I used to find floor mopping a miserable chore: tufts of dirt were forever there, and the floor often became sticky underfoot several minutes after it was cleaned.

Spoiled kid that I was, I would often throw away my broom in protest over my mother’s attempt to nudge me to clean the floor better.

My impatience, if not loathing, toward floor mopping lasted several decades until around a year ago. Suddenly, I took great pleasure in floor mopping.

At first, I swept the floor of my home at least twice a week, using a long-handled broom so that I would not bend my back.

Now I mop the floor almost every day, moving around on my hands and knees with a rag the size of a handkerchief, getting into every corner. My knees may ache, but my mind is cheerful. I also mop the floors of my neighbors’ homes — much to their amazement.

Until a year ago, I would complain when I had to clean the floor (I choose not to hire an ayi): “Damn, dirty floors.” But now I realize that it’s mainly our human footprints that have soiled our floors, so we have only ourselves to curse.

My change of heart toward floor cleaning — from aversion to affection — was the result of my effort to eliminate my ego.

An ego, however small, stands in the way of calm and peace for oneself and for the world. With an ego, you see or fancy others’ faults. Without an ego, you focus on your own faults — which are many.

To mop the floor with one’s ego was not my invention; this idea runs deep in Confucian and Buddhist traditions that shaped China’s great civilization.

Both traditions emphasize the practice of physically mopping a floor or sweeping the ground with the aim of purifying the mind.

The Chinese civilization was interrupted first by the introduction in the early 20th century of Western scientific ideas that inflated human ego in the face of nature, and then by the “cultural revolution” (1966-1976) when people were taught that it was pleasurable to struggle against Heaven and Earth and against each other.

During a visit to Qufu City, Confucius’ hometown in Shandong Province, on November 26, President Xi Jinping recalled the dramatic damage to China’s traditional cultures done by the “cultural revolution” and called for informed inheritance of traditional cultures. Xi was quoted in media reports as saying: “Guo wu de bu xing, ren wu de bu li.” That basically means that neither a nation nor an individual can go far without cultivating virtue.

Humility is one of the most important virtues in Confucian and Buddhist teachings, but it has lost its due place in our modern life.

Peter Harvey, emeritus professor of Buddhist studies at the University of Sunderland, says in “An Introduction to Buddhism” (Cambridge University Press) that Buddhism was suppressed and many Buddhist temples were vandalized during the “cultural revolution,” but China “has since been easing up on it, so as to allow a gentle resurgence (of Buddhism) in China proper ...”

Confucianism has also regained popularity, the latest evidence of which was President Xi’s high-profile visit to Confucius’ hometown.

But cultivation of humility, as Confucian and Buddhist sages saw it, is much to be desired today in China. Although our egos are no longer an engine for “class struggle” as during the “cultural revolution,” they remain strong in the face of nature and among individuals who race to flaunt their plumes of wealth and status.

Lack of humility

Our lack of humility also inspires many other irrational behaviors: forced demolition of houses, felling trees to make way for cars, and shamelessly wasting food. You name it.

Yes, the “cultural revolution” is over, but to some, it may not be dead. One of its legacies — the denial of traditional cultures — still has a market today.

Yi Zhongtian, a TV celebrity scholar who dabbles in history, reaffirmed his long-held view in a talk show on Monday that traditional Chinese cultures, especially Confucianism, were very much anti-science.

There’s nothing new about Yi’s view. In 1919 and during the “cultural revolution,” Confucianism was widely criticized for having hindered China’s development. So Confucianism was toppled.

In retrospect, blaming Confucianism — Buddhism for that matter — for China’s lack of scientific progress cannot withstand even the slightest scrutiny.

For instance, Japan has preserved much of Confucianism and yet it has achieved great scientific progress. In contrast, China has done away with Confucianism since 1919, but has it surpassed Japan or its own Confucian past in terms of scientific achievements?

The spirit of science is that you always leave room for doubt, that you are never quite sure of anything, that you are open to the unknown. That’s quite close to humility.

Spirit of liberty

So is the spirit of liberty, a spirit falsely deemed by big-mouth Chinese as unique in the West but lacking in China. To me, the spirit of liberty is the spirit of humility. I learned this from the American judge I most respect.

In 1944, judge and judicial philosopher Learned Hand delivered a speech to almost one and a half million people in Central Park, New York City, at a “I Am an American Day” event. Here is what he said about liberty:

“What then is the spirit of liberty? I cannot define it; I can only tell you my own faith. The spirit of liberty is the spirit which is not too sure that it is right; the spirit of liberty is the spirit which seeks to understand the minds of other men and women; the spirit of liberty is the spirit which weighs their interests alongside its own without bias; the spirit of liberty remembers that not even a sparrow falls to earth unheeded; the spirit of liberty is the spirit of Him who, near two thousand years ago, taught mankind that lesson it has never learned, but has never quite forgotten; that there may be a kingdom where the least shall be heard and considered side by side with the greatest.”

When I graduated from Stanford Law School in 2003, I drew a picture in which a sparrow falls to the ground under a tree and gave it as a gift to my mentor. She has kindly kept it ever since.

What can we infer from Hand’s message other than humility?

On December 1, I went to an ancient garden in Suzhou City to attend a performance party of guqin players.

In that garden I saw an ancient poem hung on the columns of a pavilion, part of which read: “There’s elegance in both lighting an incense stick and mopping a floor.” (Ancient literati often lighted incense while playing guqin.)

A friend who attended that guqin party with me did not see the poem. When he heard that I mop the floor almost every day, he admonished me not to waste time in such lowly manual work. “You should save time from mopping a floor to do something nobler,” he said.