my learning. (11:27a, no. 165)

Though most of his meditative activity takes place there on his pillow, the Journal also indicates that he continues this reflective activity when out of doors and engaged in his daily activities:

This evening, I stood on a path between the fields, quietly reflecting on why I have not succeeded in becoming a noble person who has genuinely and purely realized his goals. (11:8a, no. 32)

As for the task of examining and scrutinizing the active, functional aspect of the self, this was associated with disciplining and bringing under control its negative aspects. He speaks of this task as one of “scouring and grinding” his faults or making the imbalances of his temperament disappear. To succeed, he must keep a strict watch over himself, rigorously scrutinizing himself to make sure he is perfectly restrained and not giving vent to expressions of selfishness.

Wu follows Mencius in his sense that the will (zhi ) must be the leader of the psycho-physical aspect (qi ) of the self, and that the key to success lies in the exertion of this will to direct and bring the self to higher goals. In addition, Wu learns that this exertion of the will must be a constant thing, with no letting up for even a moment—what Mencius meant by “let there be no forgetting.” One of the most common endings for Wu’s reflections echoes this phrase, exhorting himself, “Exert myself, yes, exert myself, with no forgetting.” For Wu this involves a continual fight against the inertia of the self, or the tendency to take the easy way and let things slide. He thus regards the task of examining and scrutinizing the self as serious business and tries to engage in it as much as possible, no matter what the time or the place:

Today I was out roaming among the banks and slopes until I reached the bottom of a ravine. I sat there for a long time, facing the sun, finding it extremely pleasant. Examining and scrutinizing my body and mind, I was fortunate to find some slight progress has been made. (11:29a, no. 188)

{140} Besides exhorting himself at the end of his reflections to exert himself and not forget, Wu makes numerous other resolutions for the purpose of disciplining and restraining himself. Some examples include:

Cut out bad habits and “daily renew” myself! (11:18b, no. 99)

On the one hand, I must manage the difficulties; on the other hand, I must still try to advance in my learning. (11:22b, no. 132)

One of the interesting characteristics about Wu and his resolutions is his strong impulse to write them down in large characters to hang on his wall as a constant reminder for his edification. Here are two illustrations:

VIGOROUSLY TRY TO ELIMINATE LOSING MY TEMPER OVER PETTY MATTERS! FIRMLY MAINTAIN MY INTEGRITY EVEN IN POVERTY! (11:5b, no. 17)

STUDY TO THE BEST OF MY OWN PARTICULAR ABILITIES! (11:14b, no. 69)

Wu demonstrates a finely tuned psychological awareness of his states of mind that are associated with his efforts at disciplining himself. He speaks of his reactions after having examined and scrutinized his behavior in terms of being “frightened,” “fearful,” “alarmed,” “apprehensive,” and “at a loss.” He is “disappointed” and “distressed,” as well as overcome by feelings of shame, sadness, and regret, all of which take the physical form of heavy sighs. In a rich vocabulary of psychological states, he uses words like ti , ju , song , and li , to express his sense of alarm or fear; words like cang , ce , and chi for his sense of being sick at heart and distressed, and words like chang and yang for his sense of dissatisfaction and disappointment with himself.

These emotional states must be seen in the context of Wu’s sense of urgency about the pursuit of sagehood, his sense of struggle in overcoming the recalcitrant aspects of his self, and his sense of failure in his conduct. For Neo-Confucians, there are things about which one should be fearful and alarmed, things with which one must struggle. Cultivating the self requires a certain vigilance and a state of constant alertness, along with the proper respect, fear, and awe for the gift of life from Heaven. One must {141} take this responsibility seriously and worry that one will not completely fulfill it, that one will fail to become a complete human being.

These emotions that Wu expresses are not all the same in intensity, but range from mild feelings of fear and awe to intense ones that immobilize him. These feelings either spark fresh resolve to do better or else depress him. We often find him caught in deep struggles with himself in this regard. This comes across most strongly in descriptions of his late-night reflections, of tossing and turning and being unable to sleep, or else waking from dreams in which he is overwhelmed by a sense of having made no progress at all. Anxiety, tightness, fatigue, and restlessness are all associated with these tortured ruminations of his.

These nocturnal struggles are not without positive outcomes at times. Wu describes a particularly difficult time of lying awake all night, trying to figure out how to manage the responsibilities of his household and personal cultivation:

Since last night, the twelfth day of the seventh month, I have lain awake on my pillow considering what extremely sore straits I’m in with respect to my family’s livelihood. I feel so incapable of dealing with the situation. Turning it over and over in my mind, I cannot come up with any solution. Now I find it’s already well into the morning and still I haven’t gotten up.

Because he does not give up, but continues to turn the matter over in his mind, something at last comes to him resulting in his nightlong struggle not having been completely in vain:

Ruminating a while longer, I finally came up with something: namely, there is no other clever way out except to follow along with my given allotment in life, economize in my expenses, and be content in poverty—that is all. I vow that even though I “die from the cold or starvation,” I won’t dare change this basic resolve of mine.

With this, he is able to get started again after feeling immobilized in his efforts, and his emotional state changes: “Thereupon I got out of bed with a feeling of joy. I understand even more deeply the meaning of the passage, ‘To be mature in your efforts, you must go through this discipline through hardship’” (11:23a, no. 133).

{142} Wu recognized the need for self-discipline, but that could only be one aspect of his approach to cultivating himself. Discipline and restraint could not be ends in themselves. Rather, since “A person must respect himself,” he cannot force himself into some mold, disciplining the life out of himself. Reverence entails an appreciation for the intrinsic value of the self and nourishing its natural goodness. To positively care for and nourish the self, a person must first attempt to get in touch with the deeper aspects of the mind by quieting it down and achieving a state of tranquility. This state of tranquility is important so that one can focus his attention on and observe the deeper nature, thereby obtaining a clear understanding of its fundamental principle:

Relaxing in my pavilion today, I watched the vegetables being harvested. I rested there for a long while, observing my state of mind in the midst of tranquility. This is the method of nourishing and caring for the nature. (11:39a, no. 296)

The purpose of this gentle, silent, contemplative approach to the self is not to get fixated on some idealized and irrelevant principle, but rather, having observed the principle of one’s nature, to know how to integrate and channel it into the conscious, functional aspect of the self. Then one is able to comprehend spontaneously the functioning of principle in the world as well and thus act accordingly: “Observing the principle of things in the midst of tranquility, a person is able to grasp it everywhere” (11:37a, no. 274).

