On the Mountain

I - Sun rays enter the deep forest, and beam on the green moss *

In the deep of the mountain, there is a cedar forest. From the grassland, it takes about three or four kilometres, the mountain trail meandering, crossing a few grassy slopes, passing through bushes, hopping over a few small hills, to finally reach there.

In this forest, grow ten or twenty meters high cedar trees. Each tree reaches straight up and high to the sky, to get more nourishment from the sunlight above, and the canopy of leaves at their top pleasantly provides gusts of coolness. In the journey on the scorching mountain path, as soon as one enters the forest, breeze comes blowing in waves on your face, and the discomforts of mind and body find themselves perfectly cleansed.

The forest feels somewhat dark, especially when covered in dense fog, with towering cedar trees, their straight trunks wrapped in a thick layer of old moss, that grows along the tree bodies and roots, climbs up the scattered rocks in the under-wood, stretches to join the creeping fern covering the ground, reaching gently the slopes at the edge of the forest. Moss and ferns give to the woods and scattered rocks a quite antique atmosphere.

This cedar forest is also very serene. It seems that even insects and birds spontaneously lower the volume of their calls. Every time you walk in, a kind of solemnity immediately rises in your heart, as when entering an old church, spontaneously calming down, one’s breathing becoming more tranquil ; sitting on a fallen tree trunk, the place turns into a meditation altar.

Everything is silent.

All you see is----

The rays of sun piercing through layers of leaves into the forest, obliquely brushing over the trunks of cedar trees and settling on top of the moss underneath.

II - Having strolled to the river’s source, sitting to watch rising clouds

The house faces a mountain, not a too high one, actually the extremity of a mountain range that extends further away. From dawn to dusk, everyday, I watch this mountain, enjoying the sight of overlapping trees and bamboo forests on the slope, of a vegetable patch painstakingly cultivated by villagers, and looking at the eagles hovering on it. At a small distance there is a stream flowing down the mountain.

Beside the house is a small path which leads across the stream and to the vegetable garden on the slope which I observe every day. In spring, the little path is surrounded by clean white Tung tree blossoms, accompanied by the flight of fireflies; in the autumn, shines the classical brown of euphorbia flowers, and from the slopes on both sides, the scent of wild ginger flowers lingers all day.

On a clear morning, one sometimes sees monks and nuns outing early on the mountain path opposite. Hidden among the trees, is a restored shrine for the God of Earth, a bamboo broom standing amicably under the acacia tree next to the shrine.

The stream here runs through a chaos of rocks. Years of humidity have covered the rocks in dark green, slippery moss. The stream flow is usually not particularly abundant, but a bout of rain is enough to make the sound of cascading water resonate boisterously all across the valley. It is said that many small shrimps and crabs can be caught in this stream.

I like the rain here, and especially, after the rain, the wisps of white vapor rising slowly from the stream.

III - The rising moon startled mountain birds, who call once in a while to this springtime valley

As the full moon was rising from the summit, I was just coming up the mountain. The bright moonlight was exhilarating. It was the most beautiful full moon that year!

I patrolled the village trying to find the best place to enjoy the moon, but the numerous street lights had just been replaced, and each of them was bigger and brighter than the moon ; they would not let the moonlight take precedence. One could only hide into the dark woods, but then the thick foliage would hinder the sight.

I remembered a small area surrounded by banyan trees, comfortable and undisturbed by lighting, so I took a bus to cross the mountain, to another small mountain village a few hills away.

The moon on this mountain was fuller, thanks to the company of friends. We laid on the concrete floor of what was the basketball court of an elementary school during the day, now turned into a motherly cradle, watching the moon rise higher and higher, watching her illuminate the whole sky as well as our hearts.

Lying under the moon in the wilderness, I sensed my feelings were as clear as the moonlight, letting wind from the wilderness blow past, my heart filled with joy. It seemed one could adequately die at this moment.

IV - Roaring of the stream covers perilous rocks, daylight is but cold on green pines

The next day after a typhoon and its heavy rain, I was eager to see water, so that, disregarding collapsed debris of earth and rocks, pulling away the cluttered trees and branches, I walked to the end of the water canal. The rocks there enclose the stream into several clear pools, and a small part of the flow is drawn into an aqueduct to irrigate mountain villages, while most of the abundant and surging waters of the river rush resoundingly forward, and down into a waterfall.

The wild stream current had washed away debris on both sides. The river flowed wide and munificent, clear to the bottom, the surface of the water reflecting the sky in a light blue, the abundant stream roaring, voices of men and cicadas covered under its thunder. The water flow carried a coolness worth of the deep autumn, and you could only cross it bare footed. Washing your face with the water, cold and biting, this stream, after a typhoon, was no longer the amiable and cooling water pool we enjoyed in the hot summer.

Sitting on a large rock in the middle of the stream and watching the vines hanging down from the trees, the depths of this mountain cove were permeated with the moisture from the stream, trees were swaying, branches and leaves swirling, the scenery excessively quiet. The two dogs following me, one black and the other yellow, seemed to realize the beauty of the landscape, and they just sat by the water enjoying the view, not paying attention to human beings for now.

On the way back, I found a fallen pine branch, tortuous and antique-looking. I placed it on my table, waiting for a time to paint it.

V - Leaning on a cane outside the door, feeling the wind and listening to cicadas at dusk

The weather was not suitable for climbing, but I was adamant on seeing the mountain lake amid the rain and fog.

Wind was strong, and the surface of the lake, halfway up the mountainside, was rippling with successive waves. The wind and rain were swirling over the mountaintop behind the lake, and the cedar forest on the opposite bank appeared and disappeared in turns, among the hazy white drizzle.

Climbing higher, the wind became more violent, and the tall grass covering the mountain were slithering in the strong wind. I moved with difficulty, finally found a pavilion, and set close to a pillar so as not to be blown away by the wind. From the height of the pavilion, the tall grass was surging and rolling like waves hitting a shore, and as I faced the strong whirlwind, I could feel its tearing and pushing.

I felt very cold at first, and then, gradually soaked by the coldness of the wind, in the middle of this vast world, crawling at the feet of nature, came a moment when I was no different any more from a blade of grass.

* Titles of these texts are quotes from 8th century poet Wang Wei.

November 2008