images without
grasping
and retains them without possessing.
Like-Water-or-Clouds-The-Tang-Dynasty
He was now unemployed and he left Chi?
eng-tu travelling down the Yangtze, reaching Ki?
uei-chou, White King city, upstream from the Wu and Chi?
?
-ti?
ang gorges, in 766.
During his two years there he wrote many of his greatest poems.
e?
Yangtzei?
invokes an autumnal mood and the transience of life, contrasting the
213
? ? turbid human river of existence and the eternal clear star-river of the Galaxy. He is living his twilight in the broken Empire, his thoughts now for a moment clear. The human past has been destroyed, but the Courts of the Heavens are still in place, the Mooni? s circle still perfect, ever renewed. His own sick body is itself a dew- drenched clock that counts the final hours, and it is bowed down by his inner sadness, as the flowers are weighed down by chill night dew.
In e? High and Dry on the Yangtzei? in the gibbon-haunted gorges near Ki? uei-chou he looks back through the same cool autumn light, with the same clarity of vision, on his real and his metaphorical journey. The mind, that mind which creates the poem and in a limited and impersonal way lives on within language, looks with irony and pity on the body that is so ill it can no longer even escape itself through wine.
In e? Night Journey Thoughtsi? Tu is on the Yangtze on his voyage in 768-9 down river across the Tung-ti? ing Lake and up the Hsiang
214
? ? ? River by Chi? ang-sha. In his objective, solitary, and starlit vision he is the lone white gull floating on the random currents of the air. e? Deep Winteri? written in the same region is almost an extended metaphor for his situation. He is the last survivor of the three great poets. Tu Fu the clear-eyed. In a last gentle poem e? Meeting Li Kuei-Nieni? four lines are enough to remember the past greatness, celebrate friendship and creativity, and appreciate a moment of peace and the spring warmth of the south, even though it is a last place, where the petals fall, along with poems, years, lives and empires.
? ? ? ? 215
? %? 0? %? ,3? ? ? ? 3,89? ? ,3/? %? 20
The Ti? ang Dynasty reveals its consciousness of, and preoccupation with, time. The Tao that is eternal and invisible energy manifests itself in temporal things, in visible process. The Ti? ang Dynasty sees itself in a long continuum of Chinese history. e? Hold fast to the oldest Wayi? , says the Tao Te Ching, e? to understand the Present Time. To know the root of the Past is the thread that runs through the Way. i? Ti? ang looks back to Han, to the past lives of great individuals whose memory it cherishes.
The Emperor fulfils a role beyond man, as a mediator between the eternal and the ephemeral. His vows may carry through many existences, since Buddhism claims that the spirit is bound on the Wheel of Lives unless it can achieve release in Nirvana. Equally there may be only one life, so that he must strive also to become a Taoist Immortal. Ti? ang poems remember Emperor Wu
216
? ? of Han, who, obsessed by the desire for everlasting life, set up dew-pans held by bronze immortals to catch the elixir of Heaven. Buried at Mao-ling, Leafy Mound, he is remembered as e? Young Liu in Leafy Moundi? whose life and dynasty vanished swifter than the wind.
Immortality is always out of reach. The Wheel of Lives is always turning. The living Emperor is caught between everlastingness and nothingness, between the desire for and the escape from immortality. Through the poems as through the palaces there is the sound of dripping water clocks, of bells and drums tolling the hours. Moon, sun and stars move over Heavens where time congeals in dew, is mirrored in water, is reflected from bronze.
Life though is transient, love and empires grow cold, or are destroyed, the blossom is forever falling from the trees, autumn ruins the leaves, courtyards fill with weeds, beauty grows old with neglect and inattention. Yet everything stirs with the vortex, birds are always in flight,
217
? the silk curtains blow, there is a cool wind in the pines, wine and songs flow like the waters, hearts are high as clouds that drift over the mountains. Li Po dances with his shadow. Tu Fu watches the bent grasses in a river-breeze. Wang Wei is blown like thistle-seed across the northern wastes of the Empire. Rain falls, rivers flow, cloud moves, light alters.