Nourishing the self involves more than just observing the deeper nature, but also nurturing what Wu termed his vital force (qi) or his vital spirit (jing-shen). These two are related to the psycho-physical energies of the self that are needed to bring the goodness of the deeper nature into conscious functioning: “For several days now, I have succeeded very well in nourishing my vital spirit. I must continue this on a regular basis, allowing for no interruptions” (11:18a, no. 96). Wu learns from Mencius not just that one must assert the will as the leader of the psycho-physical energies of the self, but also that since these energies are vital to the fulfillment of the self, they must have no violence done to them or be suppressed in any way. And just as a person must be continually persistent and alert in his efforts (“no forgetting”), there must also be no compulsive or heavy-handed forcing of the {143} self to develop and improve it at an unnatural rate, what Mencius meant by “let there be no helping to grow.”

Wu is fond of quoting Zhu Xi’s statement about the manner of cultivating the self, “to nourish the self in a leisurely but profound manner.” In contrast to the mental states of fear and apprehension that we noticed accompanying Wu’s more disciplined aspects of cultivation, those of leisure and ease come with the nourishing aspects. Leisure here connotes more than just not doing anything. It is rather a state of mind that is lofty, tranquil, and pure, one in which a person is at ease with himself and the world, without any barriers or obstacles. As he wrote in a couplet:

In a state of deep tranquility, I am content with my lot wherever I am.

In a state of peaceful relaxation, that is the time for reading books. (11:5b, no. 14)

In contrast to the sleepless nights and sense of struggle of which we spoke earlier, here there is a dominant sense of rest and relaxation, with numerous references to sleeping, napping, or lying down outside on the grass. The nourishing process takes account of the need for human refreshment and renewal that comes with rest:

I got up from my nap today, my body feeling relaxed and my mind free and untrammeled. Content in poverty, delighting in the Way, what else need I seek? (11:7a, no. 24)

One will recall that Wu had a deep appreciation for Shao Yong’s sense of leisure, especially with respect to his great joy in taking naps. Even someone in poverty can enjoy a good nap, feeling invigorated and enriched by it as if he were a rich person:

When I awoke, my state of mind was quite excellent, just as Shao himself described in a poem, “no less than I had been enfeoffed or awarded money.” Even though I am extremely impoverished, that is my fate. But it cannot destroy this present happiness. (11:24a, no. 143)

Wu draws not just upon Shao for this sense of leisure but also the famous fourth-century nature poet Tao Qian. Wu has one entry that reads, {144} “After eating today, I took a leisurely rest by the eastern window, feeling like one of the worthies of high antiquity” (11:35a, no. 255). This echoes a passage by Tao quoted in his biography in the History of the Jin Dynasty: “Taking a leisurely rest by the northern window, while a clear breeze wafts by, I call myself one of the worthies of high antiquity.”36

The term that I have translated here as “leisurely rest” is gao-mian ( ). It conveys the sense of a lofty and pure type of peace or rest. It does not imply a dull passivity, but rather a deep participation in the natural processes of the Way. There is the sense among such writers as Tao, Shao, and Wu that in primordial times, when the worthies of high antiquity lived, everyone enjoyed a life of ease and freedom from anxiety, not in a trivial but in a profound way. They seek to reach such a state in their own lives, such that they can feel a part of the ancients’ world. Wu used the term gao-mian with more frequency as he got older, most often when speaking of his activity of meditation, “leisurely resting by the window.” All sorts of insights came to him at these times.

The crucial element in the total effort at cultivating the self is a discerning sensitivity to the specific needs of the self at particular moments. This entails the awareness of the appropriate response to make: when to push harder, when to let up, when to water, and when to weed. Wu realizes the need for both aspects of cultivation, but he is not always clear which one the situation calls for. In his early years, his inclination is to come down hard, more on the side of discipline, afraid as he is of letting himself get out of hand. Over the course of the Journal, he develops a clearer sense of how to handle himself, though more often this is after much groping and learning from his mistakes. As he accumulates experience, he develops deeper insights into the workings of his self and can better respond to its needs. He learns, in the long run, that he responds better to gentler handling: “With a temperament that is mild and peaceful, I have the means with which to overcome the recalcitrant and narrow nature of my mind” (11:22a, no. 127). He learns too that personal change takes time: “it is impossible suddenly to make the imbalances of my physical nature and the defects in my learning disappear. I can only gradually diminish them” (11:9a, no. 38).

This sensitive discernment in dealing with the self becomes especially crucial at those moments when Wu is too confused and too overwhelmed {145} by events to go forward. Here he is guided by Zhu Xi’s words: “If you cannot at last succeed, don’t give up altogether but just let up for the time being.” At such times of impasse, he has to have the sense not to keep pushing himself, but to try and do what he can to keep going for the moment, however little that may seem to be accomplishing. He must not weigh himself down with superhuman expectations in heroic fashion but abide in his situation until he can find the thread and pick it up again.

Self-Evaluation of Successes and Failures

Thus far we have looked, first of all, at Wu’s perception of the obstacles to and supports he has in his pursuit of sagehood, and second, his program of cultivation to achieve his goal, which involved reading books and engaging in quiet-sitting. But the power of the Journal does not lie in any one of these. Rather it resides in the larger picture of the personal growth and development of a human being over the gradually unfolding course of a lifetime. Since the main purpose of keeping the Journal for Wu was to master himself in order to achieve the full sageliness of his being, the ongoing question in the Journal was whether he is succeeding or failing in this undertaking. The question of his progress represents one of the principal topics of his reflective activity, although I have chosen to wait to discuss it here rather than in the earlier section on self-reflection. In this type of reflection, Wu is constantly weighing and gauging the type and degree of his personal growth or the lack of it.

