A True Master

I have a friend who’s not exactly close but far from a stranger—truly a friendship of graceful respect. She was my classmate during undergrad; let’s call her Ms. B. Back in college, it felt like she and I were living in two entirely separate worlds. Years later, I had already experienced the ebb and flow of the everyday world. As the only two from our class who stayed behind in Boston, we reunited at one of my tea gatherings, and that’s when I realized: we actually belong to the same world.

Ms. B was admitted through a direct recommendation because she won a medal in the math/physics contest, while the rest of us went through the Gao-Kao (China’s standard test for college). I imagined her high school years were filled with experiences vastly different from ours, and this sense of the unknown made me unconsciously put some distance between us. At the age of eighteen, with my limited life experience, I had no successful precedents for engaging with people like her. So, when I was around them, I felt awkward, even a bit anxious.

In my high school, there weren’t many competition-track students; most were silent “geniuses.” I wanted to talk to them, but could never find the right topics or moments, and was often afraid of being looked down upon. I knew little about the world of these students before they got their direct admissions, and even after we entered college, I could only glimpse into their lives—they had entirely different schedules from ours. My freshman year was long and dark; the excitement and freshness were blown away by the chilly winds. Meanwhile, their first year seemed like an appetizer, quickly enjoyed before moving on to the main courses of sophomore and junior years. They were exempt from basic courses, scored over 90 effortlessly, and could take higher-level classes, while those of us with high school-level physics crammed ourselves into poorly ventilated lecture halls to listen to confusing, overwhelming content.

My university is known for its laid-back campus atmosphere, with almost no collective activities aside from the “129” choir in the first year and the graduation ceremony in the fourth year. So, my interactions with Ms. B and her peers were minimal, limited to the mandatory choir practice and brief encounters in common areas like the dormitory’s water room and bathrooms. In my memory, Ms. B was the figure with short, neat hair, walking by with her backpack, just passing me by.

My Alma Mater.  📷: Zhang Lingxin

Years later, I came to work in Boston. We could still gather eight or nine people from the same class for a dinner, where everyone else was working on a Ph.D., and I was the only one commuting to work, dressed in what I imagined was a professional office look. We dined at places like Five Spices House or Cilantro, meeting in Central Square or near Harvard. When it was time to part ways, some headed toward Harvard, others toward MIT, and I alone went back to Cambridgeport to prepare for work the next day. Over the years, Ph.D. students left, postdocs came and went, and now, only Ms. B and I remain in Boston.

This year, I started hosting my tea gatherings, and Ms. B arrived with her usual neat short hair. She was still that cool, laid-back self, with a certain understated confidence radiating from her demeanor.

In North America’s academic world, one typically starts as an assistant professor, struggling to produce enough to earn tenure and become a professor. Ms. B, however, was unlike the busy, anxious assistant professors. She carried herself with a calm and ease, each word she spoke concise and full of meaning. Her aura came from a clear mind and relaxed nerves.

She mentioned two things that both shocked and yet made perfect sense to me: one was about “taking walks and never scribbling on scrap papers” and the other one was about “the search for essence and the deep differences in perspectives.”

Ms. B explained tenure like this: “Ultimately, it’s the reputation of your academic achievements that matters, not how many words you’ve written or papers published.” She referred to meaningless busy work as “scribbling on scrap paper.” Because she neither wanted nor needed to do that, she only went to the university one and a half days a week, spending the rest of her time walking, thinking, and living.

This simple declaration had a certain power that deepened my admiration for her. While my peers in academia are still struggling, she already embodies the composure of a seasoned professor—a true example of “less doing, more being.” A clear mind doubles one’s efficiency; a muddled mind merely performs “doing.”

When she said this, a ripple went through my heart. Her calm words were like an echo from afar, making me realize that many things I hadn’t expressed were already being practiced by someone. Ms. B’s attitude of not “scribbling on scrap paper” is the lifestyle I aspire to, yet I often let my daily work lead me by the nose, gradually losing clarity about this way of living. Hearing her speak felt like an affirmation from an authority, validating my unspoken values.

To say Ms. B and I are similar is not to claim we are on the same level, but after years outside the ivory tower, I finally heard a way of life and philosophy that resonates with me—a core that had been gradually diluted in my self-doubt.

In my professional life, my work is overwhelmingly complex and filled with trivial tasks, and in design school, sleepless nights are practically a culture. To me, these are mundane, low-return, unremarkable pursuits. In short, they lack beauty. These ugly things drain my energy without nourishing me. Looking around, the world is full of inefficient, superficial effort.

Another thing that amazed me was her conversation with someone from the venture capital world. When asked, “Does your research have any practical significance?”—essentially, “How do you monetize it?”—Ms. B didn’t disdainfully dismiss them but instead replied empathetically, “It really isn’t useful.” After reflecting, she concluded, “There’s no way to commercialize it.” I admired her honesty, and even more, her calm acceptance—her research had no practical value, yet she pursued it without conflict. Ms. B’s purity and decisiveness gave her an aura of complete self-sufficiency, as if she had no trace of inner emptiness.

Then, the conversation turned to her regretted choice of the more applied “atmospheric physics” field back then. Today, atmospheric scientists are highly sought after, as climate issues have become central to politics and economics. Yet, she described this field with, “Can this even be called physics?”

Goodness, the unspoken thoughts in my heart were articulated so clearly, and by someone more qualified to express them. This made me realize again that it’s not something wrong with me—others truly do think and feel the same way. Although this may be a sensitive topic, I often find myself puzzled by the enthusiasm people have for climate issues in my field. To me, these issues feel neither fundamental nor purely scientific; they’re layered with practical, often political considerations that make them feel less like pure inquiry and more like economics—a field where theory and real-world behavior often diverge widely.

This disconnect stems from the way we were trained. We were encouraged to pursue knowledge with the intent of uncovering natural, universal truths—to delve into questions of essence and structure. Climate issues, however, are enmeshed in immediate concerns, often muddled by human motives and complex variables, lacking the simplicity and clarity we were taught to seek. This difference in orientation can feel like a barrier to understanding or connecting with the field's goals on a deeper level.

This sentiment reminds me of our alumni events, where academic lectures always draw the largest crowds, despite many attendees being seasoned professionals in fields far from pure science. But during sessions on investment or entrepreneurship, many people take the chance to step out, just as they did in school, viewing these topics as shallow, practical, and detached from core truths. This university culture, with its commitment to uncovering essential questions, is deeply ingrained in us, even if our careers have since diverged.

Ms. B acknowledges their passion, and so do I—we both see something endearing in their dedication. Yet, over the years, I’ve come to see more than just their enthusiasm; I’ve come to appreciate the significance of these ‘life-sized’ issues, the kinds of challenges that matter on a human scale. This is perhaps the growth that life experience brings—to understand that, while we may reach for greater cosmic truths, there is profound value in tackling the immediate, tangible concerns of our world.

Because we are indeed so small.

At this moment, I find myself once again moved by the beauty in all of this.

November 4, 2024

In my Boston home