Zhuangzi said the fish were happy. Huizi said you are not a fish. Standing on the bridge, I finally understood: between compassion and wisdom, there is a bridge.
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A while back, I was walking in the park and stopped under an old locust tree. The tree was nothing special. But I stood there, looked up, and felt quiet inside. Later I realized I was thinking of Zhuangzi's story about the carpenter who called a massive oak useless — and that's exactly why it had lived for thousands of years.
I had a dream last night. I became a butterfly. When I woke up, I thought of Zhuangzi from two thousand years ago — he had the same dream, and then asked a question people have been quoting ever since: was it me dreaming of the butterfly, or the butterfly dreaming of me?
Last night I couldn't sleep. Tossed and turned, then got up and flipped through the Shurangama Sutra. There's a passage that stopped me cold — the Buddha said when someone points at the moon, you should look at the moon, not stare at the finger. It felt like a mirror showing me a habit I repeat every single day.