Wang Wei knows a way to defeat time if he could only follow it. Through meditation on the Void we enter the timeless, the Moment, the Now, where there are no names or forms, where language is still and only being exists. It is the place Nature inhabits, free of mind. Or it is the place where everything within the self has become mind and therefore mindless. It is Nature, without thought, without memory, without intention. It is Nature, without ownership, without demands, without, authority.
And he knows another way, a way of creation, where the painting freezes time in order to re-create itself in the eye of the observer, in
218
? ? ? ? the eyei? s living time. The way of the poem also, where time runs within a closed form, within a frame of words and characters, and is an object as a painting is. The painting and the poem are landscapes that wait for an eye to make them live again. They persist in time, wait and wake in time, contain a time, a moment of time, and spill over into other times. Art escapes life to capture life, denies the creator immortality in the body while achieving its own immortality of form, and carrying a meaning and purpose to come. Wang Wei, destroyed again and again by loss, by the death of others, cannot reach the silence he yearns for, can only recreate the Now in ink, on silk, in the mind, again and again, as artist, in intensity.
Li Po is possessed by transience. Li, the restless, who is the wanderer, and the searcher after immortality. He traverses China from Szechwan to Shantung, from Peking to the Yangtze Delta. Li who can compose in a flash, in a lightning stroke. Who drinks to lose time, to
219
? make time vanish, to escape reality in stupor, and consciousness in sleep. Li who can almost touch and feel the tranquility and stillness of others, but rarely his own. Li who is so far below the hills that the adepts seem to climb, who is dizzied by height, who has to descend the mountains, and abandon the hills. Li who is e? knee-deep in a thousand fallen flowersi? . Li whose emblems are the Moon and the mirror. Li who dreams he is the butterfly, who is e? helplessi? in the deep garden. Li who is the transience of colours, and the beauty of sunsets, lost notes of music, lost poems fluttering, lost hours, girls, wine-cups, lost emotions. Li whose inner movement is the spirit journey, the ? 8? 03i? s flight through the night, through the Heavens. Li, who is the shaman from the East, the lone magician of Asia, who can ride through the air, unaided. Li who can visit the timeless Paradises of the West, the Magic Islands of the East, and return, as Keatsi? s knight returns, to a world of time that is inadequate to his senses and his aspirations. Li
220
? ? who longs for the alchemy that will transcend time, that will e? transmute his bones to goldi? , to that fused silver moon and golden sun of the Taoist Eternal Child. Li who like Baudelaire in e? The Voyagei? is always ready to set sail one more time, to move on, into the unknown, to find the new.
Tu Fu is the eye that sees the Moment. He is the self-awareness of the intellect, the perception of form and its intricacies, the observer of time as History being made, History as it defines the human and the inhuman, as it enters into memory, as it remains in the present through its creations and its transformations. Tu is the lone element of being, wandering on the surface of the real, driven by the wind, or caught in the walls of the whirlpool. He is the observer of the neutrality of the universe, and the neutrality of the vortex of historical events, of the twin sets of forces that emerge from them to touch the individual. He is the inhabitant of a universe
221
? ? which is neither benevolent as his Confucianism taught, nor in any way malevolent.
The universe is not indifferent, hostile, alien, or malign, since these are all words that imply sentience, feeling or attitude. It is insensible, without mind, an ocean of energies. Tu is the eye behind the crystal blind, the eye that gazes and is filled with sympathy, energy, delight or tears. He sees those things that are embedded in time, arts and ethics, laws and rituals. He is a Confucian in his humanity, his humility, his warmth, his power to endure and to create within the world. He knows the pain of fitting human nature to a social order, and the pain of seeing order descend into human chaos. He counters pain with feeling, sensibility, creativity, strength of mind, compassion and good will. He knows the human world is subject to time, and therefore to loss, regret, irretrievable error. He knows that turmoil of politics where as the old song of Chi? u says e? loyalty brings disasteri? . He also sees within the strands of event, natural beauty and natural
222
? affection, transient but deep, ephemeral but consoling. In the natural, in his personal Taoist depths, Tu Fu is calm, simple, tranquil.
The Tao is the matrix of time, and it creates the forms of time. Attempting to understand what lies behind the e? howi? of the universe Chuang-tzu says e? Things appear to us, but we do not understand where they come from. They emerge into the world, but no one sees the portal. We value what is known, but do not know how to use the unknown. i? In western terms we produce a scientific description of how events succeed each other, what changes we expect to see, and the appearance of the e? surfacesi? of our experience. But we delude ourselves if we believe that we grasp the e? inner naturei? of energy, or change, of e? being herei? and e? changing intoi? .