Wu often saw signs of concrete progress that had been made in his efforts at self-mastery. He frequently reports progress in settling his mind, in handling difficulties, and in achieving greater control over his temper:

A young boy lost one of my ducks and I got a bit angry. Still, compared to my reaction last year to losing a duck, the extent of my anger has been greatly reduced. (11:10a, no. 44)

As time goes on in his life, Wu describes how he is better able to accept his lot of poverty and be content with it. He cites examples of remaining unaffected and without resentment when having to endure cold winter nights without sufficient blankets or a leaky house during a heavy rainstorm. These claims of progress give Wu a great sense of joy and contribute to his personal confidence in his ability to realize his goal: “Today, I {146} was discussing with a neighbor how I have begun to shoulder some heavy responsibilities and that I have felt somewhat happier with myself” (11:11a, no. 51).

But in contrast to this brighter side, whether because he judged himself too strictly or because he felt compelled to acknowledge his failures more than his successes, he more often reports that he has made no progress at all. His confession that “I have made no progress in my learning and moral character,” ranks with his resolve to follow Heaven’s will and his lament over the difficulty of learning to become a sage as the three most frequently uttered statements in the whole Journal. Together they serve as the main refrains of the work as a whole.

We need not take Wu completely at his word that he literally has made no progress at all. There are cases of his confessing no progress immediately after an entry in which he has announced some improvement in himself. We should take his statements rather in the sense of his having made no progress in his current stage of development or with a particular challenge that he has set for himself at the moment. Since one does not reach a point in one’s quest for sagehood where one can stop for good but must continue it over a lifetime, Wu prods himself again and again to keep moving ahead, so that his moral efforts may keep pace with his natural growth processes.

If achievement in his conduct gave Wu a sense of pleasure and self-confidence, his sense of lack of progress troubled him greatly and undermined his self-esteem, especially in the earlier years. We have seen how often Wu could not sleep or would wake from dreams in tears because of his intense anxiety over his poor progress toward sagehood:

I haven’t accomplished much lately in my learning and moral cultivation, and I’m getting on in age. My life’s goal is not being fulfilled. These feelings of disappointment are inexhaustible. I have no place to hide myself in shame. How distressing! (11:13b, no. 64)

This sense of anxiety with respect to his lack of progress might be seen as merely neurotic and morose introspection (which it often indeed is!) if taken separately from the overriding concern on his part to achieve sagehood, or from his sense that if he makes no progress he will not be able to conduct himself responsibly in the world. The issue of his progress, or the lack of it, takes on the emotional voltage it does because Wu feels {147} the pressure of “TIME.” He does not have forever to reach his goal but only his allotted span of years. The Journal reflects a real preoccupation—almost an obsession—with the passing of time. In the early years, it is a matter of whether he will ever in fact get on the right track. In his later years, having come to feel he is on the right track, he wonders how he can stay on it and reach the end of the road.

As he approaches the age of forty, Wu finds the passing of time to be especially burdensome. Confucius’ words from Analects 17:26 continually haunt him: “When a person at forty is the object of dislike, he will continue to be that way.” One of Wu’s responses is: “As age forty approaches, I’m ending up a mean and petty person. Alas, I am overwhelmed with sadness!” (11:12a–b, no. 58). Confucius himself, in his chronicle of the stages of his life, said he had no doubts at forty.37 Wu certainly still had his.

His fear of ending up a mean and petty person derives from having had high standards for himself in his youth, and he wonders what has happened that he has failed at these. One night, while looking over essays he wrote when he was twenty, he expresses his distress from this disconnect:

I found myself overwhelmed with sighs of sadness. The reason is that, in the past, my goal in life was clear, based on the belief that the Way of the ancient sages and worthies could be learned, that it could be attained. Now it has been twenty years of vacillating and temporizing…. Not only can I not reach the point of being a sage or worthy, I cannot even succeed in my attempts to become somewhat of a person who has lessened his faults. What am I to do? What am I to do? (11:13a–b, no. 63)

The question for Wu is what to do with his sense of lost or wasted time. How can he move past his previous failings? How much will the past determine his future success? These questions are not trivial ones for Wu. We often find him engaging in retrospection over the past, most frequently when he has lain down for a rest or been looking over old papers of his.

Later in the Journal, the concern with time, although still present, has somewhat shifted in character. Things are not quite so dark; there is not such despair of ever making progress. Now he seems to feel that he is on {148} the right track, but he is worried, because of his advanced years, that his efforts won’t be brought to completion. Thus, when he writes of his progress in understanding the Book of Changes, he adds, “However, I regret that my vital energies are declining and that I have not much time left in my life” (11:31b, no. 208). And when he excitedly reports that he has learned the great value of reading the histories, his regret is “that there is not much time left in my life to devote to them” (11:32a, no. 214).

Although Wu rails thus at time, in another sense he owes his personal development and the gradual strengthening of his character to time and its cumulative power over a lifetime. Time brings not just decline and ill-health but also maturity and fulfillment. Confucius himself, in the outline of his own life from age fifteen to seventy, showed how a person could grow in sageliness over the course of a lifetime. It was only at age seventy that he felt he had achieved the perfect spontaneity that characterizes sagehood.

In the Journal, we can see that Wu is not the same person in 1469 at age seventy-seven that he had been in 1425 at age thirty-three, when he began the Journal. Definite shifts in tone and subject matter have taken place. In the earlier years, awed by the task before him, Wu talks more personally and emotionally about his life, especially about the difficulties he resents and with which he struggles. The tone is darker, filled as it is with intense concern over his faults and with the rigorous discipline needed to bring himself under control. At the same time, Wu experiences moments of exhilaration in his frequent encounters with the sages and the natural world. In fact, the frequent and abrupt shift in mood from entry to entry is one of the main characteristics of the early period.

