47: Chapter 47 The Buddhist Ritual of Empty Flowers
Luoyang City, late spring in the third month.
When Lu Mingyuan stepped into the city, it was the liveliest time of the day. The clamor of the East Market could be heard three streets away, and the wine flags of the West Market fluttered in the spring breeze. Merchants, messengers, vendors, and entertainers from all directions crowded this thousand-year-old imperial capital until it was impassable.
He was in no hurry to find anyone.
He simply followed the flow of people, watching entertainers perform fire-breathing and sword-swallowing, listening to the storyteller in the teahouse strike his gavel, watching a woman chase and scold a mischievous child at an alley entrance, and seeing an old man sitting alone by the bridge, fishing.
After walking for an hour, he stopped at an alley entrance.
A wooden sign stood at the entrance, with four words written crookedly upon it:
"empty flower buddhist rituals."
The handwriting was extremely ugly, like a child's graffiti, with ink dripping down to the lower edge of the sign. Yet within those four characters, there was an indescribable quality—not strength of stroke, but a sense of "not caring."
Lu Mingyuan watched for a moment, then stepped into the alley.
The alley was deep and grew narrower as he walked, the plaster on the walls peeling to reveal the adobe beneath. After walking for about the time it takes for an incense stick to burn, his vision suddenly opened up—
A tiny courtyard with three dilapidated rooms, an old locust tree in the center, and a crooked-legged wooden table set beneath the tree.
Several items were placed on the table:
A cup of tea—the tea was cold, and the leaves had sunk to the bottom;
A mirror—the mirror was broken, split into three shards;
A bunch of flowers—the flowers were made of paper, their colors completely faded;
A basin of water—the water was muddy, unable to reflect a shadow.
A person sat behind the table.
Dressed in a gray cassock with a lean face, his features were as faint as distant mountains in the light shade of the spring day.
Zen Master Huijue.
He did not rise, but simply pointed to the cushion in front of the table.
Lu Mingyuan sat down on the cushion.
"You have come, Benefactor," Zen Master Huijue said, his tone like that of an ordinary person greeting a guest from afar.
Lu Mingyuan nodded.
"This Disciple has come."
Zen Master Huijue looked at the items on the table.
"Benefactor has come from afar, and this poor monk has nothing to offer. I have only these few humble gifts. Look, Benefactor—are you satisfied?"
Lu Mingyuan looked at the table.
Cold tea, a broken mirror, paper flowers, and muddy water.
He did not ask "What is this?" nor did he ask "What is the deeper meaning?" He simply looked, and he looked for a long time.
Then he reached out and picked up the cup of cold tea.
The tea was stone cold, the leaves had sunk, and a thin layer of dust floated on the surface. He raised the cup to his lips and took a gentle sip.
It was cold and astringent, with the stale taste of having sat overnight.
He set the teacup down.
Zen Master Huijue watched him, a very faint smile in his eyes.
"How is it?"
"It is cold," Lu Mingyuan said.
"Is it still drinkable?"
"It is drinkable."
Zen Master Huijue nodded and looked toward the broken mirror.
Lu Mingyuan picked up the mirror.
The surface was split into three shards, each reflecting half of his face—the left eye in one, the right eye in another, and the tip of his nose in the third. The three fragmented faces could not form a complete person, yet they looked more like himself than any whole mirror could.
Because that was how he looked at this moment.
A person still piecing himself together.
He set the mirror down.
Zen Master Huijue then looked toward the paper flowers.
Lu Mingyuan picked up the paper flowers.
The paper was of poor quality, yellowed and cut into a crude lotus shape. The color had faded until only a hint of pink remained, and with a gentle touch, paper scraps rustled down.
Yet the shape was indeed that of a lotus.
The lotus is the flower offered before the Buddha, a symbol of rising from the mud without being stained, and the subject of the cultivation phrase "Seeing the Buddha when the flower blooms."
And this was a paper lotus.
Fake, brittle, and something that would shatter with a touch.