The whole thrust of critical sceptical philosophy, of epistemology, in the West, since
223
? Hume and Kant, has been to mark out empirically, through observation and meditation the limits of human understanding in thought and language. The Tao is not deity. It does not produce by intentional design. It is unknown and unknowing. The vortex of its events produces space and time. It is the waves, the oscillations, the regular vibrations, we use to measure the succession of events we call time. And it is the contiguities that we use to measure immediate space, and therefore the speed of light and by deduction the distances of the remote universe.
The Tao exists in itself and not for itself. Taoism attempts to loosen the bonds that bind us, to free us from time. Its aspiration is not to understand nature, but to -0? nature. e? The wise put Self last, and it comes firsti? says the Tao Te Ching. Its method is to work e? without actioni? , ? :? ? 0? , that is without self-conscious intent, without striving or stress, without endless words. Its tenor is calmness, to be the water surface that reflects light without intention, that accepts
224
?
images without grasping and retains them without possessing. Its appearance is an uncultivated innocence e? sorrowful like a baby that has lost its mother, stupid like one who has lost the wayi? as Chuang-tzu says, tongue in cheek. If the natural world cannot be trusted in its lack of intent, what can? If simplicity will not get us there, how will complexity achieve it?
Being never quite at ease, that is the dangerous road for the mind. To be, on the other hand, a creative source, to make the difficult happen as if spontaneously, to concentrate the mind on the object until the self vanishes, without being aware that it has vanished, is the Way. In this our greatest enemy is our sense of time. We find beauty in the timeless, virtue in the selfless, truth in the uncarved and unadorned. Though we, through natural selection, are nothing if not the creatures of time, the result of event, the products of the sieve of generations, the stability that preserves mutation, we are also that which contemplates time, reflects on
225
? process, inhabits the Now. Not to be lost in language games is the Way, not to believe, not to follow, not to own. Death does not exist for the self, only dying. Dying is the vanishing of self- consciousness. To be aware and conscious but without self-consciousness is to have vanished, as a smile vanishes or a thought.
Liberation from time is achieved by destroying the grasping, the desire that links us to time. e? How can I free myself? i? asks the pupil. e? Who is imprisoning you? i? says the Master. e? No onei? replies the pupil. e? Then why do you seek to be free? i? Not to contemplate, or to concentrate, to strain at awareness, or to restrain the body, but to eliminate thought is the Way. To abandon learning and embrace the natural.
In it there is nothing special. There is no mystical concept to be grasped, no higher essence to be striven for. It is difficult because it is so simple, so contrary to the idea of e? progressi? and e? culturei? , to the ways of power or science, e? truthi? or religion, self-conscious morality or
226
? social planning. The world is simply there. We are simply beings. What we strive after in time is only achievable through the timeless. What we yearn for is already there, unchanged by our yearning. e? Mount Lu in mist and rain, the River Che in flood. Before I saw them, to see them - endless longing. I went there and came back. There was nothing special. Mount Lu in mist and rain, the River Che in flood. i?
Time is not the sky and the river. Time is the mind conscious of change. To escape from time is not to e? enteri? a realm called the timeless, or to e? falli? into the Void. There is nowhere to fall to out of this world. There is no place to be in that is not in time, because both world and time are in this mind. Then why is living so difficult for us?
Time in the mind is memory. Memory feeds regret and anticipation, hope and disillusionment. We store mind in objects and in language, in mathematics and in scientific theory, in buildings and in events, in the
227
? processes and the things we create, even in our affections, even in our love. The object, the words, the notation, the history, the love, may be preserved even when the transient human body dies, and in turn they may create thought and feeling in a living mind. Everything we make and do tells what we are. e? Where can a man hide? Where can a man hide? i? Memory is mindi? s magic and its fate. Memory is mindi? s hurt and its delight. Our whole past lives that are present in the living Now, are nothing but memory. The poetry and the history of the Ti? ang Dynasty are still here. The pictures are in the poems, even though the Ti? ang Dynasty itself is gone, like water or clouds.
