A Doctor’s Whisper

The earliest appointment today is 8am, but I arrive at the clinic two hours early. Closing the door soundlessly behind me, as if I am unwilling to disturb the flowers laden with dew, I tiptoe to the terrace adjacent to the clinic bathed in the morning glow.

For a while I meditate, and then I stroll back and forth on the rustic wooden floor. I am standing not far from a cluster of high-rise buildings, just a bit further away from a verdant forest and a mountain range.

In addition to flowers and shrubs, our dear friend Dr. Ali planted many fruit trees on the terrace: plum, pear, apple, fig... in front of which are several angels and Buddhas each in their own reverie, clothed in stone. When the leaves quiver for no apparent reason, I know a bird is peeping at me from under the branches.

All that inhabits the space in front of my eyes seem so dear. Though in a boisterous city, I feel more like the Japanese hermit in Hojoki, far away from earthly hustle and bustle. Aware of myself and the world, having no desires or wishes, in my heart arises not a single thought but gratitude.

Some patients will be waiting to see us today, including two eye patients. The herbs that will be given to them are all ready made in advance, some for internal use, some external. Each formula must be prepared meticulously, but I do not mind at all. Cooking is not my cup of tea, but making an herbal formula is such a joy!

During the last few years of the pandemic, we were glad we had opportunities to help people reduce their symptoms. Our achievement is gratifying, and at the same time, our patients helped us grow and mature, both medically and spiritually. We are like those green fruit on our terrace, hanging on the shaky branches and due to the care of both the rain or shine, becoming a little bigger day by day.

A few days ago, a patient asked me: Dr. Zhao, how has your business been?

I smiled and asked: business? what business?

Seriously, we never see our clinic as a business. It is a place for healing, both for others and for ourselves. As for making money, that is never our priority. Sure enough, a clinic cannot survive in the long-term without making money, but if making money is our sole goal, it is only unsatisfactory.

Here is a scene I often imagine in my mind:

Knock, knock, knock…

Who is there?

We are lost, please let me in, help is needed!

Ah, lost travellers in darkness!

Wide the door opens; in they are let. If hungry, they are fed; if thirsty, they are provided with water; if cold, they warm their feet by our campfire until their boots are warm and ready to hit the road. Then we show them the direction they ought to head in, and watch them vanish at the end of the road. To their destination they have to walk, we don’t walk for them.

A young girl, suffering from long term depression, asked: Dr. Anna, why am I so sensitive?

I smiled, “One’s sensitivity is one’s gift. You just need to use this gift in the most appropriate manner you can think of.”

A four-year-old girl told me that she often accidentally fell and hurt her knee.

I asked her: What do you do when your knee hurts?

She tilted her little head thoughtfully and said, "In our home we have a rose garden. When I have a booboo, I hop to a rose bush and sing songs to it. Once I sing, the owie goes away."

This reminds me what Hugo wrote: ' Be as a bird perched on a frail branch that she feels bending beneath her, still she sings away all the same, knowing she has wings…’

Isn't this little girl like a singing bird with wings?

Yes, little children often have greater wisdom.

The running water does not turn around, nor the departing bird return. It seems that on the wall of life, helplessness and imperfection creep. There's only one way to perfect it: discover the wings you accidentally lost, and then learn to sing like a bird, just like that four-year-old child who forgets her knee pain by singing to the roses.