Watching the Sun Rise, Watching the Moon Hang High in the Sky

I had planned for a long time to go to the foot of Yuquan Mountain to watch the sunrise, but never quite made it. Today, a bit after four in the morning, I finally made up my mind. When I got up, my wife was awake. She said she supported me in spirit but would not come along. Two minutes later, however, she sprang out of bed and decided to come with me.

After a quick pack, with my wife masked and ready, we each rode a bicycle toward the foot of the Western Hills. It was still dark; there were almost no pedestrians or cars on the road, only one or two sanitation workers cleaning the city—the contribution of these hard workers must not be overlooked.

As we rode, the sky began to lighten. The trees and grass along the road were shrouded in mist; the reeds and foxtail grasses swaying in the wind called to mind a line from the Book of Songs: "The reeds are lush; the white dew turns to frost. The one I love dwells beyond the water."

Unless you have seen the roadside grass on a misty morning this season, it is hard to know what "lush reeds, white dew as frost" looks like. Once you have, you realize how vividly the ancient poem describes it. Only my "one I love" was not beyond the water; she was right beside me, here to watch the sunrise with me.

We chose the summit of Zhongwu Park to watch the sunrise. Entering the park, I expected no one else, but found a few early risers like us taking photos. The rice terraces, lotus ponds and reed beds were all veiled in mist, ethereal; walking among them felt like entering a fairyland.

On the ridge of the terraced fields in Zhongwu Park, we found a good vantage point and waited for sunrise. In the dawn light, the golden rice ears hung heavy, crystal dew clung to the straw, and flocks of birds swept past us wave after wave. The air was filled with the clean fragrance of rice; the morning birds sang their hearts out, and now and then a hiker shouted to the mountain.

Unlike famous scenic areas such as Mount Hua or Mount Huang, few people come here for sunrise. We later went to the viewing platform on the summit; besides us, there was only one middle-aged man. By the time we reached it, a red sun had burst from the sea of clouds, lighting up the whole sky.

My heart leaped. On the viewing platform, by the mountain path, through gaps in the trees, I sought different angles to watch the newly risen sun.

My wife did not have my stamina; she did not bound around as I did. She found a seat, sat quietly to admire the view, and on the spot gave me a cheerful nickname—"light-chasing boy"—which made me laugh aloud. In this natural setting I was brimming with energy. To find a better angle for photos, I climbed and jumped; the dew in the grass soaked through my trousers and cloth shoes, and I did not care.

I love the natural scenery here. Whether the morning sunrise or the evening moon, I never tire of it. Just the night before last, the two of us had cycled over to the nearby Yujiao Country Park to admire the moonlight.

The moon the night before last was full. We arrived around eight, stopped by a large rice paddy, turned on the phone flashlight, and strolled along the ridges. In fact, without the light the path was clear enough. That night the stars filled the sky, moonlight washed the ground, and every grass and tree was lit up. We only used the flashlight because we feared snakes in the grass. We saw no snakes, only an occasional toad. To our delight, on the ridge we also saw long-unseen fireflies.

My wife has been under heavy work pressure lately. Her department head is hopelessly stupid—already hospitalized for tumor surgery—yet upon coming out she still makes the whole department work overtime. As an oncology professional, I worry greatly for her life, but someone so obsessed with fame and fortune is unlikely ever to wake up. I can only take my wife out to relax as much as possible. When we go out, I make her leave her phone at home, to be completely still—away from work, away from her workaholic boss, so she does not follow in that woman's footsteps.

The scent of rice, the chirping of insects and the birdsong calm her down. Now what she looks forward to most each day is coming home from work and cycling with me to the foot of Yuquan Mountain. My own work is not easy; after hours I am still reading and working through problems, so I enjoy these outings too. Each ride is the happiest moment of our day. Our son is in his senior year of high school and studies at school until around ten each night, so we have plenty of time to go out in the evenings.

Everyone's life is a tangle of trivialities, yet some people remain happy within that tangle. Besides innate happy genes, self-regulation cultivated over time matters too. Happiness is half heaven-given; the other half we must create ourselves.

Material things do not bring me lasting joy, but all this among mountains and waters never wearies me. So at my age I naturally understand why our ancestors said: "The wise find joy in mountains; the humane find joy in waters."

There are many things I cannot tell anyone, but we can tell them to the mountains, to the waters, to the rising sun and the moon hanging high in the sky. The distant hills and near waters, the bright moon and starry sky, the rising and setting sun, the clouds above and the cicadas and birds among the trees—all will understand our hearts.

With them beside us, we are not alone—never alone.