228
? %? ,4? ? ? ? ? 03 ( 365-427 AD) Returning to Live in the Country
Young, I was always free of common feeling.
It was in my nature to love the hills and mountains.
Mindlessly I was caught in the dust-filled trap. Waking up, thirty years had gone.
The caged bird wants the old trees and air. Fish in their pool miss the ancient stream.
I plough the earth at the edge of South Moor. Keeping life simple, return to my plot and garden. My place is hardly more than a few fields.
My house has eight or nine small rooms.
Elm-trees and Willows shade the back.
Plum-trees and Peach-trees reach the door.
Misted, misted the distant village.
Drifting, the soft swirls of smoke.
Somewhere a dog barks deep in the winding lanes. A cockerel crows from the top of the mulberry tree. No heat and dust behind my closed doors.
229
? ? ? My bare rooms are filled with space and silence. Too long a prisoner, captive in a cage,
Now I can get back again to Nature.
230
? Returning to Live in the Country II
I always loved to walk the woods and mountains, Pleased myself, lost in fields and marshes.
Now I go out with nephews, nieces,
In the wilds, parting hazel branches,
Back and forth through the mounds and hollows, All around us signs of ancient peoples,
Remnants of their broken hearths and well-heads, Mulberry and bamboo groves neglected.
Stop and ask the simple woodsman,
e? Where have all these people gone now? i?
Turning he looks quietly and tells me,
e? Nothingi? s left of them, theyi? re finished. i?
One world. Though the lives we lead are different, In courts of power or labouring in the market, These I know are more than empty words:
Our lifei? s a play of light and shade,
Returning at last to the Void.
? 231
? Reading the Classic of Hills and Seas
In the summer grass and trees have grown. Over my roof the branches meet.
Birds settle in the leaves.
I enjoy my humble place.
Ploughingi? s done, the ground is sown, Time to sit and read my book.
The narrow deeply-rutted lane
Means my friends forget to call. Content, I pour the new Spring wine, Go out and gather food Ii? ve grown.
A light rain from the East,
Blows in on a pleasant breeze.
I read the story of King Mu,
See pictures of the Hills and Seas.
One glance finds all of heaven and earth. What pleasures can compare with these?
? 490? ? ? ? 3? ? ? :? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? 41? 9? 0? ? ? 4:? ? ? 3,89? ? /? 30/? ? ? 9? ? 9? 0? ":003? 41? 9? 0? ? 22479,? 8? ? $? ? ? ,3? ? ? :? ? ? 3? 9? 0?
213
? ? turbid human river of existence and the eternal clear star-river of the Galaxy. He is living his twilight in the broken Empire, his thoughts now for a moment clear. The human past has been destroyed, but the Courts of the Heavens are still in place, the Mooni? s circle still perfect, ever renewed. His own sick body is itself a dew- drenched clock that counts the final hours, and it is bowed down by his inner sadness, as the flowers are weighed down by chill night dew.
In e? High and Dry on the Yangtzei? in the gibbon-haunted gorges near Ki? uei-chou he looks back through the same cool autumn light, with the same clarity of vision, on his real and his metaphorical journey. The mind, that mind which creates the poem and in a limited and impersonal way lives on within language, looks with irony and pity on the body that is so ill it can no longer even escape itself through wine.
In e? Night Journey Thoughtsi? Tu is on the Yangtze on his voyage in 768-9 down river across the Tung-ti? ing Lake and up the Hsiang
214
? ? ? River by Chi? ang-sha. In his objective, solitary, and starlit vision he is the lone white gull floating on the random currents of the air. e? Deep Winteri? written in the same region is almost an extended metaphor for his situation. He is the last survivor of the three great poets. Tu Fu the clear-eyed. In a last gentle poem e? Meeting Li Kuei-Nieni? four lines are enough to remember the past greatness, celebrate friendship and creativity, and appreciate a moment of peace and the spring warmth of the south, even though it is a last place, where the petals fall, along with poems, years, lives and empires.