In the later years, the tone tends to be lighter and more even, reflecting the life of a more tranquil, composed, and self-possessed person than in the earlier period. Wu has more self-confidence and understanding. The entries as a whole are far shorter and less personal. Rather than reflect upon specific incidents or problems in his life, he records passages from the sages or maxims he has made up for himself. These quotations convey to the reader indirectly what Wu has on his mind, and how he thinks he should conduct himself. There is not the same need to dwell too long on his own situation. In the later entries, he mentions reading certain books and the fact that he was quite affected by them, without specifying exactly what it was that moved him. The mood is more contemplative, as when he is {149} enjoying nature, or resting and reflecting by his window. The number of recorded dreams increases for this later period. One might see this shift from a more self-absorbed to a somewhat more impersonal one as a measure of his success in expanding his personality beyond the confines of his more limited self, enabling him to participate in a larger order of things, both the natural world and the world of the sages.

That does not suggest that Wu changed dramatically from a totally depressed and angry young man to a completely tranquil and wise old man. From his very early years, Wu demonstrated his appreciation and capacity for tranquility and for enjoying the lighter, more joyful aspects of life. And even in his old age, Wu continued to struggle with himself and his life situation. In the very last year of his life, he complains about household matters (“I often feel oppressed by household business. Still, I must carry on, acting according to principle” [11:40a, no. 310]), and his lack of progress (“Time quickly passes by, yet I seem to be regressing instead of making progress in my learning and moral cultivation” [11:41a, no. 318]).

In the midst of these changes in mood, what strikes us is that he holds to the ideal of sagehood throughout. Even in old age, when he might be tempted to sit back and take it easy, enjoying his fame as a respected teacher, he continues to remind himself of his goal and the need to persevere in his efforts until the very end. Reminding himself, “As long as there is any breath remaining, a person must not tolerate the least bit of negligence with respect to his effort of the will,” Wu asks himself, “How can I use the excuse of old age to feel wearied by events?” (11:32a, no. 211). He takes as his motto Zhu Xi’s statement that “For every day that one is still alive, a person must undertake his responsibilities,” and announces his determination to live out his remaining years trying to become a sage, subduing all within himself that is unbefitting of a sage. Even in one of the entries in the last year of his life, we find Wu still worrying about achieving his goal as his thinks back to the time when he first returned from the capital to life in the country in 1411:

I had a poster on one of the pillars at my house in Shichuan that read, “If I wish to reach the realm of the great worthies, I must proceed from the results of ‘studying things on the lower level.’” Looking back, I realize that that was almost sixty years ago. Alas! When will I ever reach that realm of the great worthies? (11:41b, no. 324)

{150} Wu’s Role as a Teacher

Having made the decision to give up an official career in favor of a life outside the realm of active politics, Wu returned home to the country. There, as he struggled in his pursuit of sagehood, he realized it could not be done in isolation from other human beings. At the same time, alarmed over what he saw as the decline of the Way (Dao) in his own age, especially when compared to the Song, he developed a strong sense of mission to revitalize the Way, and to lead others, not just himself, in the knowledge and practice of the Way, as far as it lay within his power. He was thus drawn to the traditional Confucian role of moral teacher. Such a person undertook to exemplify its teachings and embody the Way as a living tradition. This role stressed the personal relationship between teacher and student as essential for the type of transformation that the educational experience should bring about. A later source described Wu in his role as teacher thus:

Understanding that sagehood is something that can be reached through learning, Wu followed Master Cheng Hao’s words and began his journey on the road to sagehood. Believing that the Way of the Teacher must be respected and propagated, he held to the methods of Cheng Yi as a means of enlightening others.³⁸

One can take “Cheng Hao’s words” here to refer to his saying that the Learning of the Sages had not been transmitted since Mencius and that the present age must heroically revive it,³⁹ and the “methods of Cheng Yi” to refer to the basic program of cultivation advocated for the practice of reverence and the extension of knowledge.⁴⁰ Thus, the lessons Wu sought to pass on to his students were those that he himself had learned in his reading from the lives and teachings of the Song masters. What he actually taught reflected not the full breadth of the Neo-Confucian tradition but a particular emphasis on practice that tended to be emotional {151} and devotional. His approach was described by the late Ming thinker Liu Zongzhou as “deeply nourishing the nature and feelings through such concrete ways as mastering the self and resting content in a life of poverty.”41

Wu’s role as a teacher began slowly, with a few students from his own immediate area. Gradually, as his reputation spread, he began attracting a number of students from a wider area. He issued a set of “Standards for Learning,” it has been suggested, because “By 1430, so many students had come to receive instruction that he instituted some rules for the younger ones.”⁴² As we saw in the Introduction, he lectured in the local official schools in the period from 1440 to 1442, even though he lacked an official degree. His frequent exchange of poems with persons who had official education titles in their names, especially as he got older, indicates the sizeable contact he had with those in the larger educational system. Students often came to him upon the recommendation of officials in their home areas. Those who recommended Wu for office did so on the basis of his ability as an outstanding teacher. One of them, Ho Zixue, was especially glowing in his praises of Wu as a teacher, citing how Wu’s students “admire his righteous conduct and follow him with pleasure.”⁴³

As for what we know about Wu as a teacher, we rely on his letters and poems to friends and students rather than the Journal. The Journal concerns itself primarily with his own conduct and makes few references to his teaching. The letters and poems, on the other hand, contain exchanges of advice between Wu and his students, providing us with a picture of his philosophy of education as well as the nature of his personal relations with them.

The dominant theme in his writings on pedagogy to these people is, not surprisingly, the pursuit of sagehood. He wants students to be absolutely convinced of sagehood as a practical and achievable goal in the contemporary world, as well as to be firmly committed to that pursuit in their individual lives. He has nothing to offer students who lack such conviction and commitment. He calls on his students to have high expectations of themselves and not to be someone who “readily contents himself with easy {152} accomplishments in minor skills” (8:17b, Letter 3). The sages of the past became so because they constantly set high goals for themselves with regard to self-improvement.

