He was originally supposed to get his driver's license on Tuesday.
But on Monday, he received a call from China—something required his immediate attention. He would have to get the license after returning. So he took a red-eye flight, transferred through Hong Kong, and arrived in Quanzhou.
Two days later, his business was finished. He Mu planned to return home to Hangzhou first; his high-speed train was scheduled for 1:30 PM. He decided to visit two old friends at the Quanzhou Shaolin Temple and have a vegetarian meal there.
He took the bus to Fuyou Garden, crossed the road, and walked about a kilometer to the back gate of the temple. The mountain gate was magnificent. Along the path, groups of tourists burned incense, prayed for blessings, and took photos. Stepping through the gate, He Mu saw a statue of Maitreya Buddha on his left. He lit three sticks of incense, scanned the WeChat QR code, and donated ten yuan.
Going up, he reached a covered walkway with a mortise-and-tenon wooden frame topped with grey tiles. Following the grand corridor upward, a long flight of stairs appeared. After climbing three sections, He Mu sat down at a tea table under the covered walkway opposite the wall, quietly gazing ahead.
The bluestone base lay flush with the ground, its edges polished smooth by time. Layers of red bricks, one upon another, were warm in color and uniform in shape. The narrow mortar joints were slightly raised—not in straight lines made by a trowel, but with the curves of fingertip presses. He could imagine someone crouching there long ago, smoothing the wet mortar inch by inch, pushing their fingers along the brick edges, then pulling back. The pressure of each press remained in the joints, where cracked fingerprints could still be seen.
The eaves curved upward. Grey tiles layered upon grey tiles, their lines clean. Horizontal stone bands divided the wall, the three colors—red, grey, and brown—distinct in the sunlight. The entire wall was composed, unassuming, yet standing firm.
When he had come a month earlier, a banner had been added to the brick surface. Iron wire was threaded through the mortar joints, pulled tight. When the wind blew, the plastic edges slapped against the wall, making a thin, light sound, as if carrying a faint sigh. The mortar hadn't cracked, but now bore several deep indentations.
The incense smoke in the courtyard continued as usual. People came and went—palms together, taking photos, leaving. Few stopped to look at the mortar joints.
The person who applied that mortar long ago was probably old now. Perhaps still laying bricks somewhere else, perhaps already gone—their calluses worn smooth and regrown, again and again. But this wall remembered each press for them.
The stone base remained cool, silently bearing the heavy wall.
The wind passed under the eaves, crashing recklessly against the wall, then hurried off somewhere else in a rush.
Suddenly, it seemed to him that Tavan was stepping down from the wall. He Mu couldn't help himself—he walked over and pressed his body against the rough surface.
His face suddenly flushed bright red. Two tourists were watching him and laughing. He Mu nodded politely to them, then continued walking along the wall. Unable to resist, he took out his phone and sent Tavan a comma. If she were here, he wondered, what would she do? She certainly wouldn't recognize any of the bodhisattvas here, but she would definitely worship them with devotion.
He thought about the difference between the authentic scriptures Xuanzang brought back and Thai Buddhism. Lost in thought, he felt a sudden melancholy.
Xuanzang had gone to India alone, probably facing countless trials—but that was only the beginning.
Well-versed in the scriptures, Xuanzang found that the Buddhist texts in China were a mess, as unappetizing as slop for pigs. So he decided to go get the authentic versions. Regrettably, what takes just over ten hours by plane today took him a full seventeen years! But then again, air travel, while convenient, misses all the scenery along the way.
After bringing back a pile of authentic texts, using his knowledge bridging East and West, he translated so many Buddhist scriptures that have survived to this day. He also casually founded the Consciousness-Only school. But it was too dry, like building a bunch of luxurious villas that only a tiny minority could afford to live in.
It sounded profound, but in reality, no one could grasp it. After exerting tremendous effort, one might end up being dismissed with a flippant "You have no Buddha-nature!" Thinking about it felt quite surreal. It was like that fellow who, after finishing his house renovation, realized the house belonged to someone else. So this Buddha-nature was indeed like smoke or mist—no one could pin down exactly what it was.
Back then, one monk said, "I wipe it clean every day." Another said, "There is no table at all, what are you wiping?" In the end, the one who did nothing won! Hah, I prefer the monk who "wiped it clean every day." Otherwise, if everyone indulged in empty speculation and did no work, how could the economy thrive? How could value be created without labor? The monk who said "there is no table" must have just been lazy.
