Weekend in Longnan: Part Three

Part 3: Characters

After she left, Matt and I continued our conversation and talked well into the night. We woke the next day long after the sun had risen. We packed up camp, downed some water, and set off to a secluded temple a little bit further up the road. It was a temple that Matt had been to before and that volunteers before him had been to before.

            The trail itself was simple. A deep forest and high peaks surrounded us in every direction, blocking any view down the mountain. Arriving at the monastery, we stepped into a small courtyard; to our right was a narrow abode with a dirt floor and a hunched over man tending to a small fire and a pot of water. He sat buried in the room’s shadows with the sparse outlines of a large bed nestled in the abode’s back corner.

            To our left, a series of Bodhisattva statues sat only slightly lit from indirect sunlight, their chins glowing gold while the eyes sat in darkness. Beside the building that housed the statues was a long wall with a pile of wood and spare parts, remnants of old furniture, and torn-down walls all waiting to find new uses. To our front was a path leading off to the back of the monastery where we would later find an old one-armed man and his wife.

          

            Standing there amidst the living monastery, I tried to figure out where I could put down my backpack. I noticed, once again, the man heating water in his home. A short, empty moment filled with curiosity and foreignness. I couldn’t help but wonder “is he in pain?” His back, bent as far as it was, I could not imagine how he slept or walk. It seemed uniquely well suited to the task at hand, bending over to tend to the fire.

            Cutting me from my moment, a man we had previously seen walking past our tent and heading up the mountain came to welcome us, seat us, and help serve us tea. So we sat down; two foreigners, a man we had once seen, and a tall slender man with a slurred accent. A monk also came over and pulled up a seat but seemed uninterested in our idle conversation. He sat, simply, on his low stool, knees popping up near his sternum and hands on his lap. When he reached out for tea, I noticed his hands dressed in the scenery; painted dark in mountain sun and cracked from tending the surrounding soil. He did not smile nor frown and his gaze did not drift nor rest empty. Like this, he kept us company.

            Addressing Matt, the Tall slender man’s slurring accent was a puzzle. I could pull from the strong consonants, hand gestures, and occasionally clear vowel his general meaning, but he was not talking to me. Matt took in each syllable with the same smile. Hearing a question word, which is a single clear word at the end of sentences in Chinese, he attempted to answer. Yet, halfway through Matt’s answer, the man turns to me, “He doesn’t understand what I’m saying.” I smiled and turned to listen to Matt as he finished his answer.

            The one-armed man that lived behind the monastery was someone Matt had met before and that volunteers before Matt had befriended as well. After several cups of tea, we got up and wandered over to his home. I smiled when I saw him; a short-brim, white, panama hat. He came out full of vigor and swept us up into his own personal rhythm. In a flurry of offers, pleasantries, and memories, we ended up at a table watching as he prepared to write traditional Chinese calligraphy.

            It was a magical experience for me. I’d seen calligraphy done before, but his movements were magical. He pulled out a soft matt, placed some long paper down, folded it, and cut along the crease to form a long and narrow piece. He took out his ink, propped it against his stump of an arm and twisted it open. He clenched the paper with his chin and unraveled it across the table, finally smoothing it out with help. His body did not move smoothly, ye the still managed to do everything swiftly as if it all was done from muscle memory. He talked us through his movements; one moment telling us about previous volunteers that had visited him, and another moment directing the extra hands about him. It was his world.

   

   

   

   

   

            With everything in place, he painted. His brush strokes were bold and dark. They did not lack ink nor did they lack life. He first looked at Matt and then began the first character, building it, first from top to bottom and then from left to right. With the first character done and the paper wet, his assistants, upon his directions, shifted the paper up, smoothed it out, and weighted it down. The next character was just as immense. With each pause of his brush, the ink diffused out as if refusing to stay within his strokes. A total of four characters to form a fixed phrase “sìhaǐhéxié” (四海和谐) which means “four oceans, peace and harmony” or, more fully, may the whole world be filled with peace and harmony. He ended the piece using only the tip of his brush. He steadied himself with his stump upon the table and worked in smaller characters a personal message, the gist of which is “America and China are friends.”

            After painting another piece, we all sat down around the table for tea. He asked us if we had drunk tea with the other monks. We said yes and he scoffed, “their water is horrible! I hike up the mountain and get this water directly from the spring.” He did not hide his pride but then stood up and walked off without explanation. A moment later he came back with a long bamboo pipe in hand, sat down, crossed his legs, and puffed his way into comfort.

            Eventually, time became an issue and Matt and I needed to leave. I had a bus back to Tianshui to catch and he needed to prep for classes. With the help of the man we met coming up the mountain, we negotiated out leave. The conditions: one more cup of tea and we take the calligraphy as gifts. After some customary refusals, we relented. The last cups were largely shared in silence and then I saddled my bag, Matt picked up his backpack, and we headed back down the mountain on foot, a three or four-hour journey with the man we met coming up the mountain as our guide.

P.s. sorry for the always-bad formatting with the pictures. I haven't figured out any fancier ways to display them.