Overlooking the Daoist Spirit of Southern Chu
Overlooking the Daoist Spirit of Southern Chu by Yao Yaqiong I have always believed in the wisdom of Daoism. In those days of tangled emotions, I especially wanted to be a calm sage with the attitude of "Heaven and earth coexist with me, and all things are one with me." —Preface A Connection with Daoism In the midsummer of a few years ago, a friend and I climbed Wulei Mountain, known as the Southern Wudang, near Cili County in northwestern Hunan. At that time, the mountain had not been affected by the commercial economy; all who came were devout pilgrims, like us who were just curious…
Facing the Way of Southern Chu
Yao Yaqiong
I have always firmly believed in the wisdom of the Dao. In those days when my thoughts were in turmoil, I especially wanted to be a calm sage with the spirit of “Heaven and Earth coexist with me, and all things are one with me.” ——Preface
A Fate with the Dao
In the midsummer of a few years ago, I climbed Wulei Mountain, known as the Southern Wudang, near Cili County in northwestern Hunan, with friends. At that time the mountain had not yet been steeped in the commercial economy, and all who came were devout pilgrims; curious visitors like us were surely an odd troop.
It was already past 4 in the afternoon, and several pilgrims who had obtained the best fortune slips went down the mountain one after another, leaving the Daoist temple looking deserted. In its solitary stillness, the slanting rays of the sun fell upon the temple buildings that dominate the “Dragon's Ridge” and upon the broken walls covered with green vines. The mountain wind swayed the sleeping lush green all over the mountain, and the ancient slanting light and old air of the halls gave off a heart-stirring desolation. I stood before the Golden Hall, feeling the solemnity of lingering incense, the sound of bells and chimes, and the breath of the Dao, and suddenly felt calm in spirit, at ease, and free in body, my heart filled with a transcendence untouched by worldly ties.
After visiting all the halls, it was nearly dusk, and everyone wanted to stay overnight at the temple. We asked a young Daoist priest sitting in the Guanyin Pavilion and learned that, apart from him, another young Daoist priestess, and a layman cook, the temple's Daoists had gone out early in the morning to Shimen to inspect another temple that was about to be taken over. We entered the guesthouse inscribed with “A Daoist household equal to Heaven, a mansion of immortals who never grow old,” and saw an opening above which was written “Palace of the Kitchen God,” so we knew this was where the Daoists took their meals. When the layman cook heard why we had come, he put down the scripture in his hand and showed some warmth. In conversation we learned that because of a failed marriage, he had seen through the ways of the world and come to the temple. Now he cooked every day, read scriptures in his spare time, and wholeheartedly hoped to pass the test and gain the abbot's approval to become a true Daoist disciple. Speaking of their abbot, he showed a look of utmost admiration, saying that the abbot, over 80 years old, walked as if flying and was unmatched in lightness skill. The abbot oversaw several nearby temples and often came and went unpredictably; ordinary people had no chance to see this immortal-like old man.
At the vegetarian meal, we met the young Daoist priestess, round-faced with big eyes, her slightly plump body wrapped in a broad Daoist robe. Because her hair was not long enough to be tied up with boxwood, she kept a bob, looking somewhat childish and endearing. As she sized up my T-shirt and jeans, her eyes clearly rippled with a young girl's curiosity. Asked her name, she said it was Xiaohong. The young Daoist priest beside her disliked her talkativeness, and the two little ones began to bicker, not stopping until I teased that they were “like the little brother and sister next door.” This pair of young Daoists, not yet sixteen, had not received the precepts and had no formal religious names, so they did not count as Daoists in the true sense. But when I asked why they had entered the monastic life, the young priest said with great devotion and calm: it was a fate with the Dao from a previous life. Hearing this, I, a worldly person still bound by earthly ties, was astonished beyond measure.
Toward evening, the Daoists who had gone out to inspect came laughing and talking into the mountain gate. Seeing pilgrims seated there, their noise stopped at once. So as not to disturb the Daoists' meal, I called my companions to go outside the gate to see the night view. Beside that small mountain-guarding pagoda, I met Xiaohong. Pointing to the distant, faintly flickering sea of city lights, she said: It's very beautiful over there. At that moment, in that sea of lights, girls of Xiaohong's age were sitting in karaoke halls or gliding on roller rinks. The same life, and yet such a world of difference.
