44: Chapter 44 Daxiangguo Temple

Lu Mingyuan arrived in Bianliang at dusk on the third day.

When he bid farewell to Shaolin, Jingchen was still sweeping Shizhuang Courtyard, the rustling of his broom neither hurried nor slow; Hui Ke still rose at the Hour of the Tiger to sweep that locust tree that had not blossomed in seventy-two years; Zen Master Huijue did not come to see him off, only writing four characters on the stone pillar the night he left, using his finger dipped in snow—

"Resting is Bodhi."

The handwriting gradually melted in the morning light, snowmelt flowing down the stone pillar and seeping into the stone steps trodden by countless people over a thousand years.

Lu Mingyuan did not ask any more questions.

He simply headed east.

Bianliang City was different from Zhongnan Mountain, different from Longhu Mountain, and even more different from Shaoshi Mountain.

There were no Daoist temples shrouded in mist, no sword formations with Sword Qi piercing the sky, and no silent Zen courtyards where snow fell softly. There was only the clamor of carriages and horses, the roar of crowds, fluttering wine banners, and the shouts of street vendors.

His cultivation at the Perfection of Foundation Establishment allowed him to clearly perceive everything around him—merchants haggling in tea houses, diners playing drinking games in restaurants, children chasing each other at the mouth of alleys, and a blind old man singing for money at the bridge. In every one of the three hundred and sixty trades, there were Mortals.

It had been a long time since he had walked among Mortals.

"This lay devotee, have you come to offer incense?"

A Little Novice Monk stood by his side, his shaved head showing a hint of blue, his monk robes washed until they were white, holding a lantern that had not yet been lit.

Lu Mingyuan was startled: "How did you know, little Master?"

The little novice pointed at his waist: "The jade hanging on you has a glow. Master says that those with this kind of glow are all here to offer incense."

Lu Mingyuan looked down at the songyun jade pendant; the green jade gave off a faint, warm luster in the twilight. He smiled: "Your Master has good eyes."

"Of course." The little novice lifted his head proudly and pointed toward the red walls and green tiles ahead. "That is Daxiangguo Temple. Come with me, lay devotee, I'll take you through the side gate; the main gate is crowded right now."

---

Passing through small alleys and around vegetable patches, the sound of a bell drifted from behind a half-closed small door.

It wasn't the deep, powerful sound of an ancient bronze bell like at Shaolin, but a clearer, more lingering sound, like autumn rain dripping from the eaves or silkworms eating mulberry leaves.

Lu Mingyuan stepped into the temple.

Daxiangguo Temple was unlike any monastery he had ever seen. Shaolin was an ancient temple in the deep mountains, with blue bricks, gray tiles, and dense pines and cypresses; here, the halls and pavilions were layered, magnificent and golden, with pilgrims weaving through like fabric and lamps as bright as day.

He passed through a moon gate, and the view suddenly opened up—a nine-story glazed pagoda stood in the twilight, with bronze bells hanging from every eave corner. As the evening breeze blew, the bells sounded like shattered jade falling onto a plate. On the plaza beneath the pagoda, hundreds of believers were walking around it, chanting under their breath with slow and steady steps.

Lu Mingyuan stood beneath the pagoda and watched for a long time.

Behind every face was a story, and every story sought one thing—peace, wealth, the elimination of calamities, longevity, the salvation of the deceased, or blessings for children and grandchildren.

What they sought were the affairs of Mortals.

But the place they sought them from was the Buddha.

---

The bell rang again.

Lu Mingyuan followed the sound and arrived before a grand hall. On the plaque above the hall were three large characters: Prayer Hall.

He pushed the door and entered; the interior was extremely spacious and already seventy to eighty percent full. Directly ahead was a three-foot-high dharma platform, upon which sat an old monk with white hair and eyebrows, holding a wooden fish.

The sound of the wooden fish began.

Tuk—tuk—tuk—

Extremely slow, extremely steady, every strike hitting the gaps between breaths.

Then, hundreds of people in the hall spoke simultaneously:

"namo amituofo."

Lu Mingyuan's heart jolted.

It wasn't because the sound was particularly loud, but because there was something in it he had never heard before—it was hundreds of hearts, in the same moment, chanting the same phrase, seeking the same thing.

