Watching the Tree: A Chinese Daughter Reflects on Happiness, Spiritual Beliefs and Universal Wisdom. Adeline Mah Yen

One Sunday morning, as I lay in bed listening to the church bells ringing and feeling forlorn, I glanced up at my bookshelf and saw my Ye Ye’s copy of the I Ching leaning against the cardboard box in which I stored Karl’s letters. In the ten years since I had left Hong Kong I had never once opened the ragged tome. Under Karl’s influence, I now considered myself a westernised intellectual and had nothing but contempt for ancient Chinese books of divination.

      I took the book down and saw with it the bundle of sticks neatly bound with a cord. They were stored in a special pouch sewn ingeniously on to the book’s cloth binding. On the back cover was a list of instructions on how to use the I Ching. The reader was informed that within the bundle there were fifty yarrow stalks as well as two sticks of incense. Yarrow, or milfoil, was a common plant in China and its stalks had been used since ancient times for purposes of divination. The incense was to be replaced after each reading.

      Randomly, I flipped through the pages: the book consisted of sixty-four hexagrams (

gua), the margins of which were annotated in many places by my grandfather’s familiar handwriting. Next to no. 29 (

kan), he had written ‘pi ji tai lai’ (light at the end of the tunnel).

      Curious and excited, I began to read:

      The hexagram kan

consists of two identical trigrams also named kan

, one on top and one at the bottom. A yang line (continuous line)

lies between two yin lines (interrupted lines)

. Kan represents the heart locked within the body. Because kan is repeated twice in this hexagram, it means ‘repetition of danger’.

      The word kan

has plunged in and is enclosed by two yin lines

like water in a ravine. This hexagram represents an objective situation that is very dangerous. It is a situation in which one is trapped as water is trapped in a ravine. Like water, a person can escape only if he behaves resolutely and with appropriate caution.

      Thoroughly intrigued, I turned to the beginning. ‘This ancient book of wisdom,’ I read, ‘may be of help at moments of indecision. Treat it with reverence. Follow the directions meticulously. Phrase your question carefully. Receive the answer respectfully. Ponder its significance and act according to its guidance.’

      For some reason, at that moment, the words seemed momentous: like a message sent by my grandfather from beyond his grave, delivered at that instant for a particular purpose. After studying the instructions, I followed them scrupulously. I bathed and dressed as if I was going to church, then made my bed, cleaned the room, locked my door and unplugged my telephone. Feeling somewhat foolish, I placed my bedspread on the floor, arranged the I Ching, a piece of paper and pen, a vase of flowers (brought by Karl on his recent visit) and the fifty yarrow stalks neatly next to each other.

      I lit the incense and sat cross-legged on a cushion facing the bedspread. Then I closed my eyes and thought of the last seven years with Karl, remembering the sweetness as well as the pain. After much deliberation, I wrote my question. ‘Will you please give me guidance as to how I should behave in my relationship with Karl?’

      Next I started dividing the yarrow stalks exactly as instructed. Though simple, it was a protracted process that took almost an hour. During that time many thoughts went through my mind. Did my Ye Ye ever have such a relationship? Was he at times also unhappy? Why did he write the words ‘pi ji tai la’ next to hexagram no. 29? Will I be able to survive without Karl? Or will I be happier alone?

      I found myself talking to my dead grandfather and imagining his answers. Am I going crazy? I thought. What would Karl say if he saw me now – his pupil (the would-be scientist) burning incense and having a dialogue with an ancient book purported to possess spiritual authority! Am I performing an act of ancestor-worship?

      Finally, I completed the procedure: having manipulated the stalks I came up with six lines of numbers. After consulting the chart at the back of the book, I found gua no. 44 (

kou). ‘The hexagram kou,’ I read, ‘denotes a predicament in which darkness creeps back furtively after being eliminated. Of its own volition, the female arrives to meet the male. It is highly unlucky and dangerous and one must act promptly to prevent possible disaster.’

      I wrote the answer next to my question to the I Ching. I felt the hair rising at the back of my neck as I read and re-read the phrases interpreting the hexagram kou. In all sincerity, I had asked my question and the answer was unequivocal. I must resolve to destroy Karl’s love letters and leave England as soon as possible. I must act promptly to prevent disaster and never go back. There was no doubt in my mind that the I Ching’s advice was sound.

      That Sunday morning in Edinburgh was the only occasion I ever consulted the I Ching. After lunch I spent the day in bed reading the rest of the book. As I read, I remember being astonished by the many astute, profound and noble ideas conceived thousands of years ago. For a few hours that day, the book came alive and spoke to me personally. I could almost hear my grandfather exhorting me to continue searching for guidance from his favourite book.

      Afterwards, all through the agony of breaking free, I would re-read my hexagram every time I wavered. Not only did it point to a course of action I needed to follow, it sustained me throughout the ordeal. At our final parting Karl asked for a token by which to remember our years together. I rewrapped my grandfather’s I Ching in its original silk and mailed it to him. For me, Ye Ye’s book had become a symbol of deliverance. By giving it to Karl I was declaring my independence … but I never did tell him what happened that morning in Edinburgh between the I Ching and me.

      In China the I Ching has long been considered to be the oldest book in the world and a great classic, as well as the foundation of Chinese scholarship. Indeed, it seems to transcend time and national boundaries, providing perennial significance and solace. The ideas it contains have continued to play a dominant role in Chinese thinking from ancient times to the present. It is thought to have been written over 4000 years ago, but its exact age is unknown. The great seventeenth-century German mathematician Gottfried von Leibniz called it ‘the oldest monument of scholarship’. To Carl Jung, it was ‘the experimental foundation of classical Chinese philosophy’.

      Legend attributes the authorship to Fu Xi*

(2953–2838 BC), an ancient and mythical king of China who supposedly led his people into the age of agriculture. In ancient times the book was used for the purposes of divination: words from the I Ching were inscribed on bones known as ‘oracle bones’, some of which were discovered at the turn of the twentieth century.

      Much later, around 1150 BC, King Wen

, the founder of the Chou dynasty, rearranged the hexagrams (more on this later). He also wrote the judgements (or commentaries) known as Gua T’uan

on the hexagrams. One of King Wen’s sons, the Duke of Chou

, composed the Hsiao T’uan