Lu Mingyuan looked at the paper lotus in his hand and suddenly smiled.
It was not a bitter smile, but the kind of smile that said, "So that's how it is."
He set down the paper lotus and looked at the basin of muddy water.
The water was extremely muddy, with sand and silt churning so that the bottom could not be seen. When he looked down, he saw only his own face distorted, shattered, and blurred in the water, like a dream from which he had not yet awakened.
He did nothing more.
He simply watched quietly.
The courtyard was very quiet. The clamor from outside the alley drifted in through several layers of courtyards, muffled like sounds from another world.
The shadow of the locust tree shifted from the center of the courtyard to the east wall, and then from the east wall to the courtyard gate.
An unknown amount of time passed.
Zen Master Huijue spoke.
"During these three months, Benefactor has traveled through three mountains and three temples, seen countless people, and heard countless teachings," He said. "Benefactor thought he was seeking the truth."
He paused.
"But has Benefactor ever considered whether the one 'seeking the truth' is himself true or false?"
Lu Mingyuan's heart jolted.
"When Benefactor was at Shaolin, Hui Ke said 'the fist is just striking,' so Benefactor learned to only strike with his fists; Jingchen said 'that moment is the meaning,' so Benefactor learned to only look at that moment."
"When Benefactor was at the Pure Land, Huiyuan said 'Other-power is self-nature,' so Benefactor learned to recite the Buddha's name; he said 'Self-nature Amitabha,' so Benefactor learned to see his own nature."
"When Benefactor was at White Horse Temple, he heard the brahma sounds and thought he had gained confirmation; he saw the Sweeping Monk and thought he had seen the Legacy."
Zen Master Huijue's voice was very soft, yet every word was like a needle.
"Has Benefactor ever considered—these, too, are attachments?"
Lu Mingyuan was stunned.
"Benefactor broke one layer of attachment, only to establish a layer of 'breaking attachment.' The act of breaking attachment itself became a new attachment."
Zen Master Huijue picked up the paper lotus and gave it a gentle blow.
Paper scraps flew and fell into the basin of muddy water, instantly swallowed by the silt.
"Chengguan carved 'Put Down' for twenty years, and finally threw down his knife and laughed loudly," Zen Master Huijue said. "Does Benefactor know what he was laughing at?"
Lu Mingyuan slowly shook his head.
"He was laughing because—after carving for twenty years, he finally understood that the phrase 'Put Down' must also be put down."
The courtyard was silent.
Lu Mingyuan sat there, motionless.
Three years.
From Heyin to Zhongnan, from Longhu to Wudang Mountain, from Mount Qingcheng to Shaolin Temple, from Daxiangguo Temple to White Horse Temple.
He had visited famous mountains, paid respects to high masters, sought talismanic arts, realized Sword Intent, meditated on Zen secrets, recited the Buddha's name, and heard brahma sounds.
He thought he was seeking the truth.
He thought he was breaking attachments.
He thought that as long as he walked step by step, he would one day reach that place.
But at this moment, he finally understood—
That very "thought" was an attachment.
The heart "seeking the truth" was exactly what needed to be broken.
The act of "breaking attachment" was a new attachment.
He remembered the three thousand seven hundred and twenty-six instances of "Put Down" in Chengguan's stone chamber. Every single one was real, every single one was sincere, and every single one was the crystallization of twenty years of heart's blood.
But precisely because every one was real, sincere, and born of heart's blood—
Every single one was an attachment.
That last character, "Release," which was only half-carved, was not because he could not continue.
It was because there was no need to finish it.
Because the moment it was finished, it would become another attachment to "putting down."
Only that half-stroke was truly put down.
---
"Benefactor," Zen Master Huijue said.
Lu Mingyuan looked up.
"What does Benefactor think 'empty flower buddhist rituals' means?"
Lu Mingyuan was silent for a moment.
