Something Still Waiting to Be Sent

Picture an empty workstation: passing by in the evening, there are no papers on the desk, only a faint gray ring, as if someone once set a cup there, a long time ago. The chair is askew, as though its owner has just gone to get water and might return at any moment. But the next day, and the day after, the chair is still askew. The empty workstation sits there silently, more conspicuous than any busy cubicle. It reminds everyone who passes: someone came, someone is gone, and things move on just the same.

This brings to mind those things that have not yet been sent out. A letter written, revised three times, and forever stalled in the drafts folder; a proposal saved on the computer as “final version,” “final version two,” “final version really use this one”; a sentence kept in a pocket, meant to be said upon meeting someone, but held until the handwriting blurred. They are not unformed; they simply have never truly been placed in another’s hands. Before being handed over, they are like a leaf that has not landed, suspended in the air, neither growing on the tree nor lying on the ground.

We often think of “ready” as a door. Drafting, polishing, checking again, polishing once more—as if one more day would sharpen the blade a little further. But the strangeness of days is that extra time does not always make things more complete. Sometimes it lets matters grow, sprouting more worries, like dough left too long that turns sour. That letter, delayed and unsent, began as just a few honest words; after half a month, it starts to bear explanations, bear dignity, bear the weight of “will sending it now seem too late,” until finally it is too heavy to send.

So “preparing” is not only a craft; it also becomes a hiding place. Not being ready yet is a very safe excuse. It lets us stand on the shore of the matter, neither getting wet from the waves nor having to admit we cannot swim. But standing on the shore too long, we discover the tide has gone out, others have long since waded across, and we are still clutching our shoes.

What truly pushes a person out is often not the moment of readiness, but the matter simply landing at our hands. Not every beginning has a ceremony. More often, someone hands over something still unpolished and says, “Take a look first,” and we have to take it. Once taken, the thing must go somewhere; once it has somewhere to go, we learn for the first time what is lacking, what is superfluous, what simply cannot withstand another’s actual use.

Our relationship with a thing is often not settled at the desk, but in others’ hands. Running it through a hundred times alone in a room is not as good as handing it over once. Once handed over, it no longer belongs only to us. Others will flip through it, use it, misunderstand it, or set it aside and forget it. These reactions may not be gentle, but they give the thing new weight. If it was meant for others to use, before it is handed over it is hard to know how it will fare in actual use. It can also first serve as our private craft object—exquisite, clean, only not yet having received the response of outside use.

But handing it over also means letting others’ eyes in. That is probably the hardest part.

It is not that we do not long to be seen. As children, running home with a drawing, the first sentence is usually not “I drew a cat,” but “Look.” Whether the cat is well drawn is another matter; “Look” is the key. Growing up, that “Look” is tucked into the body and becomes a kind of expectation we are reluctant to admit: we want what we make to be seen, we want others to be able to say our name, we want someone behind a desk, a chair, a door to recognize who is putting in the effort.

This longing is not shameful. People who are embarrassed to speak of fame and position often quietly hide their names in things, waiting for others to discover. If discovered, they are happy; if not, they say they do not care. But how could they not care? Recognition is very concrete: someone remembers what you did in that group, someone takes seriously the solid groundwork you laid, someone thinks of you before handing a matter over. Wanting to be seen, wanting recognition, wanting to connect your name with a good thing—this is ordinary human feeling, not vanity.

But recognition has its own routes, and does not always start from the thing itself. Sometimes the title arrives first, the matter later. A person has not truly entered the work, yet the position is already printed on the business card. He walks into the room, and what others see first is the appellation, not his craft. The appellation is like a pre-tailored coat draped on the body—a bit large or small, few bother to quibble. The matter before him may be just a button beneath the coat.

There is also the reverse. A person does many things but never has a title. His name is printed nowhere; others refer to him as “what’s-his-name.” The matters he handles run smoothly like tap water, and no one stops to ask which pipe the water comes from. He too has had the thought: if it were me, would I also be called something? But the thought is quickly pressed down by the next concrete task. He knows that if he does not do it, the matter will stall there.

Neither way of living should be hastily praised or blamed. Those with titles may not only be managing titles; those who bury themselves in work may not be aloof. Often, titles are set up to let matters go through. Without them, you cannot enter the door, cannot mobilize people, cannot bear responsibility. A person entirely without nominal standing does not even get scolded, let alone push a complex matter far. A title is sometimes the shell of responsibility, not just the shell of vanity. If we generalize, we easily underestimate the real difficulties some people face.

Likewise, those who work quietly have their admirable qualities, but need not be enshrined as moral models. They may not care to navigate social maneuvering, or they may simply not have received that coat. They may care about names elsewhere too, just not as they wished. To treat being unseen as proof of noble detachment is to cut complex life short. People are not choosing between two clean paths, as easily as picking up chopsticks. More often, we are in the middle ground, sometimes straining toward status, sometimes feeling it is merely a shell.

