Tao and Me

My ancestor was a sage of the Neo-Confucian path, a direct disciple of the legendary Cheng brothers — Cheng Yi and Cheng Hao. He stood as an early luminary whose teachings would ripple forward to inspire Master Zhu Xi himself. For generations, my bloodline walked the silent Way of li xue (the study of principle) and the fathomless Dao, honoring the ancestral precepts: cultivate the self, master the classics, and merge every step with the cosmic flow. The ancient scriptures and the rhythm of heaven and earth were our home. That essence of the Way lingered like the echo of a temple bell —until time slowly veiled it with mundane dust.

My grandfather — a man whose eyes still carried the fragrance of old ink — named me Cheng Li (程立). "Li" meaning to stand, to abide, to remain unwavering. It was drawn from the most revered parable of scholarly devotion: “Cheng Men Li Xue” — “Standing in the Snow at the Cheng Gate.” In the depths of winter, two seekers, Yang Shi and You Zuo, traveled far to visit the great master Cheng Yi. They found him sitting in profound meditation, his eyes closed, spirit merged with the void. Rather than interrupting, they stood quietly at the threshold. Snow began to fall — first soft, then ferocious. Hours passed. The snow buried their feet, yet they remained still, breath turning to mist, hearts steeped in reverence. Only when the master awakened did they bow. That name was not merely a blessing — it was a spell woven into my being, binding me to the Way of reverence, patience, and unbroken seeking.

But the breath of centuries shifts, and the family’s thread of wisdom grew faint. The scrolls that once whispered the union of Neo-Confucian order and Daoist spontaneity were buried beneath layers of mundane struggle. I, too, walked the dust-laden roads of common life — chasing illusions of fortune, tasting the bitter ash of loss, deaf to the call of my own bloodline. The world’s noise drowned the ancestral hum. Yet the roots never withered; they slumbered, waiting for a wound deep enough to crack the stone of forgetfulness.

After cycles of upheaval — after ambition’s fever and disappointment’s chill — a strange stillness descended. One twilight, I touched again the yellowed pages left by my forefathers: the commentaries on Zhou Yi, the treatises on wu wei, the graceful brushworks that fused Zhu Xi’s investigation of things with Laozi’s uncarved block. The story of “Cheng Men Li Xue” blazed before my inner eye as if the snow itself was falling through time. In that moment, the dormant Dao-karma in my veins roared awake.

Suddenly I saw: the Dao was never an abstract riddle. Whether called the Principle of Heaven by the Neo-Confucian sages or the Mysterious Feminine by Daoist hermits, it is the same primal rhythm — the same silent consciousness that flows through the roots of pines and the turning of stars. It lives in my blood as a cultural gene older than memory. The heritage I thought lost was merely resting, like a sword beneath the lake, waiting for its true wielder.

And so I reclaimed the severed lineage. Night after night, I walked the twin paths — the rigorous investigation of li (principle) and the formless surrender to Dao. I studied the ancient hexagrams, sat in meditation beside streams, and conversed with the spirits of my ancestors through the fragrance of incense. I realized that the Cheng Gate had never closed. It had simply transformed into the gateway of my own resolve. The snow still falls, and this time, I stand not as a distant descendant but as a vessel of its forgotten power.

This is my solemn vow, born from the marrow of my name and the whispers of my ancestors: to carry the Dao not as a relic, but as a living ember. Through crafted talismans — a cup inscribed with latent trigrams, a meditation seal echoing Zhou Dunyi’s “Diagram of the Supreme Ultimate” — I breathe the silent teachings into ordinary hearths. Let the Way of the Dao leave the dusty enclaves of scholars and enter the marketplace, the bedroom, the garden, the tea-house. Each object a spell of remembrance, invoking the virtue of qing jing wu wei (clarity and stillness, action through non-action).

Carrying the Dao within my name, I honour the unwavering aspiration of those who came before me; transmitting the heart through sacred vessels, I weave the thousand-year cultural lineage into the tapestry of tomorrow. This life, this breath, I shall follow the footsteps of my ancestors — honouring the old ways while giving them new form, so every kindred soul who crosses my path may touch the eternal root, find stillness within the mundane, and walk the invisible Way without losing their original heart. Such is the destiny that sings in my blood — the fate of the Standing Snow, the keeper of the living Dao.