"Sky flowers are flowers in the air," he said. "If the eyes are diseased, they see sky flowers; if the eyes are healthy, the sky is inherently without flowers."
"And the Buddhist rites?"
"Buddhist rites are those that take the Dharma as their purpose," he said. "Seeing flowers with diseased eyes, telling dreams like a fool."
Zen Master Huijue nodded slightly.
"Cultivating the true through the false, revealing the true by means of the false," He said. "But if one clings to the 'true,' then that 'true' becomes another falsehood."
He looked at Lu Mingyuan.
"What Benefactor has cultivated these three months is precisely this."
Lu Mingyuan remained speechless for a long time.
Moonlight had risen unnoticed, shining coldly upon the small courtyard. The shadow of the old locust tree fell upon the ground, mottled like a shattered painting.
The four items were still on the table.
Cold tea, a broken mirror, paper flowers, and muddy water.
He suddenly understood what these four items were.
The cold tea was the paths he had walked—scalding at the start, but growing cold as he went.
The broken mirror was the people he had seen—each reflected only a part of him, yet together they could not form a complete answer.
The paper flowers were the truths he had realized—each looked real, yet each was false, shattering at a gentle touch.
The muddy water was his heart at this moment—silt and sand churning, unable to see the bottom, unable to reflect the moon.
Yet it was precisely these things that formed this "empty flower buddhist rituals."
Cultivating the true through the false.
Revealing the true by means of the false.
And in the end, even that "truth" must be put down.
Lu Mingyuan looked up at Zen Master Huijue.
"Zen Master, this Disciple has one more question."
Zen Master Huijue waited quietly.
"If breaking attachment is also attachment, then at this moment when this Disciple 'knows that breaking attachment is also attachment,' is this 'knowing' also an attachment?"
Zen Master Huijue smiled.
It was the first time Lu Mingyuan had seen him smile so heartily since meeting him—not a loud laugh, but the kind of smile that said, "I have finally waited for you to ask this."
"Benefactor asks a good question," Zen Master Huijue said. "This 'knowing' is indeed an attachment."
He paused.
"But if Benefactor were to put down even this 'knowing,' then 'putting down' itself would become an attachment. Chasing it down layer by layer in this way is never-ending."
Lu Mingyuan was stunned.
"Then... what should be done?"
Zen Master Huijue looked at him, his gaze full of compassion.
"Does Benefactor still remember those three days outside the Shaolin mountain gate?"
Lu Mingyuan nodded.
"At that time, Benefactor stood there, not asking, not thinking, not cultivating, just standing. On that day, did Benefactor ever think 'I am breaking attachments'?"
"...I did not."
"Did you ever think 'I am seeking the truth'?"
"...I did not."
"Did you ever think 'Is what I am doing right'?"
"...I did not."
Zen Master Huijue nodded slightly.
"Then that is it."
He rose and walked to the old locust tree. Moonlight fell upon his lean features, and in those eyes as clear as a cold pool, there were now both the hardships of a thousand years and a thousand years of gentleness.
"Benefactor sought for three years, realized for three months, and broke for three nights," He said. "But what truly brought Benefactor closer to the Dao were not those seekings, those realizations, or those breakings."
He paused.
"It was those three days outside the Shaolin mountain gate—not asking, not thinking, not cultivating, not realizing, just standing."
"It was that night in the Shizhuang Courtyard—not meditating on Zen, not reciting the Buddha's name, not sitting in zazen, just sitting."
"It is this moment—not chasing, not clinging, not putting down, just looking at these four things, drinking cold tea, looking into the broken mirror, picking up the paper flower, and observing the muddy water."
He looked at Lu Mingyuan.
"Does Benefactor understand?"
---
Lu Mingyuan sat there, motionless.
Moonlight fell upon his body, upon the prayer beads in his hand, upon the cup of cold tea, the broken mirror, the bunch of paper flowers, and the basin of muddy water.
He suddenly remembered that night in the Shaolin Shizhuang Courtyard, when Zen Master Huijue said "the snow is just falling."
