Endless clusters of snowy white silver grass flowers in front of Yinghong blanketed heaven and earth.
It was nearly the heart of winter, and yet the silver grass still raged, with giant bunches of white flowers, like wolf tails, growing everywhere and painting the small hill in white. In dry, cold winters, northern winds carried strands and fibers of the flowers into the garden. Their tiny seeds, covered in gray fuzz, drifted all over the place, and when the wind died down, left a fluffy white film on the greenery in the garden, from the wild weeds, to the moss and ivy on the wall, and to the towering trees that were tall enough to block out the roofs.
Finally I saw my very first snow, but what immediately occurred to me was the “snow” I’d witnessed as a child in Lotus Garden.
I must have been a third-grader. I remember it was a winter afternoon when a gust of wind sent a similar whiteness drifting in the air. I thought, at the time, that it must have been the kind of snow scene Otosan had experienced in Japan and Germany. I ran out into the yard to catch the snow, but all I managed to grab hold of were clusters of silver grass blooms, indeed, gray, fuzzy flowers that were feathery light. They began to float in the wind as soon as I opened my hand, wafting over the place so much so that I could only see a flurry of whiteness.
I never knew that the silver grass flowers could be so abundant and so white they looked like snowflakes. Father couldn’t recall such a scene either. Could it be, Ayako, that your homesickness planted a false memory when you saw the snow in New York?
Although I spent so much of my life at Lotus Garden, it was only recently that I was deeply moved by the many wondrous scenes, a result of learning to observe the garden in its minute details. The world is filled with boundless mysteries and wonder; everything is possible and nothing is tenable. I can’t be sure if Ayako has been blessed with karmic fortune to see the rare sight of silver grass flowers blanketing the sky; it could be an illusion, just like the world we live in.
After reaching a certain age, I’ve been thinking recently that everything, including cause and effect, along with retribution, is predetermined, both in this life and in previous incarnations. I still recall when Ayako, as a young child, was nearly bitten by a green bamboo viper, you said that death meant not seeing Father and Mother, and, you added, Lotus Garden. Ayako, you were born and grew up in Lotus Garden, which means you witnessed its various transformations.
You must still recall that year when we set fire to the hill and the wind changed direction suddenly, nearly reducing the garden to ashes. You were the only one who was convinced that the fire would not reach the garden, because you were seeing the flaming hill in the transposed images through the lens of a camera.
And indeed Lotus Garden escaped destruction by fire. Could there be some connection between Ayako and the garden? And what kind of tribulation would the garden, which reached its current state through the efforts of generations of the Zhu family, bring to you? What kind of karmic connection did you have with it?
After spending decades of my life in Lotus Garden, I have yet to see the unusual sight of silver grass flowers covering the sky, as described in your letter. Perhaps this has all been prearranged in some unknown way, for no one can say for sure what happens in life where karmic causes and effects are concerned. Or, it could be that what you saw years ago was, in the end, illusory, like life itself. Even if there were indeed silver grass flowers flying around like drifting snow, the flowers would fall till nothing was left. It would be as if nothing had taken place, nothing appearing and nothing disappearing, for life in the myriad worlds is but a dream.
EPILOGUE
THE LOTUS GARDEN DONATION CEREMONY took place in the morning. At noon, a Taiwanese-style banquet was held in the garden, filling all the structures and empty spots under the trees with round tables covered in red tablecloths, as if giant flame flowers were abloom on the summertime garden grounds.
After lunch, VIPs who had come from afar left, while most of the guests stayed behind for the two o’clock lecture under the coral trees by Lotus Tower, with a tour to follow.
The speaker was the middle-aged architect heading the restoration project; a specialist in traditional architecture, he began his lecture in Taiwanese:
“The Taiwanese term liaomweigyah usually refers to a son who squanders his family’s wealth. During the three years of restoration, I spent most of my time in Lucheng, and I’ve often heard the locals speak reverently about the liaomweigyah of the Zhu family, the previous owner of Lotus Garden, Mr. Zhu Zuyan.”
A man who spent years restoring and maintaining historical sites, the architect continued emotionally, showing his fondness for anything old:
“To me, Mr. Zhu was not only not a liaomweigyah but was in fact a protector of ancient structures. Without him, it would be impossible for Lotus Garden to present itself in such a complete state to you all today.”
Some people began to whisper among themselves.
“Yes. Without Mr. Zhu, there would be no Lotus Garden today. If he hadn’t undertaken a total renovation in the early 1950s, this garden, which is over two centuries old and mostly made of wood, would have suffered major damage that could not be easily repaired and returned to its original state, since no modern carpenter possesses the required skills for restoration.”
He continued with self-assurance:
“Most importantly, Mr. Zhu, an avid amateur photographer, photographed every step in the renovation process, thus keeping a record of the old artisans’ work and leaving valuable information for future generations. Moreover, thanks to Mr. Zhu’s hobby, we have pictures of every detail and bit of scenery of the garden, which have enabled us to repair, with precision, major damage caused by weather and humans over the past three or four decades. Using his photographs as a basis, we are now able to present to you a completely restored garden. Which is why I said there would be no Lotus Garden without Mr. Zhu.”
Applause erupted from the audience after a few seconds of silence. Tears began to well up and continued to stream down the face of Zhu Yinghong, who was sitting under a coral tree.
Lin Xigeng, who was next to her, took out a linen handkerchief and handed it to Yinghong, who used it cover her mouth and nose, though she couldn’t stop sobbing.
After the brief description of the garden, the guests set out on a tour, led by the relic-restoration expert, who brought everyone back to the entrance with its arch. He gave a detailed explanation of the different parts of the garden, which could be reached by three separate paths — by following the water, by crossing the man-made hill in the middle, or by walking down the winding loggia to the first structure, Square Kiosk. He looked up at the sky before making a choice for the guests:
“It’s quite hot outside, so let’s take the loggia to Long Rainbow Lying by the Moon. After we finish, we can go boating in Lotus Pond under a setting sun.”
As they walked into the loggia, the rocks, hill, and vegetation on the right blocked the view of the lotus pond, limiting their movements to within the posts and pillars of the loggia, but a few exquisite turns and several stone steps later, they were greeted by a lily-scented breeze blowing through an ornamental hexagonal window that framed a corner of Yinghong Pavilion. They could see the pavilion’s magnificent eaves with delicate upward curves, contrasting with willow branches that swayed in the wind. The giant lily flowers in the pond seemed to be leaping out of the water to hug stone pillars by the pavilion. Even from a distance they could make out the inked couplets in free-style calligraphy on the pillars: