The Apology I Owe You: A Lesson from Shennong’s Story
Little Plum,
I owe you an apology—and not a small one.
When you wrote last, asking why I always mention “the Farmer Who Tasted Everything,” I laughed aloud. Then, I stopped short. I realized something rather dreadful: I assumed you already knew. I spoke as if the story of Shennong were familiar to you. It should be as familiar as the smell of rice steaming at dawn. That was unkind of me, and lazy besides.
So let me begin properly.
Shennong is not merely a name we invoke when we argue over roots and leaves. He is the old story we lean on when knowledge feels dangerous. They say he wandered the hills with a clear belly and a brave tongue. He tasted plants so the rest of us would not have to. Some healed him. Some harmed him. One—so the story goes—ended his life. Knowledge, it turns out, always asks a price.
You see now why we healers speak his name with such familiarity. I am in Shennong’s shadow when I prepare a bitter decoction. I stand there also when I warn a patient that “natural” does not always mean “safe.” It is not superstition. It is memory. It is carried forward in stories. These stories ensure we do not forget how easily confidence can turn into carelessness.
And this is why I should have told you sooner.
You, Little Plum, with your bright questions, would have loved this story as a child. You had a habit of touching everything twice—once with curiosity, once with caution. Our parents gave you that very serious name. Why, I will never understand. But they also gave you a mind that notices when others assume too much. I am sorry I did just that.
If you wish, I will tell you more next time. I will talk about the way Shennong is sometimes drawn with a transparent belly. This shows how all may see what knowledge does inside a person. Or about the herbs that still carry his legend in their names. Or about how every healer, no matter how careful, must one day make a choice. They must decide whether to taste the leaf themselves or trust another’s wisdom.
For now, accept this apology, wrapped in a story long overdue.
Your sister,
Li Zhenyan
P.S. If anyone tells you they learned everything without risk, remember Shennong—and smile politely while stepping away.