He suddenly remembered that morning in the Martial Monks Courtyard, when Hui Ke said "the fist is just striking."
He suddenly remembered what Jingchen said while sweeping the snow about "that moment."
He suddenly remembered that recitation of the Buddha's name in the Pure Land Hall, and that brahma sounds at White Horse Temple.
He suddenly remembered Chengguan's three thousand seven hundred and twenty-six instances of "Put Down," and that last unfinished character "Release."
All the seekings, all the realizations, all the breakings, all the attachments—
In the end, they all returned to that word: "just."
The snow is just falling, the fist is just striking, the tea is just being drunk, the mirror is just reflecting, the flower is just being seen, the water is just being observed.
Not seeking the true, not breaking attachment, not putting down.
Just so.
Lu Mingyuan looked up.
Under the moonlight, his eyes were as clear as when he first entered the Dao, yet as muddy as if he had walked through thousands of mountains and rivers.
He looked at Zen Master Huijue.
"Zen Master, this Disciple understands."
Zen Master Huijue did not ask "What do you understand?"
He simply nodded and turned to walk toward the courtyard gate.
Moonlight pulled his shadow long, falling upon the ground overgrown with wild grass, upon the crooked-legged wooden table, and upon those four items.
After three steps, He stopped.
He did not look back.
"Benefactor," He said.
Lu Mingyuan waited quietly.
"That day at Shaolin, this poor monk said 'the snow is just falling,'" He said. "Today, this poor monk will say one more thing—"
He paused.
"After the snow falls, there is also the melting of the snow."
Having spoken, He stepped out of the courtyard gate and disappeared into the entrance of the alley, vanishing into the depths of the moonlight as if he had never appeared.
Lu Mingyuan sat alone in the courtyard.
Moonlight was like water, and the shadow of the old locust tree was mottled. The four items on the table glinted with a cold light under the moon.
He reached out, picked up the cup of cold tea, and drank it in one gulp.
It was cold and astringent, with the stale taste of having sat overnight.
He set the teacup down.
He then picked up the broken mirror and looked into it by the moonlight.
The mirror showed three fragmented faces—the left eye, the right eye, the tip of the nose—which could not form a complete self.
He set the mirror down.
He then picked up a paper lotus.
The paper lotus was in his fingertips, broken and faded, ready to shatter with a gentle squeeze. He did not squeeze it, but simply looked at it, observing the crude paper, the clumsy cutting, and the completely faded color.
Then he placed the paper lotus back on the table.
He then looked down at the basin of muddy water.
Moonlight fell upon the water, but the moon could not be seen in the muddy depths, only a blurry halo of light. His face was distorted, shattered, and unclear in the water.
He did not look again.
He simply rose and walked toward the courtyard gate.
The moment he stepped out of the gate, he suddenly stopped.
He turned back and took one last look at that small courtyard, that old locust tree, that crooked-legged wooden table, and those four items.
Then he smiled.
It was not a bitter smile, nor a smile of triumph, nor a smile after an Epiphany.
It was just a smile.
Like the smile of Chengguan when he threw down his knife, like the smile of Hui Ke after sweeping the fallen leaves, like the smile of Jingchen after sweeping that "moment," like the smile of Huiyuan when he gifted the prayer beads, and like the smile of the Sweeping Monk at White Horse Temple when he said "I heard it."
After smiling, he turned and walked into the alley, into the boundless night of Luoyang City.
Behind him, the moonlight quietly illuminated the small courtyard.
It shone upon the old locust tree, upon the crooked-legged wooden table, and upon the four items on the table:
A cup of cold tea—it was cold, yet someone had drunk it.
A broken mirror—it was broken, yet someone had looked into it.
A bunch of paper flowers—they were fake, yet someone had seen them.
A basin of muddy water—it was muddy, yet someone had observed it.
empty flower buddhist rituals, now reaching Perfection.
After the snow falls, there is also the melting of the snow.