They did not seek Epiphany, they did not seek Divine Ability, they did not seek to become Buddhas or ancestors. They only sought that at the moment of death, there would be a Buddha's name to guide them to rebirth in the Western Pure Land.

This was the Pure Land School.

Not relying on self-power, but on the power of another.

Not relying on wisdom, but on faith and vows.

Not relying on this life, but on the next.

Lu Mingyuan sat down in a corner.

He did not join in the chanting, only listening quietly.

A quarter of an hour, half an hour, an hour. On the faces of those believers, a change gradually appeared—fatigue faded, anxiety melted away, and even their wrinkles seemed a bit shallower. Their eyes looked at the Buddha statue, yet seemed to be looking at nothing; their mouths chanted the Buddha's name, yet they seemed to be chanting nothing.

He suddenly remembered Zen Master Huijue's words: "Resting is Bodhi."

But the people here were not "resting."

They were "returning."

Returning to a name, returning to a Buddha's name, returning to a Western Pure Land they had never seen but believed in without doubt.

The sound of the wooden fish grew faster, and the chanting grew louder. The old monk suddenly opened his eyes and struck the wooden fish heavily—

Tuk!

The entire hall fell silent.

The old monk's voice rang out, aged and steady:

"When ten thousand thoughts fly in chaos, how does one stop them?"

No one answered.

The old monk answered himself:

"Stop them with a single thought. Thought after thought returns to one thought, and every thought returns to Amituofo. Amituofo is your place of return."

The wooden fish started again, and the chanting started again.

Lu Mingyuan stood up and quietly exited the Prayer Hall.

---

The night was deep, and the pilgrims had all dispersed.

Lu Mingyuan sat alone on the stone railing by the Life-Release Pond, looking at the moon's reflection in the water. There were fish and turtles in the pond, floating quietly.

"Does the benefactor not chant the Buddha's name?"

A voice came from behind. A middle-aged monk stood under the moonlight, his robes neat, holding prayer beads.

"This Disciple listened for half an hour just now," Lu Mingyuan said.

"Only listened, didn't chant?"

"Didn't chant."

The monk smiled and sat down beside him.

"This poor monk's dharma name is Jingan, I am the Guest Prefect here. Is the benefactor visiting a Pure Land Practice Site for the first time?"

Lu Mingyuan nodded.

"Most who come for the first time are not used to it," Jingan said. "We do not practice Chan here, we do not recite sutras, we do not meditate, and we do not hold mantras. We only chant the Buddha's name, only seeking rebirth."

He paused.

"The benefactor listened for half an hour just now; did you have any realizations?"

Lu Mingyuan was silent for a moment.

"This Disciple was wondering, are those hundreds of people chanting for the Buddha, or for themselves?"

Jingan did not answer immediately. He looked at the moon's reflection in the pond, slowly moving the prayer beads in his hand.

"This poor monk also asked that question thirty years ago."

He smiled.

"Back then, this poor monk had just been ordained and was practicing in a small temple on Zhongnan Mountain, meditating every day and contemplating 'who is the one chanting the Buddha's name'. Then one day, an old woman came to the temple. She walked from a hundred miles away, traveling for three days and nights just to offer a lamp before the Buddha. She knelt in the hall and chanted the Buddha's name for three hours, chanting until her face was covered in tears."

"This poor monk asked her: Old Bodhisattva, what are you chanting?"

"What did she say?"

"She said: I'm chanting for my son," Jingan said. "Her son died three years ago in a foreign land, his remains never found. She heard that chanting the Buddha's name could help her son be reborn in a good place, so she chanted all the way from her village to the temple, and then all the way back from the temple."

He looked at the moon's reflection, his voice growing softer.

"Only then did this poor monk understand that those who chant the Buddha's name are not chanting for the Buddha, nor for themselves, but for that person in their heart they cannot let go of."

Lu Mingyuan's heart stirred slightly.

"The benefactor asked just now whether those hundreds of people were chanting for the Buddha or themselves," Jingan said. "This poor monk cannot answer that. But I know that in each of their hearts, there is someone they cannot let go of."

He paused.

"Some are parents they can't let go of, some are children, some are the deceased, and some are themselves."

"But what they chant is the same Buddha's name."

After Jingan left, Lu Mingyuan sat by the pond for a long time.

He remembered when he was seven years old, the old Martial Master in the village said: "When you have something on your mind, just perform a set of fist techniques. As you practice, the matter will disappear."