? ? ? ? 215
? %? 0? %? ,3? ? ? ? 3,89? ? ,3/? %? 20
The Ti? ang Dynasty reveals its consciousness of, and preoccupation with, time. The Tao that is eternal and invisible energy manifests itself in temporal things, in visible process. The Ti? ang Dynasty sees itself in a long continuum of Chinese history. e? Hold fast to the oldest Wayi? , says the Tao Te Ching, e? to understand the Present Time. To know the root of the Past is the thread that runs through the Way. i? Ti? ang looks back to Han, to the past lives of great individuals whose memory it cherishes.
The Emperor fulfils a role beyond man, as a mediator between the eternal and the ephemeral. His vows may carry through many existences, since Buddhism claims that the spirit is bound on the Wheel of Lives unless it can achieve release in Nirvana. Equally there may be only one life, so that he must strive also to become a Taoist Immortal. Ti? ang poems remember Emperor Wu
216
? ? of Han, who, obsessed by the desire for everlasting life, set up dew-pans held by bronze immortals to catch the elixir of Heaven. Buried at Mao-ling, Leafy Mound, he is remembered as e? Young Liu in Leafy Moundi? whose life and dynasty vanished swifter than the wind.
Immortality is always out of reach. The Wheel of Lives is always turning. The living Emperor is caught between everlastingness and nothingness, between the desire for and the escape from immortality. Through the poems as through the palaces there is the sound of dripping water clocks, of bells and drums tolling the hours. Moon, sun and stars move over Heavens where time congeals in dew, is mirrored in water, is reflected from bronze.
Life though is transient, love and empires grow cold, or are destroyed, the blossom is forever falling from the trees, autumn ruins the leaves, courtyards fill with weeds, beauty grows old with neglect and inattention. Yet everything stirs with the vortex, birds are always in flight,
217
? the silk curtains blow, there is a cool wind in the pines, wine and songs flow like the waters, hearts are high as clouds that drift over the mountains. Li Po dances with his shadow. Tu Fu watches the bent grasses in a river-breeze. Wang Wei is blown like thistle-seed across the northern wastes of the Empire. Rain falls, rivers flow, cloud moves, light alters.
Wang Wei knows a way to defeat time if he could only follow it. Through meditation on the Void we enter the timeless, the Moment, the Now, where there are no names or forms, where language is still and only being exists. It is the place Nature inhabits, free of mind. Or it is the place where everything within the self has become mind and therefore mindless. It is Nature, without thought, without memory, without intention. It is Nature, without ownership, without demands, without, authority.
And he knows another way, a way of creation, where the painting freezes time in order to re-create itself in the eye of the observer, in
218
? ? ? ? the eyei? s living time. The way of the poem also, where time runs within a closed form, within a frame of words and characters, and is an object as a painting is. The painting and the poem are landscapes that wait for an eye to make them live again. They persist in time, wait and wake in time, contain a time, a moment of time, and spill over into other times. Art escapes life to capture life, denies the creator immortality in the body while achieving its own immortality of form, and carrying a meaning and purpose to come. Wang Wei, destroyed again and again by loss, by the death of others, cannot reach the silence he yearns for, can only recreate the Now in ink, on silk, in the mind, again and again, as artist, in intensity.
Li Po is possessed by transience. Li, the restless, who is the wanderer, and the searcher after immortality. He traverses China from Szechwan to Shantung, from Peking to the Yangtze Delta. Li who can compose in a flash, in a lightning stroke. Who drinks to lose time, to
219
? make time vanish, to escape reality in stupor, and consciousness in sleep. Li who can almost touch and feel the tranquility and stillness of others, but rarely his own. Li who is so far below the hills that the adepts seem to climb, who is dizzied by height, who has to descend the mountains, and abandon the hills. Li who is e? knee-deep in a thousand fallen flowersi? . Li whose emblems are the Moon and the mirror. Li who dreams he is the butterfly, who is e? helplessi? in the deep garden. Li who is the transience of colours, and the beauty of sunsets, lost notes of music, lost poems fluttering, lost hours, girls, wine-cups, lost emotions. Li whose inner movement is the spirit journey, the ? 8? 03i? s flight through the night, through the Heavens. Li, who is the shaman from the East, the lone magician of Asia, who can ride through the air, unaided. Li who can visit the timeless Paradises of the West, the Magic Islands of the East, and return, as Keatsi? s knight returns, to a world of time that is inadequate to his senses and his aspirations. Li
220
? ? who longs for the alchemy that will transcend time, that will e? transmute his bones to goldi? , to that fused silver moon and golden sun of the Taoist Eternal Child. Li who like Baudelaire in e? The Voyagei? is always ready to set sail one more time, to move on, into the unknown, to find the new.