Wu is careful to point out that there is no uniformity about sagehood, that each person has a unique path. He does not present himself as offering a formula for instant sagehood or any great insights into the deeper workings of the Way. Rather he presents himself as one ready to share in the pursuit of sagehood with anyone seeking help along the way. Inviting a friend to come study with him, Wu writes: “I live in a remote place, removed from everyday affairs. Every day with two or three students, I engage in the practices of book reading and plumbing principle, delighting in the Way of Yao and Shun—that is all. I dare make no claims of anything beyond this” (8:19a, Letter 4). In saying this, Wu was not just being modest. His basic curriculum really did not contain much that was original, only offering students the fundamental regimen of reading books and sitting in meditation that he himself practiced. And yet, as we shall see, there were elements of creativity in how Wu went about teaching the curriculum.

As for the importance of reading books, this was something Wu preached fervently as the essential part of self-cultivation, as we see from the lines in the poems he presented to his clansmen during his stay in Zhonghu in the early 1440s. Upon his arrival he wrote:

My learning is ordinary and I have no other special abilities;

Whenever I meet people, I encourage them to read books. (2:31b)

And upon his departure he wrote:

Don’t find the impractical nature of my parting words strange,

But of the many human affairs, the reading of books comes first. (3:8b)

And the list of books he recommended was a simple one, reflecting Zhu Xi’s basic outline for education that had been adopted for the school system, first by Xu Heng of the Yuan dynasty, and then by the first emperor of the Ming. It begins with the Elementary Learning text, proceeds through the Four Books, is followed by the Five Classics, and then arrives at the writings of the Song Masters.

{153} These had to be read in a particular order in order to derive the optimum benefit from them. “If a person, intent on penetrating the essence of these writings, doesn’t follow this order but reads them in a careless, random way, he will fail in the end. He will have wasted his vital energies and passed the years in vain. What a great pity that would be!” (8:31a–b, Letter 15). In addition to the order of reading these books, the manner of reading them was also crucial, especially with the basic texts: “Recite them until they are committed to memory, causing the words to come out of your mouth as if they were your own. Then your own sense of their meaning will be special to you” (8:31a, Letter 15).

Just as in his own program of self-cultivation, the student must engage in the practice of self-reflection and meditation to achieve this. Wu’s brother-in-law raised a pertinent question in this regard: “Even though I am able for a while to understand the words on paper, in the end what benefit does it have for my body and mind?” Wu answers:

These words of yours raise an important issue which is precisely what you should reflect upon. Now the problem for people is that they don’t know how to turn inward and seek within themselves. For them, books are just books, the self is just the self, and there is no connection between the two. When the books that a person reads only benefit his mouth and ears, then it is all a great failure. (8:29b, Letter 14)

Also connected with this question about the benefit to the self of reading books is one raised by an unnamed friend of Wu who fell sick from overdoing his reading of books. Here was a case of over-zealousness in reading that had a negative result, something with which Wu could readily identify since as a youth he had fallen into the same trap:

I, myself, in the past, when I was inexperienced and green, was so eager to get ahead that I would over and over exhaust my energies in reading books. I would recite them aloud in a great loud voice, dissipating my vital energies until I reached the extreme of causing great harm to myself. (8:25a, Letter 11)

From his own experience, Wu tries to give his friends a sense of perspective as to what really matters in the overall enterprise of self-cultivation. {154} In what seems like a contradiction to what was just quoted above about the centrality of reading, he tells this friend that what counts is the type of interior attitude he brings to bear in every aspect of his life, not the quantity of the books he has read. That attitude is related to the all-important Neo-Confucian quality of reverence:

On the whole, the essentials of what the sages and worthies transmitted are all contained in the one word “reverence” (jing ). If a person can put his attire in order, make his speech and actions correct and dignified, and conduct himself with a sense of propriety, then his mind naturally will be collected. Even if he does not read books, he still will gradually make progress in his self-cultivation. (8:25b, Letter 11)

Wu adds that if one is able to read books in addition to these things, it is all to the good, since reading when properly done helps to nourish the mind. However, he reiterates his point that a person who has not attempted to bring himself under control but rather “gives free rein to his passions,” will not find any miraculous results in reading books.

Wu recommends a balance in effort such as is found in Mencius’ dictum that there be “neither forgetting nor helping to grow,” or in Cheng Yi’s advice that one “be easy-going but thoroughly absorb when you learn.”44 The results of self-cultivation are cumulative and thus require a certain perseverance and patience. Because sagehood is a pursuit of a lifetime, continually challenging a person to push onward, and not some once-and-for-all achievement, a person has to pace himself in order to sustain his efforts and persevere in his commitment over a long period of time:

As for the basis of learning, one must try for daily progress and monthly advance with a free and easy, unconstrained manner. Then and only then can one sustain his efforts over a long period of time. If one is in a hurry and presses for quick results, then he will only cause himself pain and end up in failure. (8:25b, Letter 11)

{155} Therefore, in rejoicing at the news of one student’s progress in overcoming his faults, Wu hastens to caution, “Still, do not be too severe in the application of your mind to these things. As Mencius said, ‘He who advances with precipitation will retire with speed’” (8:28b, Letter 13).

