“Ah… choo!”
Who would have thought it would be this cold in the mountains, with bamboo and pines all around, barely any mist, and not a breath of wind?
Along this narrow, winding trail, a fork would appear after a while, then a few steps further on. It felt like wandering through a garden in the old days, except there weren’t many flowers around.
The older son of a friend of my father’s told me that a thousand-year-old temple was hidden in Yueling Mountain. It was called Yueling Temple, and hardly anyone went there.
He said, “In these angry times, plenty of people ‘grace’ Buddhist temples with a visit just to seem cultured or get something out of it quickly. But really, what difference does lighting a few sticks of incense make if they go right back to doing as they please once they leave that sacred place? They’re just blindly doing something without knowing why.”
He also said, “But the old temple on Yueling Mountain has never been ‘graced’ by those people. All those twists and turns, all those forks, and a temple hidden ‘somewhere deep in the clouds’—it might well be torture for someone full of anger.”
“Oh, I get it. They’re impatient for results and want to find it quickly, but that’s impossible, so they give up and leave the mountain?”
I chimed in.
He glanced at me, smiled, picked up the hot tea in front of him, and looked out the window.
Much later, during winter break, I left Mom and Dad, packed a few essentials, and boldly came to Yueling Mountain all by myself.
The path before me branched off not once, but twice. Should I keep going straight or take one of the paths to the side? I was a little lost.
I stood at the fork and looked into the distance along each path. All I could see at the far ends was darkness, but somehow the bamboo and pines seemed lusher along one trail. Along the other two, they were less lush, though they grew closer together.
On impulse, I took the path that stood out.
I kept making the same kind of choice. After more walking and winding around, I suddenly smelled flowers and heard water.
Quite abruptly, a temple gate appeared before me, and I heard a bell.
A young monk led me through a series of turns to a pavilion. An old monk with a white beard was seated inside, with a tea set on the stone table before him. He seemed to be waiting for an important guest to share tea with.
“Amitabha. You have come a long way. Forgive this old monk for not coming out to greet you.”
“Amitabha. Master, you have much to attend to in the temple. You have not been discourteous.”
“Oh? How do you know there is much to attend to here? And how do you know I am the one who handles it?”
“There are traces of water left on the teacups in front of you. That tells me you weren’t expecting me, and only hurried to wash them again once you knew a visitor had arrived. And then there’s the young monk—”
I glanced at the young monk, who had stepped respectfully aside, and continued:
“He took a few detours before bringing me here. I’m smart enough to notice that much.”
“Ha ha, you are perceptive indeed.”
The old monk stroked his beard as he spoke.
Then he began preparing tea before me with practiced ease: washing his hands, warming the cups, warming the pot…
The sun was already high. Everything around us was a rich green: bamboo, pines, tea bushes, and conifers I couldn’t name.
“You are quite patient.”
After a little while, I could smell the tea.
“If I want to taste the fine tea you make, Master, naturally I should behave myself while I wait.”
He lifted the pot by its handle and poured me a cup. From the sound, the tea seemed almost oily, like a thread of silk.
“Please, have a taste.”
He gestured for me to drink and picked up his own cup.
“May I ask what brought you up the mountain?”
“Nothing much, really. I just wanted to see Yueling Temple.”
“The world is in such confusion. People who are true to themselves are getting rare.”
“Then, Master, do you think it’s possible to keep one’s own integrity in the world?”
He looked at me and said,
“There are so many things in this world. How many can you really be sure of?”
Then he took a small sip of tea and gazed at the tea fields on the opposite mountain, his eyes far away and clear.
By the time I set off down the mountain, the moon was high in the sky.
“Will you come again when you have time?”
“If I have time, of course.”
Then I added,
“I’d like to taste your tea again, too.”
“Ha ha, you’re welcome anytime.”
I walked down the mountain to the sound of the stream, the scent of flowers, and the light of the moon.
On the way, I thought that finding Yueling Temple wasn’t really so difficult. Let go of a little restlessness, and perhaps the next step would become clear.
Whether we pretend to be cultured and chase quick rewards, or hope to preserve our own integrity as I do, we are all just specks of dust in the end. Anywhere might be a place to land. Some hope to rest at the highest point, admired by everyone; others hope to rest before the Buddha, listening to the chants.
This piece is entirely fictional.