No one could understand Xuanzang's work. Then someone banged a gong and said, "Hey, just chant 'Amitabha' and you're guaranteed to become a Buddha!" Suddenly, even the monstrous monk Yang Lianzhenjia could receive offerings. That was the business—you could do it effortlessly. Having to strive for it? No one could be bothered.
So what do we want today? We want a promise that things will turn out as we wish, haha. Everyone just wants the process; as for the result, leave it to the incense-filled great hall!
He walked straight to the Guanyin Hall. This statue was carved from African redwood, donated to the temple by a lay devotee. The "Guanyin of Peace" stood ten meters high—twelve meters including the base. He Mu again scanned the code and donated ten yuan, then bowed at the waist.
Going back down a few steps, he came to his old friends.
They were two crape myrtle trees. One was 1,500 years old, the other 1,300. The younger one was still withered, its bark completely fallen away, the exposed wood worn grey-white by wind and rain. Several holes had formed in the trunk, collecting dead leaves and insect molts, yet it still stood with a thousand years of resilience. He Mu stroked its smooth trunk, imagining how magnificent it must have been when covered in lush leaves and brilliant flowers.
He walked to the other tree, stroking its pale trunk, gently touching this leaf and that branch, like greeting an old friend not seen for years. The older friend was half alive, half withered. Did the dead half die from heartache over the younger tree's decline? Perhaps. After a thousand years together, how could it let the other leave alone?
The dead part felt slightly warm to the touch, while the living part was ice-cold.
At the fork of the trunk, he noticed a large green tree burl, full of vitality. Delighted, he took out his phone and photographed it, posting it to his social feed with the caption: "This sight fills my heart with joy."
This burl showed that his old friend's life force was still strong. He thought, maybe the other half could revive as well—wasn't there a saying about withered trees coming back to life in spring?
After standing there for quite a while, he sat down on a large brown stone opposite the trees. Behind the stone was a thicket of red-flowered loropetalum, its small purple leaves adorned with thread-like blossoms.
From a meter or two away, the crape myrtle's leaves fluttered slightly in the wind. He just sat there, staring blankly.
Suddenly, he felt a surge of emotion. This old friend was 1,500 years old! Which dynasty? Who planted it? Who moved it here? Where are those people now?
Today, I stand here looking up at it. In years to come, it will still be here. Where will I be?
Human life is truly insignificant.
Where will Tavan be then? That person with skin like water, bright eyes and white teeth, innocent and lovely—what will she be like?
Suddenly, a saying came to mind: "What is most unbearable to look upon in this world might be aging."
He looked up at the tree. The living half had green branches, straight and full, tender green leaves standing proudly on the tips. The dead half had withered, bleached-white, shrunken branches, bark split open, ant nests in the crevices.
On the same tree, life and death were so starkly divided. How much more so for a human body of flesh and blood?
Suddenly, a realization came to him:
Life happens by chance—
some become trees,
some become stones,
some become a single drop of water.
The human body decays.
The tree remains, the stone remains.
Water turns to mist, then returns as clouds.
But the warmth of blood in this moment—
years from now,
in whose memory will it become
another cloud?
He Mu suddenly felt tired. The Guanyin Hall was spacious and quiet. He walked back, sat on a meditation cushion against the wall, looked up at Guanyin—truly a great compassionate and merciful practitioner! His vision seemed to blur. Something like clouds or mist drifted in, and along with it came a venerable one.
The venerable one entered the hall, glanced at Guanyin with a light laugh, then turned to see He Mu. He walked over, sat on the cushion beside him, and quietly looked at him.
He Mu couldn't guess his age—he could have been eight hundred years old or forty. But in his eyes, there seemed to be a faint flow of silvery light. His presence felt both warm and solemn.
He Mu quickly sat upright. "Greetings, Master!"
The man seemed to smile faintly. "What are you doing here?" His voice was ethereal, incredibly warm—it could melt ice and snow. It filled He Mu with warmth, making him feel cozy all over, his heart aglow.
"I came to see them," He Mu said, gesturing toward the two crape myrtles.
"What did you see?"
"I saw that time does not intimidate them—time is just a part of their past."
"Did you not see that one is dead and the other is half dead?" he asked.
He Mu couldn't help but laugh. "Yes. Yes. How many more years do you think this big one can live?"
"Who knows! If you ran over and chopped it down now, it would only take a few axe swings—I'd say it would die today," he said, sounding quite certain.
"You mean it depends on what happens around it?"
"No. I mean people sometimes go crazy and do inexplicable things—like you wanting to chop down this tree right now," he replied with a smile.