Tu Fu is the eye that sees the Moment. He is the self-awareness of the intellect, the perception of form and its intricacies, the observer of time as History being made, History as it defines the human and the inhuman, as it enters into memory, as it remains in the present through its creations and its transformations. Tu is the lone element of being, wandering on the surface of the real, driven by the wind, or caught in the walls of the whirlpool. He is the observer of the neutrality of the universe, and the neutrality of the vortex of historical events, of the twin sets of forces that emerge from them to touch the individual. He is the inhabitant of a universe
221
? ? which is neither benevolent as his Confucianism taught, nor in any way malevolent.
The universe is not indifferent, hostile, alien, or malign, since these are all words that imply sentience, feeling or attitude. It is insensible, without mind, an ocean of energies. Tu is the eye behind the crystal blind, the eye that gazes and is filled with sympathy, energy, delight or tears. He sees those things that are embedded in time, arts and ethics, laws and rituals. He is a Confucian in his humanity, his humility, his warmth, his power to endure and to create within the world. He knows the pain of fitting human nature to a social order, and the pain of seeing order descend into human chaos. He counters pain with feeling, sensibility, creativity, strength of mind, compassion and good will. He knows the human world is subject to time, and therefore to loss, regret, irretrievable error. He knows that turmoil of politics where as the old song of Chi? u says e? loyalty brings disasteri? . He also sees within the strands of event, natural beauty and natural
222
? affection, transient but deep, ephemeral but consoling. In the natural, in his personal Taoist depths, Tu Fu is calm, simple, tranquil.
The Tao is the matrix of time, and it creates the forms of time. Attempting to understand what lies behind the e? howi? of the universe Chuang-tzu says e? Things appear to us, but we do not understand where they come from. They emerge into the world, but no one sees the portal. We value what is known, but do not know how to use the unknown. i? In western terms we produce a scientific description of how events succeed each other, what changes we expect to see, and the appearance of the e? surfacesi? of our experience. But we delude ourselves if we believe that we grasp the e? inner naturei? of energy, or change, of e? being herei? and e? changing intoi? .
The whole thrust of critical sceptical philosophy, of epistemology, in the West, since
223
? Hume and Kant, has been to mark out empirically, through observation and meditation the limits of human understanding in thought and language. The Tao is not deity. It does not produce by intentional design. It is unknown and unknowing. The vortex of its events produces space and time. It is the waves, the oscillations, the regular vibrations, we use to measure the succession of events we call time. And it is the contiguities that we use to measure immediate space, and therefore the speed of light and by deduction the distances of the remote universe.
The Tao exists in itself and not for itself. Taoism attempts to loosen the bonds that bind us, to free us from time. Its aspiration is not to understand nature, but to -0? nature. e? The wise put Self last, and it comes firsti? says the Tao Te Ching. Its method is to work e? without actioni? , ? :? ? 0? , that is without self-conscious intent, without striving or stress, without endless words. Its tenor is calmness, to be the water surface that reflects light without intention, that accepts
224
?
images without grasping and retains them without possessing. Its appearance is an uncultivated innocence e? sorrowful like a baby that has lost its mother, stupid like one who has lost the wayi? as Chuang-tzu says, tongue in cheek. If the natural world cannot be trusted in its lack of intent, what can? If simplicity will not get us there, how will complexity achieve it?
Being never quite at ease, that is the dangerous road for the mind. To be, on the other hand, a creative source, to make the difficult happen as if spontaneously, to concentrate the mind on the object until the self vanishes, without being aware that it has vanished, is the Way. In this our greatest enemy is our sense of time. We find beauty in the timeless, virtue in the selfless, truth in the uncarved and unadorned. Though we, through natural selection, are nothing if not the creatures of time, the result of event, the products of the sieve of generations, the stability that preserves mutation, we are also that which contemplates time, reflects on
225
? process, inhabits the Now. Not to be lost in language games is the Way, not to believe, not to follow, not to own. Death does not exist for the self, only dying. Dying is the vanishing of self- consciousness. To be aware and conscious but without self-consciousness is to have vanished, as a smile vanishes or a thought.
