Ling Guang Collection-11-"Daylight"

In my spare time, I revisited some of Mr. Jin's works and had some reflections, so I thought I'd jot them down.

The mist on Wudang Mountain is pale green, always drifting over the eaves of the True Martial Hall at dawn. The Taoist practicing Tai Chi has sleeves filled with wind, his movements so slow it makes one wonder if time has knotted itself here. A young disciple watched leaves swirl in his palm and suddenly remembered his master's words: the softest water can pierce the hardest mountain. Yet every day as he filled the water vat, he still couldn't grasp this truth.

The bell tolls of Shaolin Temple are much sharper. Between the cracks in the bricks shattered by martial monks, weeds grow in patches. The young monk practicing staff techniques always loses focus at the final stance—the whirl of dust stirred by his staff in the beam of light reminds him of the shadows in Bodhidharma's cave. The abbot said it was a demon of the mind, to be dispelled with heavier stone locks.

Both mountains await snow. Wudang's snow is like cotton, gently covering the yin-yang fish in the Tai Chi square; Shaolin's snow is angular, seeping into the cracks of training stakes. Then one year, the Yellow River burst its banks—robed Taoists and saffron-clad monks alike fished people from the mud. A Wudang disciple used Cloud Hands to free an old man trapped in tree forks, then turned to see Shaolin monks using staves as bridges for refugees to cross gullies.

(Image source: Taiwan Fo Guang Shan)

After the flood receded, the two sects met on the broken embankment. Wudang sleeves dripped water; Shaolin trousers caked with mud. No one knew who moved first—Cloud Hands and staff winds tangled in the sunset. No victor, just one moment when a staff-tossed droplet met a palm-pushed ripple, drawing a perfect circle midair.

Legends say some saw the True Martial Emperor on a lotus during that clash, or heard Bodhidharma laugh. Really, it was just a drenched young Taoist who suddenly said, "Water pierced the mountain." A monk wiping his face nearby replied, "The demon became earth."

Now both mountains still get their snow. Wudang's morning chant includes the Diamond Sutra; Shaolin's evening bell adds the Tao Te Ching. Once, a drunk tourist awoke in a hillside pavilion to see two trails in the snow: one with cloud-patterned soles, one with leg-bindings, side by side into the mist.

Like mountains forever awaiting snow, they seem silent yet hide a river's wisdom in each flake. Born of nature, dying to nature, intertwined with nature; the demon of death long dissolved, let alone fame as dust and wealth as dung—only a spark remains.

Look up—light at the horizon.