The effectiveness of Wu’s ability as a teacher depended on how well he was able to gauge the particular needs of each student. We thus find him taking different approaches with different students, and even with the same student at different stages in his development. Above we see him recommend a gentle and patient approach to one student, but in other cases he takes a hard line, reminding students that they will never have their youth again and thus must exert themselves to the upmost in the present moment. In one letter to a friend, he does not mince words to express his strong disapproval of the man’s son:

The day before yesterday, your son, on the point of his departure from here, said that he might come back to see me in the mountains in the fourth month. This is now just the first month and he wants to wait until the fourth. He is lazy and not working to establish himself…. Moreover, from his use of the word “might,” his laziness is even more apparent. Alas, it is clear that he is incapable of being taught! (8:20a, Letter 5)

Overall, Wu doesn’t wish to berate his students. Even though he lets them know that a person is ultimately alone in his responsibility to realize sagehood, still, he is helped along the way by the support of friends. In Wu’s approach to teaching and learning, an appreciation for the positive value of friendship constitutes one of its distinctive elements, along with two others, manual labor and recreation:

On the twelfth of this month, you and I stayed up talking until midnight. The next day, the lingering joy was still special to me. It was just as a former worthy said, “In learning one needs to have discussion before one comes to understand the Way. And the friendship derived from teachers and friends is the way to get this.” “Because the sages knew that the most benefit comes from friends, therefore they rejoiced when friends came to see them.”45

{156} The theme of friendship as a means of promoting virtue was not something new to Wu Yubi. It had been an important part of the Confucian tradition from earliest times, being one of the important themes of the Analects. Confucius spoke of fu-ren (), friends “helping to encourage virtue,” when he said: “The noble person on grounds of culture meets with friends, and by their friendship helps his virtue to develop.”46 He also spoke of taking people around him as his teacher: “The Master said, ‘When I walk along with two others, they may serve me as my teachers. I will select their good qualities and follow them, their bad qualities and avoid them.’”⁴⁷ The idea of learning in the context of friendship was so important that the teacher-student relationship did not constitute an additional relationship to that of the Five Cardinal Relationships⁴⁸ but was subsumed under the friend-friend relationship. This implied that the teacher-student relationship was a fluid rather than a fixed one, with mutual learning taking place for both people.

Letters between friends were particularly conducive vehicles for exchanging insights and advice for helping each other. In Wu’s letters to friends and students, he attributes a good deal of his own progress to their helpful advice: “How marvelous are the results of friends ‘helping to encourage goodness’” (8:16b, Letter 3). He is moved to offer his friends the benefit of his own insights in return: “The ancients placed much value on friends ‘helping to encourage goodness’ so how could I be selfish and not share with you what I have learned?” (8:15b, Letter 2).

Cognizant of the value of friendship in his own personal development, Wu exhorts his students to develop an appreciation for the power of friendship with each other in this regard. He encourages them to turn to each other, not just to him, taking advantage of the opportunities to discuss and clarify matters with each other, to encourage and reprove each other’s conduct, and to share in each other’s difficulties. On this point, Wu makes frequent references to hexagram 58 of the Book of Changes, dui , “the joyous.” The image of this hexagram is that of two lakes connected, one on top of the other: “Lake resting on the other: the image of the joyous. Thus {157} the noble person joins with friends for discussion and practice.”49 Students are to nourish and enrich each other just as two connecting lakes do. We see this idea at work in the last lines of one of Wu’s poems written while on an outing with students:

With a group of my students out on an outing, leading each other along in pairs,

We offer each other mutual advice in the spirit of “connecting lakes.” (4:2b)

When students were about to leave to return home, Wu wrote essays or poems with allusions to the theme of “connecting lakes,” to encourage them to seek out friends when they return home. He also encouraged them to follow a certain daily schedule, as can be seen in the following passage from a piece given to one student:

Go home, and clean and sweep out a room. Set up some maxims of the ancient sages and worthies on your desk. In your free time from serving your parents, enter your chamber, straighten your clothing, and sit in a serious and proper manner. Thoroughly read and digest the writings of the sages and worthies, examining their application for yourself. Whether active or quiescent, whether talking or silent, always seek what is worthy of the sages and worthies, and get rid of whatever is not worthy. If you accumulate your efforts over a period of time, then the power of your tasting the Way and emulating the worthies will daily strengthen, and the power of your old habits and past defects will daily weaken. Don’t worry that you will not reach the gate of the ancients! (8:42b, “Encouraging Learning”)

One of his students, Hu Juren, provides a good example of how one student negotiated the difficulties of returning home by taking Wu’s advice:

For several years, I studied on and off with Wu, reaching a point where I felt I had some kind of anchor to hang on to. Still, my will and disposition remained coarse and mean. Ever since I parted from {158} him, I’ve been without his personal instruction on a regular basis. Worried that studying alone on my own, apart from him and other students, has been keeping me from any success in maintaining my efforts, I have therefore joined with several friends of like ambition to build this “Hall of Connecting Lakes,” so we can share our common pursuit of sagehood.50

Next to this emphasis on “mutual help,” another distinctive aspect of Wu’s approach was his requirement of manual labor. Wu’s school was considered a private “charity school” that charged no tuition: “Students from all over come to study under him. He divided what little he already had with them, providing them with food, drink, and instruction.”⁵¹ According to his student Lou Liang, he did not care about collecting any kind of stipend as a teacher,⁵² even though his own situation was far from prosperous. What took its place was his requirement that students engage in manual labor on the farm when they came to study with him. Those early years when he had first returned to the countryside and was forced to struggle to make a living by farming had taught him valuable, important lessons about life. He alluded to this in a letter to his father when he heard of the possibility that his three younger brothers might be sent to study with him in the countryside:

Not only is life in the country simple, honest, and frugal so that a person can advance in his learning and moral character, but also it allows a person early on to learn the toils and hardships of a farmer’s life so that at a later time he will not fall in with the reckless and lazy. (8:27a, Letter 12b)

He wanted students to work hard in the fields so that they would also work hard in their pursuit of sagehood. Discipline in one area would help in the other. When he told them that all the progress he had made came only after difficulties and hardships, one of them declared that, “Only the Master could not be daunted by all this. The rest of us become discouraged and {159} give up.”53 Shortly after the student Lou Liang arrived, Wu was out working in the fields. He signaled for Lou to come over to him. He told him quite directly and explicitly that he must make it a practice personally to attend to even the smallest details of his life. Lou realized that Wu wanted students to be grounded in the realities of everyday life, even those like Lou who had servants.⁵⁴ Wu himself worked side by side with his students in the fields:

During a rainstorm, the Master would don his straw raincoat and hat, pull his plow over his shoulder, and join his various students in plowing. He would discuss with them the eight trigrams of the Book of Changes, starting with qian and kun , and the six others, the principles of which could be observed in the plowing. Returning home, they would put up their equipment and eat coarse rice and wild vegetables.⁵⁵

The manual work he had his students do was primarily farming. We find mention in his poetry of other jobs: helping to build a wall around his pond to keep the otters out, moving a gate house, and doing some land reclamation work.

