The Illusion of Ownership

So-called "fate" means not trying to possess what is borrowed. Everything in this world is borrowed; there is no true ownership. The end result is simply "returning it to its rightful owner."

Human suffering stems from living in a grand illusion—the illusion called "ownership."

We believe our parents are ours, our lovers are ours, our children are ours—even our healthy bodies and comfortable jobs. When these people depart or these circumstances change, we feel the excruciating pain of being deprived. We cry out in anguish, "Why did Heaven take away what was mine?"

But if Li Shutong (Master Hongyi) were still alive, he might look at you with compassionate eyes that have seen through the ways of the world and gently say, "Child, you never truly possessed anything. Everything in this world is borrowed; the end result is simply the return of what was originally yours."

Once the most dashing young man of Tianjin—a talented scholar who wrote, "Outside the long pavilion, by the ancient road"—he turned toward the Buddhist order after half a lifetime of prosperity, leaving his family with only a resolute silhouette. The world saw his ruthlessness, but only he knew it was the highest form of affection and clarity. He understood the truth of parting: since it was "borrowed," it must be returned when the time comes.

This is not loss; this is "return."

01 Borrowed Time: Longevity Does Not Grant Ownership

We often say we have "lost" someone. But Li Shutong’s wisdom tells us that the relationship between people is essentially a "loan of time."

Parents are borrowed from the universe to care for you in the first half of your life; children are borrowed for you to support in the second half; a lover is borrowed to accompany you for a season. Because it is a "loan," there must be a deadline. It may be ten years or fifty, or a lifetime together. When the time is up, fate—the "creditor"—will come to collect.

The root of suffering lies not in separation, but in mistaking "temporary borrowing" for "permanent possession."

It is like borrowing a masterpiece from a library. You read it with rapt attention, unable to put it down. When the return date arrives and the librarian takes the book back, will you sit on the floor crying, claiming the library stole from you? No. You would say with gratitude, "Thank you, this book was wonderful. Thank you for letting me read it for so long."

This is the proper attitude toward parting. When the person you love leaves, try not to say, "How could you leave me?" Instead, try: "Thank you for lending me such a wonderful person to love. Although the time is up, I have gained so much."

02 Friendship as Pure as Water: The Trap of "Possessing the Ending"

Before becoming a monk, Li Shutong wrote to a friend: "A gentleman's friendship is as pure as water. Seeking it through appearances, even when close, it is a thousand miles away."

Why must it be "pure as water"? Water flows; it nourishes all things and moves toward the sea. It doesn't ask for a return, nor does it promise "forever." Worldly love is often like honey—sweet, but sticky. It creates a desire to possess, to control, and to insist on a perfect ending.

When his Japanese wife, Yukiko, knelt by West Lake and asked, "Shutong, what is love?" he replied without turning around: "Love is compassion."

Compassion is not possession; it is fulfillment. It is fulfilling the other’s departure and fulfilling your own return. If life is a journey, we are "experiencers," not "possessors." I have seen the roadside flowers bloom and smelled their fragrance—that is enough. I do not need to pick them, nor do I need them to never wither for my sake.

Whatever you try to control, controls you. Only what you do not crave truly belongs to you.

03 The Present Moment: Savoring the Tea

If everything is borrowed and separation is inevitable, should we withdraw from the world? No. Precisely because our time is limited, we must cherish the "present moment" to the fullest.

In his later years, Li Shutong lived an extremely simple life. Once, seeing him eat plain pickled vegetables, a friend asked, "Isn't that too salty?" Li Shutong calmly replied, "Saltiness has its own flavor." Later, drinking plain water, the friend asked if it was too bland. He smiled, "Blandness has its own flavor."

This is the highest realm of presence. Whether salty or bland, together or apart, I will fully immerse myself in the experience.

If parting is destined for tomorrow, the mediocre will spend today crying and fearing. The wise will use those twenty-four hours to look deeply at the other person, to eat one last meal, and to finish their tea. Parting exists to remind us of the preciousness of being together.

Li Shutong’s final words were: "A mixture of sorrow and joy." Life is exactly that. I do not reject sorrow, for it is the tone of parting; I do not reject joy, for it is the gift of meeting.

If you are currently experiencing "loss"—a broken heart, the passing of a loved one, or a setback—please close your eyes. Loosen your clenched fist. Tell yourself: That was never mine; it was just a gift stored with me for a while. Now, it is time to return it.

Do not regret it. All encounters are reunions after a long separation, and all partings are for a future meeting. The person you loved may be gone, but the warmth they gave you is ingrained in your blood.

Borrowed time is an unparalleled blessing. Return what you borrowed, and with a light heart, continue on your path.

Thank you for reading!