The concept of “congestion” is referenced widely in modern Chinese culture. It is present in conversations whining about public transport, city traffic, lines at a tourist attraction, hospital or service desk; in fact, almost any public space. An “uncrowded” place carries a favourable connotation; it is free of the disturbance and turmoil of everywhere else. This phenomenon is hardly surprising, considering the ever-expanding Chinese megacities and population.
Such contemporary congestion is all too familiar. But what about a much more traditional interpretation, as in traditional Chinese medicine (TCM)?
Founded upon the principle that harmony in the body leads to long-term health and wellbeing, TCM assists with imbalances and disruptions in the body that lead to ailments, whether physical or psychological. TCM regards “Qi” as a fundamental concept. Representing vital universal energy, the force behind all organic activity in the universe, Qi is in constant flux, manifested in material life as well as in movement, heat, thoughts and emotions. Qi can also be medically portrayed as vital fluids and energy flowing through the body. “Xue”, the blood, is another fluid, likewise circulating the body, literally to sustain life.
So, you can imagine how congestion of Qi and Xue can upset the body and mind. According to small talk I have overheard between aunts and grandpas, along with cursory searches online, congestion in the Qi and Xue should be treated with more green tea, less greasy and spicy food, more exercise, regular sleep and more of an outdoors and social life. This all sounds like solid advice, paired with a set of composed, serene philosophical principles.
In popular culture, this diet and lifestyle have been associated with “养生” (yangsheng); maintaining good health, and in turn, with stereotypically, those advancing in years. While younger generations also aspire to longevity and health, their 养生 really isn’t pulled off with the same rigour, neither under the same circumstances.
Specifically, their 养生 often accompanies situational irony; staying up all night while chugging down a concoction of health products, feasting on spicy hot pot before taking digestive tablets, adding goji to beer, dangshen to coca cola and perhaps most commonly, and perplexingly, intending to go for a 养生 night out.
Some of these examples may be exaggerations, but there nonetheless exists a chasm between TCM’s teachings and the unescapable “temptations” of a modern lifestyle.
“Staying up all night” might have been for catching up on the latest TV show, or keeping up with the demands of an unpredictable, but steadily growing workload.
“Having a carnivorous feast” might be a fantastic time with friends and family, or a sociocultural ritual between employees and clients in the business world.
China’s rapid economic development has led to a tectonic shift in the expectations and prioritisation of work, leisure and health. The remark that, “Everything is so fast-paced”, has become a platitude. Congestion is arguably omnipresent. Traffic is congested on the city streets. Qi is congested when we occupy ourselves with work and life, and when we deceptively perform 养生.
Even on a psycho-spiritual level, we are congested by an overabundance of thoughts and questions, without clear intent or answers. Everything going through all at once is bound to lead to congestion.
As a response to this pervasive congestion, there are countless sources of advice, from, “lead a slow-paced life”, to “relax one’s body and mind” and “enjoy the world around us”. The fantasy of “escaping the city” or an idyllic or “olde-worlde” life is growing, as indicated by trends in tourism.
Rising incomes have enabled people to indulge in these fantasies temporarily. In 2019, the total instances of domestic tourism in China had reached more than six billion, an 8.4 percent increase from 2018. Current popular destinations are natural or historical sites, such as the Sanhuan pastureland in Dalian or Tai’erzhuang Ancient Town in Zaozhuang. Metropolitan centers, such as Hong Kong, are dwindling in their appeal, as people are generally accustomed to urbanity, no longer enthralled by skyscrapers.
Common criticism of popular natural and historical sites are of overcrowding, excessive commercialisation, and degradation of the natural landscape and historical artefacts. While these points are certainly valid, they also reflect the fantasy of tourism. People spend money on tourism as a service, while expecting monetary aspects to be cleanly concealed.
They should not be reminded of crowded city streets, ubiquitous billboard advertising, nor the grime and pollution left behind from the linear economy of production to consumption, and straight to waste.
This same “fantasy” possibly fulfilled by tourism is also present in the stereotype of 养生; TCM-guided, middle-aged people, perhaps more accurately. Their WeChat profiles are caricatured as portraits of themselves in picturesque scenery, accompanied by a name such as (roughly translated) “Morning Sunlight”, “Life is but a Stage”, “Sound and Auspicious” or “Prosperity Yearlong”.
Despite the ridicule of this stereotype, I believe it powerfully characterises a certain Chinese lifestyle of minimalism. It represents a symbolic divide between generations. The youth coexist with congestion while the middle-aged reject it.
Initially, congestion is viewed as the “overwhelming number of possibilities and opportunities in the world”.
Later, congestion becomes seen as a pathological symptom, obstructing Qi, or life, from flowing and flourishing. Faith in nature, health, and traditional practices and beliefs substitute that placed in congested, modern life.
Looking at the past few months, I have truly experienced both views of congestion. During the restrictions, I first adopted a stereotypically “middle-aged” stance.
“The streets and roads seemed free from their chronic ailment. Once in a while, a car would freely race through. These arteries were so painstakingly laid down and maintained as an essential component of our societal flesh and bones, so worn down with all the people going places, constantly pumping, that it had seemed to develop hypertension. It had time to rest. Anxious, and doubtful, the people had abandoned their four wheels.
“My body healed during that time. Less greasy dinners outside, more time for afternoon exercise. More time to make an elaborate breakfast. More time to stop and listen to the cicadas outside.
“Even the testing sites were just a manageable-sized line of people patiently scrolling through the news or Douyin or whatever. After hearing traumatic stories, everything was surprisingly ordered, tranquil, and free of confusion and turmoil.”
However, quite soon later, I realised I could not adopt this stance forever.
“Just staring out the window day in, day out. Afternoon exercise is great, fresh air from strolls outside is great, but everything still feels upside down. It would be great to just breathe and simply exist, among people. It doesn’t have to be social; just watching and appreciating all the people going their separate places at a busy intersection or a mall.
Everywhere seems deserted. I’m tired of cereal for breakfast and salad for dinner. Time is relative. It’s like everything I’ve done is just being slowly erased and my life turning into a blank page. I just need to feel alive.”
Later, as restrictions loosened and fears faded, I felt a lot better mentally. Reflecting, I understood more than just two stereotypical ways of viewing modern life. I do not need to buy into appreciating the congestion of modern life, nor absolutely reject it with ascetic minimalism.
People have complex and changing beliefs, which are not dictated by their age group. Perhaps the best approach is to reconsider our view of modern life, experiment, then decide, and remain flexible to change.
Whether shoving our way through millions awaiting their bubble tea in Xinjiekou station or contemplating the yin and yang on a stone bench at Yangshan Park, or anything in between, in these congested times, feel the Qi coursing within, and have pace in life.