The Daoist Nun with the Flute
That night everyone agreed to play cards all night in the “Palace of the Kitchen God,” actually because they were afraid of the mysterious atmosphere in the temple, so different from ordinary homes. Only I, a “card illiterate,” had my mind elsewhere. A clear-featured Daoist nun came out, gently placed the food bowl in her hand at the foot of the wall beneath the shrine, and lit a lamp to shine on it. After a moment, several mountain rats as big as young rabbits came running to eat, squeaking happily, their big eyes flashing with fiery red ghostly light in the darkness. Several timid female companions screamed in fright, but the nun said slowly: This is my nightly task. On the mountain, people and living creatures always coexist in peace; any act of killing is a sin, and the creatures never harm people. The nun left, leaving a room of thoughtful people behind.
Near midnight, companions who could not stay awake began to doze, but my mind was unusually clear, drawn by the mysterious late night of the temple. Suddenly a clear, beautiful flute melody drifted to my ears; listening quietly, it was actually “Spring River in the Flower Moon Night,” the piece I admired most in ordinary days. Its low, gentle tune carried quiet, distant reveries. It held delicate and rich emotions and created a secluded, elegant atmosphere, intoxicating and endlessly memorable. The flute seemed to tell of Zhang Ruoxu's parting sorrow, and also seemed to pour out the water-like calm of the Dao. That profound beauty, which let the flute fill the branches, lingered and lingered in my heart.
The flute drew me through the cold bluestone corridor and stopped me at the door of the priestess's room. The scene before me held me captive. Silver moonlight squeezed in through the low window lattice. The Daoist nun who had earlier lit the lamp for the rats had now taken the boxwood pin from her hair, and her coiled hair cascaded like a waterfall to her waist. Its black luster merged with the night, so that one could no longer tell where the hair ended and the night began; only her clear, elegant face was bathed in moonlight, shining with a pure and moving radiance. I thought of the black-and-white photograph I had seen, “Nude Woman Playing Flute,” set against a background of reeds. The holy light it revealed had once seemed heaven-made, yet I did not know how much it fell short of what was before my eyes. It seems that although art comes from reality, it is far inferior to the beauty of reality.
When the tune ended, the nun placed the flute on the table and gave me a faint smile. I went in, sat down, and chatted with her. She came from Bixia Temple on the summit of Mount Tai and was only 20 years old, yet one of the few Daoist nuns at Wulei Temple. I noticed a bottle of “One Drop of Fragrance” on the small table, curious but not daring to be presumptuous. She saw my doubt and said with a smile: “Imagine it is a bottle of wine. People sometimes need some imagination, and people like us need it even more.” What an exquisite “imagination”! Holding that slender flute was like holding her hands that conveyed the flow of her heart. Suddenly a mist of tears rose in my eyes, moved by her candor. I thought that even if people are not of the same world, there is still a river through which heart can reach heart.
Sunrise at Wulei
Many people have described the scene of sunrise, but the sunrise I saw at Wulei Mountain was different. Those waiting for sunrise could not sleep, and after tossing and turning they dozed off in the early morning. The Daoist nun who returned from practicing exercises woke me, saying the best place to watch the sunrise was outside the mountain gate.
By then the sky had already turned a clear, beautiful gray-blue, with a few idle clouds floating over the summit; the mountain wind blew hard, and the nearby woods rose in rhythmic waves of sound; the air carried the fragrance of wildflowers, and the chirping of early-rising birds echoed in the valleys; several goshawks struggled in the morning sky, and the distant mountains merged with the sky into one gray-blue expanse; on the low and distant peaks, large and small, hung belts of jade-like mist, and in the folds of those mountains lay the small city that had been a sea of lights the night before. Only from a height can one see far. No wonder Daoists have a pair of wise eyes that see through the world and a look that understands worldly affairs.
Facing east, there were already several touches of dawn color. The first line was orange-yellow, above it a broad layer of pale yellow, and above that a heavy blue-gray, like a huge dome. In an instant, the fiery red orb rose by one edge from the heavy gray, then half, then all, pure as an egg yolk. Ordinary sunrises rise from a vast sea of clouds, but the sunrise at Wulei Mountain had not a wisp of cloud, let alone a sea of clouds. What was even more unique was the Wulei Daoists' interpretation of the sunrise. They told me: At sunrise, if you raise both hands before your eyes and hold that orb, you become a giant holding up the sun, the source of all things in the world. This saying naturally makes use of vision, yet almost anyone who sees the magnificent glory of sunrise cannot help sighing that nature is great and humanity is small. Only this great Dao teaches people to cast off the inferiority of being “a drop in the ocean” and awakens the “giant” consciousness in the human heart, full of a positive philosophy of life. This must be called a unique aspect of Daoist wisdom.