wushanvignette

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An old man is standing beneath a cherry tree in a certain stance, knees slightly bent, his hands below his waist, body width apart, as he gently shakes them as if coaxing life into them. A contemplative smile plays across his face. A small transistor radio lodged in the fork of the tree chats away in an awry sort of way.
An elderly couple walks together uphill, backwards, greeting me in a duet of “hello” and a synchronized bow as I walk past them. I smiled at them and bowed in return.
I thought that maybe they walked this way all the time so they wouldn’t have to face the approach of time head on.
Another man well on in years does the same, his face buried in the newspaper that he is reading. Oblivious to all around him, he doesn’t even notice me passing.
In the center of a circle of rocks, enclosing her like a cathedral, another ageless being laid out an altar on a flat stone and a mat in front of it. With a bundle of incense held in both hands she performs a solemn ritual alone. The fragrance of the burning sticks wafts
towards me lifting my spirits a little higher. I say a little prayer. Birds sing. Sunlight plays among the changing autumn leaves of the slender trees.
In the clearing of a plateau another souls sits quietly cross-legged, peeling a fruit. The sun shines a spotlight on him. A strange looking dog appears from nowhere, looking frightened, then disappears.
At the base of a standing rock someone has just placed a bunch of flowers.
Two groups of men standing within earshot of each other engage in animated,
but amicable, debate. It seems like midday debates are a fixture of Hang Zhou life.
The man with the peeled fruit gets up from his seat and slowly descends the hill,
satchel over his right shoulder.
The arguing men had begun to disperse as I made my way past them again.
“Hi there”, a spectacled, middle aged man greeted me.
“Ni hao”, I responded without even thinking why I chose to use the Mandarin greeting.
“You speak Chinese?”
“No” I quickly responded.
“Where are you from”?.
The now familiar crowd formed a semi circle around us.
“ Jamaica”
“Jamaica?.... Ah, Jamaica. What do you do here. What do you do?
“I’m a teacher”
“Ah, teacher.” He parroted thoughtfully.
“Are you from Hang Zhou” ?, I asked .
“Yes, this is my hometown,” he said proudly.
“It’s a really beautiful place, you are a lucky man”.
“You think”?
“Yes, I do”.
“What do you think of China”?, his head cocked to one side, his hands in his pockets.
“It’s a wonderful place, I’m, very happy to be here.”
A sly grin crept up on his face as if hidden somewhere bidding it’s time to appear.
“One fellow told me he likes the Chinese girls. You like Chinese girls?”
A trick question if ever there was one.
“They’re beautiful”. I said honestly.
He bowed, took a step back and bid me farewell, the group again dispersing.


The old man beneath the cherry tree is now twisting his body, his arms moving
in a coordinated, vigorous motion with the rest of his torso. The radio chatted on. I descended the hill.
It was the same hill topped by a solitary structure that I looked up at out my window every morning and which was most often shrouded in mist and smog. At night the splendid Chenghuang Pavilion shone like a huge lantern. I only realized this the morning after.

The North Hill

Someone tapped me on the shoulder as I stood gazing out the window of the standing room only bus. I turned to see a woman offering me the only available seat after several passengers had disembarked at a stop. Although I preferred standing as I thought that I had a better vantage point to observe the passing scene outside, and thought for an instant that she should sit there, I graciously accepted as I realized that this was an uncanny act of hospitality.
I don’t recall ever been offered a seat on a bus anywhere before, and even if I had been this gesture was very moving. I wouldn’t interpret this to mean that a single act of kindness from one soul meant that I was officially welcome in China by the other billion or so Chinese, but it signaled to me civilization. Civilization for me had never meant cities, and science and technology, but humanity acknowledging humanity.
Chinese people recognize the concept of jing, which translates as “well” as in water well, but has connotations to the word “source”. It relates to how an individual interacts with the people one comes into daily contact with whether they be friends and family, business partners or total strangers and recognizes the humanity within everyone- thereby aligning one’s behaviour to be in harmony with the greater cosmic imperative.
I intend to be in China for a year and I have only been here for 4 weeks now, but regardless of whatever time I spend here this will be a singularly significant and definitive moment for me.
The cable car ride up to the top of the 1000’ high North Hill was an elevating experience. Gradually the full expanse of Hang Zhou unfolded beneath me revealing, first a small tea plantation, and then a breathtaking panoramic view of the city lying on the plain below and the rolling green and blue hills that wrapped around it. The West Lake sat in the middle like a silver medallion. Too soon I reached my destination, the 1600 year old Lingyin Temple. Lingyin is the most ancient Buddhist temple in the Hang Zhou region and houses the largest sitting statue of the Buddha in China. Visitors pause at the shops that line the entrance way to purchase incense which they unwrap and place in the fire burning inside the huge urn placed in the center of the courtyard in front of the temple proper. The mountain air is infused with the scent of incense. There is a room to the right side of the courtyard with several Buddha statues that supplicants kneel before and whisper prayers. They do the same with the huge statue that sits in the main room, kneeling on a large cushion provided on the steps. In a room to the left a monk, possibly a scribe, writes in deep meditation. At the other end of the same room a young woman is conversing with an older woman as if receiving some sort of consultation. The atmosphere is solemn and reverent. The ornate, multicoloured temple looks out over the plain below and across the centuries. Renovations are underway and a huge scaffolding is set up inside so no one is allowed to enter the temple. A piece of metal comes crashing to the floor as if to signal a warning.
I had purchased a one way ticket on the funicular because I had decided that I would make the descent by foot. It was here that my soul found refuge. My spirit breathed free among the trees that form the forest through which I made my way down the hill. In my solitude the trees would not let me be alone. They offer their company and comfort. The path is formed of cut stone, snaking its way through the contours of the hillside. My steps are deliberately slow, almost processional.
I paused occasionally just to breathe deeply and experience the silence that I hear above the cicadas and the birds and the rustle of leaves brushed by the breeze.
The design of the path with its changing gradient alters the cadence of my steps from time to time but the peace within remains constant. Undisturbed.
I pass pilgrims making their way up by foot. A few cut paths across the contours, shortening the distance. I noticed an ideogram etched on a tree trunk, the number 05 inscribed beneath. A closer look revealed other etchings now claimed by time, covered with moss, barely discernible from the natural striations of the tree. One with nature. No hearts pierced by arrows here.
As I approached the foot of the hill, I began to hear the dull buzz of civilization in the distance. The weather has changed, fall is fully here.

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