Not all the students readily took to this particular requirement of the program. One famous example is that of Chen Xianzhang. Unlike many of Wu’s students, Chen came from an affluent background and already had passed the first major level of the exam system:

Chen Xianzhang came from Guangdong province to study with Wu. One day, just at daybreak, the Master began winnowing grain with his own hands. Since Baisha had not yet gotten up, the Master yelled in a loud voice, “If first degree students are as lazy as this, how will they ever expect eventually to reach the gate of Cheng Yi or Mencius?”⁵⁶

Though he might have been criticized by Wu, Chen still retained an admiration for him. He recounts how once while they were reaping the grain, {160} Wu cut his finger on the sickle. Bearing the pain stoically, not stopping his work because of it, Wu said, “How can I let myself be overcome by my environment?” Then he resumed his work as before.57

Engaging in farm labor was not just to toughen and discipline his students. It was also a way to teach them their connection to the larger working of the Way in the cosmic order. While out working in the fields, it is said Wu would teach his students the “eight trigrams” of the Book of Changes, explaining each of them in terms of the principles of agriculture. Records of the Words and Deeds of Ming Confucians includes an anecdote about Wu out inspecting the sowing of his fields by his students. When he asked them what they were doing, they replied that obviously they were planting seeds. With a slight smile, Wu corrected them: “No, not exactly. This is a matter of your assisting in what Practicing the Mean means by the ‘transforming and nurturing processes of Heaven and earth.’”⁵⁸ Thus the benefit of exposure to farm work for students was that they could experience themselves as concretely participating in the working out of the Way in the world, as contributing to the creative nurturing of life through the cultivation of plant life. By penetrating the principles operative in the natural world, and then relating these to their own inner sense of principle, students could make the connection between the physical and moral aspects of the creativity of the Way.

But studying under Wu was by no means all hard work and rustic living conditions. To balance the hard work he had his students do, Wu saw that they had time for enjoyment and relaxation. His poetry is filled with descriptions of the frequent outings he took his students on in the local area, to climb mountains, view the flowers, and enjoy the pleasures of the natural world. Wine, poetry, singing, and even a few lessons were part of the program. In addition to these day outings, Wu would take a handful of students along with him on his various trips to other parts of the province or the country. For instance, he took a group to visit Hu Yan, his former teacher and head of the National University when Wu’s father was Director of Instruction there. Hu made available to them for copying valuable editions of books in his vast library, books to which they would otherwise {161} have no access.59 On these trips with his students, Wu wrote numerous poems for them and his son, both for their edification and to express his enjoyment of their company.

Wu describes himself as taking great delight in the company of his students, deriving pleasure from listening to them singing or reciting their lessons, from sharing with them the wonders of the natural world, and from supporting each other in the pursuit of sagehood. In his poem, “Listening to the Various Students of My Clan Reading in the Early Morning”:

The sound of the cock crowing is strident, the light of the morning sun still faint. I am pleased to hear the reciting of students on the other side of the wall. This then is really what “daily renewal” consists of. Bursting with pride, I write this poem for their edification. (2:46b–47a)

As for the particular students who studied under him, they represent a diverse group, some famous, some obscure. They differed in their career choices, some deciding against serving in government and others holding public office. Of those who didn’t serve, many were farmer-teachers like Wu, with some financially well off and some even poorer than Wu. Of them all, Hu Jiushao, a relatively unknown figure, is the only one consistently mentioned in Wu’s personal writings—his Journal, poetry, and letters.

Hu, who lived about thirty-five miles to the northeast of Wu, came from an extremely poor family and eked out a living by farming and teaching children. He began his studies with Wu in 1419. Right from the beginning, Wu and Hu shared a close relationship, as can be seen in the poems and letters Wu wrote to Hu, especially in the early years of their relationship, from 1419 to 1428. There are eight poems⁶⁰ written to Hu during this period, which range from expressions of joy upon the occasions of visits to Hu to those of sadness when inclement weather kept them apart. In a 1419 poem, even as Wu was dispensing advice, he saluted Hu as a “sworn family member ()” (1:11b). Wu shows concern when Hu does not show up for {162} several evenings in a row for an appointed moon viewing, later confirmed in his suspicions that Hu had fallen sick from too much studying: “your being absent again caused me deep concern. Afterward, I still heard no news of you at all and feared that you had gotten sick” (8:21a–b, Letter 7). Hu is the only student mentioned in the Journal in any personal way. There Wu speaks of having derived much benefit on one occasion from having discussed an urgent matter with Hu “from every possible angle” (no. 59). He also tells of the several times they shared their respective difficulties in “conducting oneself in the world” (nos. 66 and 68).

That Wu came to depend on Hu Jiushao in special ways can be seen when Wu solicited Hu’s help to accompany him to consult a doctor in the next county when his wife was seriously ill in 1421 (8:23a, Letter 9), and later in 1426, to go with him to Nanjing for the funeral of his father.61 According to Hu’s biography in the Fuzhou Gazetteer, his position was such that “when students first came to study with Wu, he would have them first see Hu Jiushao.”⁶² When Hu died in 1465, four years before Wu, Wu wrote a poem that ended with these lines:

For the first time, my heart fully appreciates why, once Master Zhong died and the sensitivity of his hearing was lost,

That year, Master Bo’s lute ceased being played.⁶³ (7:14a–b)

As mentioned in the Introduction, three of the most famous Neo-Confucian thinkers of the next generation all studied with Wu Yubi: Lou Liang (1422–1491), Chen Xianzhang (1428–1500), and Hu Juren (1434–1484). Interestingly, not only did all three differ in their own thinking, but they also engaged in disputes with each other in a decidedly sectarian atmosphere. Still, the one thing upon which they all were able to agree was their acknowledgement of Wu as a compelling teacher who had had a significant impact on their lives.

