It was as if the moon, pure and luminous, slowly emerged from behind a cloud to light up the dark earth. I’d fallen in the well and fallen in love with Guan Yin; now, in a shabby elevator in a cheap hotel in China, I fell in love all over again-with a man. This fall, like the earlier one, had somehow pacified my mind. In Zen it might take a blow with the master’s stick to trigger insight. For me it had taken two steep falls.
I’d never imagined that Zen would lead me to a life with one of the species called “man,” which I’d so despised. I’d recognized my need for people, but I hadn’t realized being needed myself. Just as Yi Kong was needed by her disciples inside the empty gate. Which, however empty, was still built upon the same ground of this dusty world.
“Don’t let go of me, Meng Ning, please. Ever. You’re all I have in life,” Michael said, his voice much calmer now.
I touched his cheek. “I won’t.” Then I teased, “Though, as a Buddhist, I should Let-Go-and-Be-Carefree.” Let-Go-and-Be-Carefree was Michael’s Buddhist name.
He let out a nervous laugh.
I asked, “How’s your leg?”
“It doesn’t hurt as much now. With China ’s five thousand years of history, how long do you think it will take before someone will rescue us?”
Just then the light was snapped on and mingled voices were heard from above. “Hey, are you people all right in there?”
I yelled back in Mandarin, “Couldn’t be better!”
I looked at my watch. We were only trapped in the elevator for seven minutes. But it already felt like a whole incarnation.
As soon as Michael closed the hotel room door behind us, he hugged me. He held me so tightly it seemed as if he were trying to squeeze out anything that might be between us. The world around us seemed to fall away slowly, leaving only him and me in the cocoon of this dilapidated hotel. We clung and kissed for what seemed an entire incarnation until he finally released me.
He said, “Meng Ning, are you happy to see me?”
I touched his hollow face as my heart swelled with pain. “Of course.”
“Promise me you’ll never run away from me again.”
“Michael, I’m so sorry.” Then I lied: “I did try to call you from a public phone, but it just never connected.”
“All right.”
Some silence, then I asked, “Michael, how’s your leg?”
“It’s a bit sore, but I think it’s no big deal.”
“Then let’s go eat. I’m hungry.”
“But I have my dim sum…right here,” he said as he picked me up and carried me to the bed.
“Michael,” I protested, “they might hear.”
But he ignored what I said.
33. The PeachBlossomGarden
The next morning, after breakfast, Michael suggested we visit the famous Le Mountain to see the big Buddha-to pray to him to bless our reunion in China.
The taxi ride toward Leshan was bumpy and dusty, as expected. Michael stared out the window, seemingly entranced.
“There’s really not much to see, Michael.”
“I don’t care; I just want to see China.”
His enthusiasm pleased me.
Some silence, then Michael suddenly pointed out of the window. “Here’s something. Meng Ning, look-maybe it’s a temple.”
Partially hidden in thick groves, the building looked like a modest woman peeking out to the world through a crack in the screen of her private chamber.
It wasn’t in our plan, but somehow I was intrigued by the half-hidden temple. I suggested to Michael that we take a quick look.
“I was just thinking the same.”
So I asked the driver to make a detour. He made a U-turn onto a meandering dirt road and followed it for another ten minutes, frequently expressing doubt that we’d find anything. Finally, we spotted a flight of narrow stone steps and he pulled up and let us out.
“Miss, I’m afraid you two have to climb your way up. I’ll wait here.”
Slowly Michael and I made our tortuous ascent of the steep, heaven-bound, zigzagging stairs. The day was getting hot, but luckily, heavy canopies of foliage shaded us from the sun. It took us ten minutes before we finally emerged onto level ground, sweating and panting.
Michael smiled, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. “We made it, Meng Ning.”
Dressed in running shoes, jeans, and a pale green T-shirt, Michael looked relaxed and happy, blending perfectly with the tall bamboo and its dappled, dark green shadow.
We walked along the level path until we reached a moon-shaped gate made of old gray stones, the lower portion overgrown with plants. On top of the arched structure were large Chinese characters in seal script: Universe of Empty Nature. Once through the round gate, between patches of leaves we could spy fragments of a distant temple with upturned eaves. Inhaling the fragrance of unknown blossoms, I felt far from the dusty world, as if we had just found the fabled Peach Blossom Garden.
Peach Blossom Garden, a lost Chinese utopia, was the subject of a famous poem by the Six Dynasties poet Tao Yuanming, who, at forty-five, had become disgusted by his official life and decided to become a farmer. Thereafter, he enjoyed a simple life: he tended his garden, read, drank wine when he had a few coins to pay for it, and wrote poetry.
Tao Yuanming told of a fisherman from Wuling who used to boat along a nearby river. One day, forgetful of how far he had gone, he spied a grove of blossoming peach trees. He beached his boat and entered the garden. At once he found himself inside a secluded world forgotten by time. The small village was inhabited by farm families living simple, honest lives, unaware even of the passing of the dynasties over the centuries.
Tao’s poem was immensely popular over the ensuing centuries, for it spoke of a paradise where people unselfconsciously appreciated the simple joys of spring: blooming flowers, singing birds, and the clouds passing over distant peaks. The Confucian moral rules were unnecessary because the people were naturally good. All lived for more than one hundred years because of their closeness to nature and freedom from stress. As the day grew late, the fisherman returned home, intending to revisit. Yet, though he knew the river well and searched earnestly, he could never again find the Peach Blossom Garden.
We approached the temple. Red paint was peeling off the wooden pillars supporting the bluish-green roof. Beside the entrance ancient pine trees towered like guardian gods.
“Michael, come take a look,” I said.
We hurried up to the temple and peeked through the wooden-latticed windows. An antique bronze Buddha, unsurprised by my intrusion, stared back at me, smiling compassionately.
“Let’s go in.” He took my hand and we stepped inside the courtyard.
The first thing we saw was a plum tree with pink blossoms. As we looked up at the petals, Michael started to recite, “‘In the past, we frequently met in the emperor’s house. Many times, I heard you sing in the grand hall. Now south of the river, I meet you in this season of falling petals.’”
It felt strange to hear Du Fu’s famous poem from Michael’s mouth. I sighed, feeling lost in the familiar dream of a past life where we, as lovers, had lain down in a petal-strewn, sweet-scented garden, singing and reciting poetry.
The temple floor was well swept, leaving an impression of venerable age, but not decay. There were also inscribed stone tablets. I did my best to translate to Michael those I thought would interest him.
One told the story of a young man whose beloved, a village lass, had married someone else. Having recognized the delusive nature of worldly desire, he had taken refuge in this very temple.
After my translation, Michael shook his head. “That’s not a good reason to be a monk-”
Just then a gentle voice breathed at our back. “Honorable visitors, may I be of service?”
We turned and saw a muscular young monk. He was clad in a gray top and pants, with a white sash tied around his middle, perhaps a touch of vanity to accentuate his lean waist. His manner seemed refined, his bald head glowed, and intelligence emanated from his almond eyes.