Savoring a Moment of Quiet Joy
Su Dongpo wrote a ci poem, "Huanxi Sha · Fine Rain and Slanting Wind Bring Dawn Chill": "Fine rain and slanting wind bring dawn chill; pale mist and sparse willows grace the sunlit sandbar. The clear Luo River, entering the Huai, slowly spreads wide. Snow-foam and milky froth float in the noon cup; smartweed shoots and artemisia bamboo shoots are tasted on the spring plate. The savor of the human world is quiet joy." When Su Dongpo wrote this, he was traveling with his close friend Liu Qianshu on South Mountain in Sizhou. At that time Su Dongpo had been demoted to serve as a training commissioner in Ruzhou. Traveling with his friend along the way, enjoying beautiful scenery and fine food together, this naturally open-minded genius forgot the unhappiness of his demotion, felt at ease, and savored this quiet joy of the human world.
I like Su Dongpo because he was a man who was especially easy to satisfy and who knew how to live. Whether in favorable or adverse circumstances, he was open-minded and optimistic, always so in love with life. I do not have Su Dongpo's talent, but my temperament is quite close to his, and I adapt strongly to changing circumstances.
The pandemic has raged for nearly two years. I had not returned home to visit my family for a long time, and recently I finally returned to my hometown. Although my residential compound was a low-risk area, after returning home I still honestly isolated myself for a week before going out, and even then I wore a mask.
The awareness of prevention among the elders and villagers at home is weak; everyone has already returned to normal pre-pandemic life, and no one wears a mask. I did not want my return to bring risk to them. Life here is peaceful and quiet; a returning wanderer does not wish to disrupt the happiness of the villagers.
Returning home at this season, most of the young people in the village are away working. Only some left-behind elderly and children remain in the countryside; in some small villages, the number of people staying is even in single digits. The already quiet countryside is even quieter. When I walk along the river embankment, I rarely encounter anyone. In the open fields a few scattered people are working, but the distance between people is at least one or two hundred meters. The embankment is overgrown with weeds; artemisia grows taller than a person. Harvesters are cutting rice in the fields, and a flock of mynahs follows behind the machines to pick up fallen grains. This is completely different from the bustling, crowded scenes of the busy farming season I remember from childhood. Since the Reform and Opening-up, society has changed dramatically; most of rural China now looks like this.
Our family genealogy says we are descendants of Zhou Yu; the genealogy of the neighboring village says they are descendants of Tao Yuanming. I do not know whether this is just our villagers flattering themselves. Zhou Yu and Tao Yuanming did indeed live in Jiujiang, Jiangxi, not far from here: Zhou Yu was once stationed in Jiujiang, and Tao Yuanming lived in seclusion at the foot of Mount Lu; these are recorded in the histories. Their descendants multiplied and prospered, and it is entirely possible that some migrated to the other side of the river. We are close to Mount Lu in Jiujiang, Jiangxi; according to old tales, in the past, after rain cleared, standing on the mountaintop here, one could clearly see the glazed tiles on the summit of Mount Lu.
The descendants of Zhou Yu and those of Tao Yuanming get along very harmoniously; I am well acquainted with the Tao descendants in the neighboring village. Behind the Tao family village is a Medicine King Temple. This temple was originally built to worship the Medicine King Sun Simiao, because legend has it that Sun Simiao once practiced medicine here (such legends are found everywhere in the country, as if Sun Simiao could be in two places at once). But the temple is looked after by Buddhist monks. The monks are very interested in expanding the temple; they collected donations and turned this originally small temple into a magnificent one, also building a Mahavira Hall and a Five Contemplations Dining Hall and other Buddhist structures.
In the past the incense here was flourishing. Rural people's beliefs are pluralistic; a physician and generations of empty kings coexist without incongruity in one temple, sheltering the pious men and women of the surrounding villages, and no one finds anything improper about this. The wishes of those who come to burn incense and pray are likewise diverse: the sick pray for speedy recovery; unmarried young men and women come to pray for finding a partner; parents of students pray for their children's admission to good universities; businesspeople pray to the bodhisattvas for wealth; officials pray for promotion; during the Spring Festival, large numbers of men and women come to the temple fair for fun, and some young people come specifically to strike up conversations with the opposite sex.
Occasionally an atheist like me comes along, just to find a scenic, secluded place to read. Even before the pandemic, the incense here had long declined; three years ago I spent a month reading here. At that time I usually stayed in a small temple halfway up the mountain, where I was alone all day; the monks all lived at the foot of the mountain. On this return, the small temple halfway up the mountain is still the same, but the monks at the foot of the mountain are gone. The once flourishing Medicine King Temple is now sparsely visited, with too little income to support the monks. So lately the Medicine King Temple has been almost exclusively mine. It is not easy to return home during the pandemic; I plan to stay here for at least a month.
Although empty, the mountain is not lonely. The pines sigh in waves, hundreds of birds sing, autumn insects chirp, and the temple's chanting machine plays Buddhist recitation nonstop. Occasionally I strike that round, plump singing bowl at the Medicine King's feet, producing some melodious Brahmic sound. I think if Su Dongpo knew, he would probably envy the quiet joy I am now enjoying. Perhaps he would sweep his brush and write a marvelous ci poem. I do not have his literary talent, so I will not make a fool of myself.
If a person spends some time alone in a mountain temple like I do every so often, it is easy to maintain a safe distance from the noisy world of red dust. I do not need to deliberately seek a hermitage; my hometown can provide such a spiritual refuge for me, and other places hold no attraction. Here I can lower my desires to a minimum. A considerable part of human trouble arises from loving ease and hating work while having boundless desires. If a person is hardworking, restrained, and has few desires, he will encounter little trouble in daily life.
Life is not the better the more "flavorful" it is; quiet joy is the easiest to obtain, the longest-lasting, and the healthiest. A contented heart that finds joy in enough surpasses all wealth and power. The outside world is wonderful, but it is also endlessly troubled; I live only within my own heart, so whether in the mountains or in a tiny city room, my square inch of ground is perfectly calm.