Liberation from time is achieved by destroying the grasping, the desire that links us to time. e? How can I free myself? i? asks the pupil. e? Who is imprisoning you? i? says the Master. e? No onei? replies the pupil. e? Then why do you seek to be free? i? Not to contemplate, or to concentrate, to strain at awareness, or to restrain the body, but to eliminate thought is the Way. To abandon learning and embrace the natural.
In it there is nothing special. There is no mystical concept to be grasped, no higher essence to be striven for. It is difficult because it is so simple, so contrary to the idea of e? progressi? and e? culturei? , to the ways of power or science, e? truthi? or religion, self-conscious morality or
226
? social planning. The world is simply there. We are simply beings. What we strive after in time is only achievable through the timeless. What we yearn for is already there, unchanged by our yearning. e? Mount Lu in mist and rain, the River Che in flood. Before I saw them, to see them - endless longing. I went there and came back. There was nothing special. Mount Lu in mist and rain, the River Che in flood. i?
Time is not the sky and the river. Time is the mind conscious of change. To escape from time is not to e? enteri? a realm called the timeless, or to e? falli? into the Void. There is nowhere to fall to out of this world. There is no place to be in that is not in time, because both world and time are in this mind. Then why is living so difficult for us?
Time in the mind is memory. Memory feeds regret and anticipation, hope and disillusionment. We store mind in objects and in language, in mathematics and in scientific theory, in buildings and in events, in the
227
? processes and the things we create, even in our affections, even in our love. The object, the words, the notation, the history, the love, may be preserved even when the transient human body dies, and in turn they may create thought and feeling in a living mind. Everything we make and do tells what we are. e? Where can a man hide? Where can a man hide? i? Memory is mindi? s magic and its fate. Memory is mindi? s hurt and its delight. Our whole past lives that are present in the living Now, are nothing but memory. The poetry and the history of the Ti? ang Dynasty are still here. The pictures are in the poems, even though the Ti? ang Dynasty itself is gone, like water or clouds.
228
? %? ,4? ? ? ? ? 03 ( 365-427 AD) Returning to Live in the Country
Young, I was always free of common feeling.
It was in my nature to love the hills and mountains.
Mindlessly I was caught in the dust-filled trap. Waking up, thirty years had gone.
The caged bird wants the old trees and air. Fish in their pool miss the ancient stream.
I plough the earth at the edge of South Moor. Keeping life simple, return to my plot and garden. My place is hardly more than a few fields.
My house has eight or nine small rooms.
Elm-trees and Willows shade the back.
Plum-trees and Peach-trees reach the door.
Misted, misted the distant village.
Drifting, the soft swirls of smoke.
Somewhere a dog barks deep in the winding lanes. A cockerel crows from the top of the mulberry tree. No heat and dust behind my closed doors.
229
? ? ? My bare rooms are filled with space and silence. Too long a prisoner, captive in a cage,
Now I can get back again to Nature.
230
? Returning to Live in the Country II
I always loved to walk the woods and mountains, Pleased myself, lost in fields and marshes.
Now I go out with nephews, nieces,
In the wilds, parting hazel branches,
Back and forth through the mounds and hollows, All around us signs of ancient peoples,
Remnants of their broken hearths and well-heads, Mulberry and bamboo groves neglected.
Stop and ask the simple woodsman,
e? Where have all these people gone now? i?
Turning he looks quietly and tells me,
e? Nothingi? s left of them, theyi? re finished. i?
One world. Though the lives we lead are different, In courts of power or labouring in the market, These I know are more than empty words:
Our lifei? s a play of light and shade,
Returning at last to the Void.
? 231
? Reading the Classic of Hills and Seas
In the summer grass and trees have grown. Over my roof the branches meet.
Birds settle in the leaves.
I enjoy my humble place.
Ploughingi? s done, the ground is sown, Time to sit and read my book.
The narrow deeply-rutted lane
Means my friends forget to call. Content, I pour the new Spring wine, Go out and gather food Ii? ve grown.
A light rain from the East,
Blows in on a pleasant breeze.
I read the story of King Mu,
See pictures of the Hills and Seas.
One glance finds all of heaven and earth. What pleasures can compare with these?
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