"I don't want to chop it down!" He Mu suddenly felt a bit frightened. Just moments ago, he had pictured himself swinging an axe at the tree—it seemed this man had witnessed it as if with his own eyes. He noticed that the Guanyin Hall had a kind of halo, making everything appear both clear and veiled by a thin gauze.
"You thought about the tree's death—that makes the possibility of chopping it down real."
"Why chopping?" He Mu asked. "Why not burning or something else?"
"Chopping is the simplest. It's something you could easily do."
He Mu suddenly felt completely transparent. He thought of a question he needed to ask this person: "What meaning does Xuanzang's work have?"
"He simply enjoyed doing it. He felt he should do it. Whether it had meaning was not within his consideration."
"Do you know him?" He Mu asked this question with utter seriousness because his intuition told him that this person definitely knew Xuanzang, and not just casually.
"He just went to a few countries to study and exchange ideas. What's so impressive about knowing him?" the man laughed.
"He endured so much hardship, brought back the true scriptures, founded the Consciousness-Only school—he was truly great!"
"He truly loved doing it. The wind, frost, snow, and rain along the way delighted him. The local customs and cultures enriched his mind. If you had made him stay home, he would have been bored to death. The Consciousness-Only school and such were just a summary of his studies and exchanges."
"When was he happiest in his life?" He Mu had long wondered about this.
"The seventeen years of winters turning to springs, countless summers of red flowers and golden autumns," the man answered with certainty, his tone full of joy and longing.
"Did he have any regrets?"
"Yes! The leader of Turpan—they were close friends. He had promised to catch up on the way back. But when he returned, the leader was gone." The man spoke with some lingering regret.
"How did he die?"
"You wanted to chop down that tree just now. He was like a tree—chopped down by others."
He Mu felt a wave of sadness.
"His disciples—they were quite remarkable!" He Mu tried to steer the conversation away from this sorrowful story.
"How many do you know?" the man asked with a smile.
"Three or four, including the horse…" He Mu suddenly felt foolish and stopped talking.
"He liked his eldest disciple, but the disciple broke the rules by falling in love. The youngest's heart was too wild. Only the second disciple was decent," the man said amiably.
"His true scriptures—they were meant to liberate all beings from suffering in the great thousand worlds, weren't they?" He Mu asked seriously.
"He had that intention: to shift everyone's focus, so people wouldn't let the ups and downs of daily life affect their moods, making their brief lives so complicated."
"So the significance of his translations of so many ancient texts lies there?"
"Yes. He just turned foreign languages into Chinese, refining it so that people could understand."
"But the principles are profound. Most people can't understand them."
"Everyone can understand them—they just can't put them into practice, because they're still focused on getting through daily life."
"If a person wholeheartedly devoted themselves to grasping his teachings, beyond joy and sorrow, would they become a Buddha?"
"With a devoted mind, you cannot achieve it!" the man laughed.
"Then this is difficult."
"To deliberately pursue it is to be wrong from the start. Whatever the Buddha does, you do. That's how you succeed. Originally, everyone is a Buddha—no need to chant Buddha's name—you just need to rediscover your Buddha-nature."
"How long until one becomes a Buddha?"
"One day, a one-day Buddha. A lifetime, a lifetime Buddha. Without the bondage of a lifetime, you are always Buddha."
"How does the Buddha act?" He Mu asked, his palms sweating. He thought: Today, I might actually glimpse this great secret.
"Read the Consciousness-Only school's recommended texts. Then follow them. That's how you succeed."
He Mu looked at the silvery light flowing in his eyes, his heart filled with joy. "Who are you?"
"Axe," the man laughed.
His laughter sounded like ding, ding, ding.
He Mu wanted to ask which texts were recommended, but was interrupted by his laughter.
"Where are you? Do you miss me?" Tavan had replied to his message.
"I'm at a temple!"
"Show me!" She video-called him. She was wearing her work uniform and gloves.
He Mu slowly panned his phone around. She exclaimed, "This temple is so beautiful!"
"What's wrong with you? Your eyes are red."
"I guess I miss you."
"Really? Eww~~!" She tried hard to pout her lower lip higher than her upper lip, but failed.
"Which day will you come?"
"That depends on how things go," he said hesitantly.
After a moment of silence, she said, "When you come to Thailand, I'll take you to a temple, okay?"
"Okay!"
"I'm at work now. Can I call you tonight?" she asked.
He Mu said he'd be on the train at night, and the signal might be bad.
"Okay, bye!" She pouted and ended the video call.
(To be continued, next chapter: Work Relations)