A Rhapsody on Yuanrong Temple

This is an old piece of mine, written on a whim long ago; it still suits my temperament today, so I pick it up, lightly revise it, and amuse myself.

In recent years I have passed through several partings of life and death; while trading in business I also practice medicine, and having read through all the ways of the world, I have gradually seen through the mortal dust, contending with no one, at peace within. Though I still mix in the marketplace, I hold the Buddhist beggar's mind of 'take what others abandon, gain what others give up,' with no heart to compete. At leisure I read books to nurture my nature and stroll in quiet courtyards; clear breeze and bright moon, a single flower or leaf are enough to make me infinitely content.

The Yuanrong Temple in this rhapsody does not actually exist. For I love quiet and have long wished to hide in deep mountains, building a hut to dwell in, refining emotion through mountains and nature through water, refining emotion and nature until I forget myself, entering a realm without strife or resentment, and enjoying the clear blessing of freedom.

Yet things go against my wishes. Now I have elders above and children below, forced to remain in the marketplace, chasing tiny profits to feed my family. Helpless, I take the second best: on a square inch of ground I build Yuanrong Temple, to amuse myself, and write this rhapsody for it.
Alas, the temple is but a nonexistent hall, the rhapsody is nonsense, and the man is a mad fool; his words are wild, his deeds irregular—truly ridiculous. Yet to live in this world is indeed lonely! Self-amusement is better than nothing. If through writing I can meet friends, one or two kindred spirits, that would be a great blessing.
My native land lies within the ancient Kuanglu (Lu Shan), once called Canglang, where the Fourth Patriarch of Chan Buddhism was born. My homesickness has lingered for over ten years. Yuanrong Temple dwells in my heart; I place it at the foot of Mount Kuang, to release a little of my homesickness.
The rhapsody says: Wonderful is this water, named Canglang; I know not whence it comes nor whither it returns. It flows through Mount Kuang, rushing on without cease, nourishing all things, as it has from time immemorial. Mount Kuang stretches far, cutting the main stream into nine veins. The nine veins each divide their currents, becoming a hundred rivers, scattering among the fields, and forming the watery lands of the river shore.
This watery land receives the spiritual breath of heaven and earth and teems with life: ancient cypresses in deep mountains, dense forests and tall bamboos, winding paths leading to seclusion, purple mist rising, and apes calling without cease. Here immortals dwell! Grass huts and thatched cottages, temples and abbeys are scattered among the peaks; the immortals each cultivate their way, the sages visit one another, playing chess under pines or sipping tea before the steps. Precipitous cliffs plunge to the nine springs; high ridges pierce the clouds. Woodcutters and herb-gatherers hide among them. Even the market farmers come and go without strife. The customs are peaceful, the air serene, exactly like the blissful isle of Penglai.
Ancient Yuanrong Temple hides therein. No hall is seen, but evening drums and morning bells are heard. A solitary corner, now hidden, now visible. Rugged paths and wild mountain trails lead before the temple; streams and waterfalls, great boulders and fine pebbles lie around. Peach and plum trees are planted before the hall; vegetable plots and nurseries spread behind.
Climbing high to gaze far, mountains and rivers all lie before the eyes; the jade sky is clear, washed in a single blue. Nearby, mountain villages and farmsteads, ponds and fields, are laid out in pleasing order. After mountain rain, a rainbow spans the peaks, shining together with the waterfalls around the temple, radiating light. Insects chirp, frogs croak; dogs bark and cocks crow among the homes. The threefold sounds rise together, cooking smoke curls up. The world and the world beyond are as one.
The recluse Zhou Sheng lives here. He relies on the mountains to refine his emotion and the waters to nurture his nature; sometimes he farms, sometimes reads, sometimes visits friends and relatives, sometimes plays with the mountain apes; he lives according to his nature and acts as occasion requires. He knows not his birth, nor fears his death, let alone fame and gain. How wonderful! This is what I love. I know no regret, only joy within it.