He didn't understand then.

At this moment, he suddenly understood.

What the old Martial Master said and what these people chanting the Buddha's name did were the same thing. When there is something on your mind, chant the Buddha's name. As you chant, the matter fades.

It's not that the matter is gone, but that the mind has shifted from the "matter" to the "Buddha."

The moment it shifts is the rest.

The moment of rest is the return.

The place of return isn't necessarily in the West. The place of return is that turning point where the mind shifts from ten thousand thoughts to a single thought. That turning point is right in the heart.

He suddenly really wanted to see that Pure Land Master and ask about this doubt.

But he didn't know where that Master was.

He could only wait.

At the Hour of the Rabbit the next day, Lu Mingyuan came to the Prayer Hall again.

This time, he sat among the crowd. To his left and right were white-haired elderly people; some were coughing, some were counting prayer beads, and some were closing their eyes and chanting under their breath.

The sound of the wooden fish rose. The chanting of the Buddha's name rose.

Lu Mingyuan opened his mouth but made no sound.

He listened for a quarter of an hour, two quarters, half an hour.

Suddenly, he spoke.

"namo amituofo."

This was the first time in his life he had chanted the Buddha's name. His voice was very light, drowned out by the chanting of hundreds of people, almost inaudible. But he heard it himself.

The moment those six syllables left his mouth, he suddenly understood one thing—

It wasn't him chanting for the Buddha.

It was the Buddha chanting for him.

Chanting for that scholar who had come all the way from Heyin City, chanting for that seeker of the Dao who drew talismans on Longhu Mountain, chanting for that youth who realized the sword of protection on Wudang Mountain, chanting for that junior who took up the nine-hundred-year-old question on Mount Qingcheng, chanting for that person who stood in the snow for three days on Shaoshi Mountain.

Chanting for that person in his heart he could not let go of.

The person he could not let go of was himself.

---

After the morning service ended, Lu Mingyuan stood up to leave.

"Benefactor, please stay a moment."

A voice came from behind. Lu Mingyuan turned and saw an old monk standing before the dharma platform; it was the one who had led the chanting last night. The old monk had white hair and eyebrows, a lean face, and eyes as clear as autumn water in the morning light.

"This poor monk is Huiyuan," the old monk said. "Jingan said last night that a lay devotee from Zhongnan Mountain sat by the pond all night."

He paused.

"Is the benefactor the esteemed Disciple of Daoist Master Xuanweizi?"

Lu Mingyuan was startled: "The Master knows my Master?"

Huiyuan smiled.

"Twenty years ago, an old Daoist sat in this temple's Prayer Hall for three days and nights. After sitting, he said one sentence to this poor monk."

"What sentence?"

"He said: The Pure Land is in the heart, not in the West."

Lu Mingyuan was stunned.

Huiyuan looked at him.

"For these three months, the benefactor has visited famous mountains, sought talismans and asked of swords, practiced Zen and debated the Dao. You sat by the pond all night last night, and chanted the Buddha's name once in the hall this morning."

He paused.

"This poor monk wants to ask the benefactor: Do you dare to stop?"

Lu Mingyuan was silent for a long time.

He remembered that night in the Shizhuang Courtyard at Shaolin when Huijue asked if he had ever built a pavilion for himself; he remembered Hui Ke sweeping the same spot at the same time every day for seventy-two years without ever seeing the tree's flowers; he remembered Jingchen saying, "That moment is the entire meaning of this poor monk sweeping this courtyard."

He looked up at Huiyuan.

"This Disciple does not know."

Huiyuan was neither disappointed nor approving.

He simply smiled and took out a string of aloeswood prayer beads from his sleeve, handing it over.

"If the benefactor does not know, then chant for now. When the day comes that you do know, come find this poor monk again."

Lu Mingyuan took the prayer beads. The aloeswood felt warm in his hand, each bead carrying the body heat of countless years. When he looked down, he saw two tiny characters carved on one of them:

"Resting is."

He looked up, but Huiyuan had already turned and was walking out of the hall. The morning light flooded in through the door, casting a faint golden edge on the old monk's silhouette.

Lu Mingyuan stood in the hall, gripping the string of prayer beads.

After a long while, he softly chanted a phrase:

"namo amituofo."