In Zhangguo Xingzong, discussing official emolument, there is the saying “The palace of official emolument is exactly the position where a person, in his prime, acts,” followed by old judgments of auspicious and inauspicious stars and of poverty and nobility. Today, borrowing the association of “in his prime, acts,” we can think of the position of entering worldly affairs and having something to do, without using these words to define the age range of modern people. It also says that scholar-gentlemen stand in court, commoners rise in the household, merchants prosper in the marketplace. This saying has its old frame, speaking of status and station, and may not be directly transposed to today. But it at least reminds us: things are not done in a vacuum; they must always land somewhere. Court, household, marketplace are different footholds. In today’s terms, some walk the rules in large institutions, some manage food and clothing in their own homes, some sell goods on the street. The tasks differ, but the weight of the doing itself is not necessarily higher or lower.

What truly deserves our attention may not be whether we have obtained a resounding title, but whether the title and the matter match. If the title is empty, the matter floats; if the title is tight, the matter weighs heavy on the hand. When the title exceeds the matter, the person easily becomes hollow; when the matter exceeds the title, the person easily becomes tired. Most of us seek balance between the two, sometimes leaning this way, sometimes that, rarely standing perfectly upright for long.

The old book also says, “The office significator overcomes the life significator: one establishes oneself by name, and one is ruined by name.” The premise is that the office significator overcomes the life significator; this is a specific old astrological judgment, not a maxim that titles are universally harmful. Today, borrowing the tension between name and self-establishment, one might also think: when a person relies too much on a name to hold them up, and the matter beneath the name does not keep up, a gust of wind easily brings trouble. Conversely, if a person recognizes only the matter and not the title, they may also run into walls everywhere and wear themselves out for nothing. This modern reflection cannot be reversed to serve as an explanation of the original judgment, nor can it be applied to anyone’s chart. There is no ready answer to the measure, and we need not make the name an enemy or a destination. It is more like something that needs to be propped up from time to time.

After a thing is handed to another, what happens is largely beyond our control. It may be read carefully or set aside casually. It may open a door for us, or it may expose our flaws. At the moment of handing over, we give away the finished product and also a part of ourselves. From then on, its fate is no longer decided by us alone.

This is probably the price of “stepping into actual matters.” Before entering, we can still maintain a flawless imagination in our heads: with just a bit more preparation, the matter will be proper. After entering, we discover that matters are never completely proper. There is always a stretch to patch on the spot, a point to discuss with others, a time to reach out before thinking it through.

Sometimes we think that those unfinished things may have been waiting for a less ceremonious entrance. No need to wait until everything is ready, no need to wait until the business card is printed, no need to wait until one suddenly becomes seasoned and mature. Sometimes, it is merely that someone asks, “Can you get it started first?” and we nod, and the matter begins. After it begins, we slowly learn to look the part.

This does not mean carelessness is a virtue. What can be prepared should still be prepared; rules that should be followed should still be followed. We must only admit that preparation has a margin, and beyond that margin it becomes another name for procrastination. The real threshold is not in preparation, but in the act of submission. Moving the thing from our side to another’s, even just an inch, changes the nature of the matter. It is no longer one person’s inner work; it becomes a matter between two people, a matter among people.

We gradually feel that we need not let titles or being seen block the doorway. They are like waystations on the road: having one does not mean you can stay; not having one, the road still must be walked. We can well admit that we want to rest at that waystation, and equally admit that sometimes we just sit under a tree by the roadside and watch others pass. The important thing is not to stand at our own doorstep refusing to set out because the waystation has not yet arrived.

That empty workstation was later taken by a newcomer. The cup was replaced with another, the chair straightened, the gray ring wiped away. Returning to the initial image, we still remember how it looked when askew. It is like a reminder: the position is empty, but matters do not wait.

Writing this, we think of those things not yet sent out. They may have their reasons; some perhaps truly should not be sent. If our feelings are off, if we speak of “delay” too lightly, take “titles” too simply, or dismantle “being seen” too easily, that may be a deviation. Some people avoid harm precisely through ample preparation; some lift a larger matter precisely by earnestly striving for a title. These situations may well correct the above. If you also hold such a long-unsent thing in your hands, it is not necessarily cowardice; it may simply be waiting for a steadier moment. We dare not make that judgment for anyone; we can only say that each of us knows in our own heart, and each corrects accordingly.

This article refers to Zhangguo Xingzong, Volume Thirteen, “Official Emolument Palace, Tianfu Star,” and Volume Eight, “On Official Emolument,” with Volume Ten, “On the Lord of Official Emolument,” read as background. It is based on a fixed digital transcription and has not been collated page by page against a facsimile edition. The life reflections in the text belong to today’s reading; if there are narrow or inappropriate points, counterexamples and corrections are welcome.