{163} Lou, in praising Wu, wrote: “Wu tended to be self-effacing, never feeling satisfied with himself. His manner was lofty and awe-inspiring, his discussion of matters brilliant and impressive. He was good at opening up and leading students on, such that there was no one who heard his words that was not aroused to exert himself.”64 Chen, in turn, described how, “When I was twenty-seven, I traveled to Xiaopo where I heard Wu lecture on the learning of the sages. He taught the venerable teachings of the ancients, from the Song masters all the way back to Confucius and Mencius. He honored the Way of the Teacher and courageously undertook the responsibility for ensuring that the Way thrived. It was not a matter about which he was timid and docile. Like one standing on the summit of an eight thousand foot precipice, he became a hero for our whole age.”⁶⁵

The last of the three, Hu Juren, wrote of how, when he went to study under Wu, “for the first time I understood that the learning of the sages and worthies does not rest in the spoken word or in writings, but rather in the actual realization of it in one’s moral conduct.”⁶⁶ He exclaimed, “As for contemporary scholars in the world whose learning is clear and whose moral character can be admired, there is only Master Wu Yubi who is sufficient to serve as a model to be emulated.”⁶⁷

Tying up the discussion of Wu as a teacher, we can note that his great appeal and success as a teacher derived not so much from the content of what he taught. What he imparted was basically the core teachings of the Cheng-Zhu tradition as he saw them, with an emphasis on practice rather than theory. He had no sense of himself as presenting anything original, as starting a new school of thought, or as taking issue with past tradition in any way, as some of his students did. Rather, the source of his attractiveness to students was the power of his personality, the appeal of his personal style, which reflected his own integration of these teachings with his particular life situation.

Wu refrained from setting himself up as an aloof, perfectionist authority figure with all the answers. Rather he presented himself as one who was aware of his shortcomings and who continued to work to improve himself. Because he worked so hard in his own life to demonstrate the truth of the {164} Great Learning that peace in the world depends on cultivation of the individual, Wu developed a presence that others found compelling. He did not speak as one removed from what he taught, but as one who had struggled to make the teachings his own. Claiming no special access to the Way, he had to rediscover its truths for himself through hard efforts, through the ups and downs of everyday life: “The learning of the Master was obtained from hardship and vigorous effort and from the sweat and tears of late night reflection.”68 He was honest in admitting to his faults and weaknesses and in sharing his difficulties with his students and friends. Rather than proclaiming to his students that the Way to sagehood is easy, requiring only sincere faith in its possibility, Wu frankly told them that, on the contrary, such a goal was not at all easy. Indeed, it was the very difficulties of its pursuit that became the means of its realization. Yet, given the difficulties, Wu encouraged people to help each other with mutual support and guidance.

Conclusion: Wu Yubi’s Contributions to the Confucian Tradition

The value of Wu’s Journal is that it helps us to understand Wu as a person, as a practitioner of Neo-Confucianism, and as a model for students. It is a valuable document attesting to how one individual, with his particular temperament and life situation, went about appropriating and integrating the teachings of Neo-Confucianism that had been shaped by men living in a different time under different circumstances. It provides us with a self-conscious expression of what a believer accepted as the imperatives of the tradition and the means by which to carry them out. It helps us to observe those elements in the tradition that could be most inspirational, and those most burdensome and oppressive. We can compare what Wu thought he was doing, strictly following the tradition, with what in many cases we see him actually doing, making important adaptations to the tradition.

If a return to the Song was a means of getting at the roots of the tradition for him, it also entailed a return to the root of his own self, his mind, as the basis of communication with the past. There he discovered {165} something more complex than the mere imitation of the sage models would suggest. While the latter models may have suggested possibilities for self-perfection, they were also reminders that he fell short of his own ideals. The issue was not so much the emulation of models in itself, but whether, in this process, he could manage the tension between the ideal and the real, whether he could avoid either giving up in discouragement or adopting an inflated, unrealistic identification with the past. This tension was something with which Wu struggled for most of his life, and in doing so, developed a greater self-consciousness of the interior processes of the mind, which moved him to record his life in a kind of detail that no other Neo-Confucian before him had attempted.

For Wu’s time, the Journal represents a most distinctive document. As the Ming went on, Neo-Confucianism, under the leadership of Wang Yangming, turned against the Song tradition as too oppressive and rigid. It called for the celebration of the self and the great varieties of self-expression. Becoming a sage no longer was supposed to require reading a lot of books and doing a lot of self-examination. It only involved a spontaneous and natural expression of one’s ordinary self. As a result of this new outlook, there was a proliferation of self-revelatory writing, and such a work as Wu’s was not considered anything out of the ordinary.

But what is of significance is that such a self-revelatory document as Wu’s Journal emerged before Wang Yangming, out of a school so often branded authoritarian, rigid, and uncreatively orthodox. Wu thought he was only keeping a journal to carry out more faithfully the teachings of the Cheng-Zhu school about paying close attention to one’s state of mind, particularly to guard against selfish tendencies. Though the purpose was primarily negative at first, it was not such a big step for Wu to go beyond that to give vent to positive expressions of his feelings as well. In so doing, Wu’s contribution to the increase of self-expression in the Ming should not be overlooked and undervalued. He showed that a greater sense of the self could emerge from the dynamics of the Cheng-Zhu school as from the Lu or Wang schools. His contributions can also be seen as not just in this emphasis on self-expression but also in the growing importance in the Ming of the independent teacher and the ideal of the sage as moral hero. Wu’s life demonstrates that he was not merely reacting to his times, but putting his own mark on the age in which he lived.

This work cannot end without also mentioning one more point. Not only did Wu Yubi anticipate the more confessional, self-revelatory writings {166} of the mid-Ming dynasty, he also anticipated the confessional diaries of Baptists and Quakers in sixteenth-century English writings, as well as the two great chronicles of the “dark night of the soul,” by Teresa of Avila and John of the Cross in sixteenth-century Spain. A comparative study of all these offers intriguing possibilities. But for now, that is a story to be told in a future work.