67: Chapter 67 One Hundred Days of Seclusion (Part 1)

Early the next morning, Lu Mingyuan went to the east wing to pay his respects to Xuanweizi.

The old man was brewing tea. A small clay pot sat on the stove, steam bubbling up with the fragrance of tea filling the room.

"Have you decided?" Xuanweizi asked without looking up.

"I have," Lu Mingyuan said. "Disciple wishes to enter seclusion for a period of time to organize everything I have learned over the past five years."

Xuanweizi nodded and added a slice of ginger to the pot.

"For how long?"

"I don't know," Lu Mingyuan paused. "Until I have sorted it all out."

Xuanweizi smiled. He lifted the clay pot, poured tea into two coarse bowls, and pushed one toward Lu Mingyuan.

"Then sort it out. Sort it out until you no longer wish to."

Lu Mingyuan picked up the bowl; the tea was scalding hot, and he took small sips.

"Where will you go into seclusion?"

"The room where I used to stay will be fine."

Xuanweizi shook his head: "That room is too noisy. That boy Qingyuan is always coming and going, chopping wood and carrying water; it’s not quiet enough."

He thought for a moment and pointed toward the back of the mountain: "There is a cave behind the temple where I lived when I was young. It’s not large, but it’s peaceful. Go there."

Lu Mingyuan stood up and bowed.

Xuanweizi waved his hand: "Go on. If you're hungry, come out; there's food on the stove."

The cave was not large, about ten feet square.

The entrance faced east, letting in the morning sunlight. Inside was a stone bed and a stone stool, both carved by Xuanweizi years ago. The stone bed was covered with dried straw; though old, it lacked any musty smell—likely because Xuanweizi often aired it out.

Lu Mingyuan stood at the cave entrance for a long time.

Morning light filtered through the pine forest, falling on him in strands. Birds were chirping cheerfully. The distant mountains flickered in and out of the mist like a light ink painting.

He took a deep breath and turned to enter the cave.

He sat cross-legged on the stone bed and closed his eyes.

The seclusion officially began.

On the first day, he did nothing.

He just sat there, listening to his own breathing. It was slow and light, like the mountain breeze. Yet his mind was not still. His experiences over the years rotated before his eyes like a revolving lantern, scene by scene.

The talismans of Longhu Mountain, the swords of Wudang Mountain, and the intent of Mount Qingcheng.

The snow of Shaolin, the bell tolls of Daxiangguo Temple, and the brahma sounds of the Leiyin Ruins.

The sound of reading at Yuelu, the osmanthus flowers of White Deer Grotto, the misty rain of Junshan Mountain, the hidden weapons of the Tang Clan, and the sword discussions of Mount Hua.

And those people—Immortal Master Yu Shu, the Pavilion Keeper, Perfected Master Changkong, Jiang Yichen, Zen Master Huijue, Hui Ke, Tang Zhuo, the Gang Leader, the The Palace Guardian Taoist, and that young swordsman who chased him asking, "What have you realized?"

One by one, they passed through his heart.

He opened his eyes and looked at the rocks on the cave ceiling. There were water stains on the rocks, which over the years had formed streaks of patterns. Those winding patterns looked like paths.

He suddenly remembered Xuanweizi's words.

"Cultivation is not a race."

But he had still been rushing for five years.

Now, he was going to walk those paths once more.

On the second day, he began to organize.

Not just thinking, but organizing. Like untangling a mess of hemp, finding the end first, then smoothing it out strand by strand.

He started with Longhu Mountain.

Longhu Mountain taught him talismans. Talismans have three realms—using form to carry intent, using intent to carry the Dao, and using the Dao to carry the heart. He had drawn so many talismans, but his proudest was that "Following Heart-Calming Talisman." But how was that talisman drawn?

He thought for a long time and remembered.

It was that evening when he sat outside the Hall of Dharma Transmission, thinking of nothing and seeking nothing. Then he picked up the brush and drew it.

Zen Master Huijue said that was "faith" and "sincerity."

But what is "faith"? Believing that the talisman can calm the heart?

No.

It was believing in his own heart at that moment.

His heart was still at that moment, so the talisman he drew was still. It wasn't the talisman that calmed him; it was he who made the talisman calm.

A talisman is but a shadow of the heart.

He set this thought aside and continued to organize.

Wudang Mountain taught him the sword. There are ten thousand types of swords, but they all return to one: "protection." When he saved that child in the Needle-Grinding Cave, he didn't think of any sword techniques or Moves. He simply saw the child falling and reached out to pull him.

That reaching out was the sword.

Mount Qingcheng taught him the heart. When the heart is open, all methods are open. But how to open it? Perfected Master Changkong didn't say. Jiang Yichen didn't say either. They just let him see, let him think, and let him realize it for himself.

He thought for a long time and understood.

To be "open" is not to know. It is to no longer have the thought of whether it is "open or not" in the heart.

Just like walking. When walking, one doesn't think "I am walking." When eating, one doesn't think "I am eating." When breathing, one doesn't think "I am breathing."

When that thought is gone from the heart, it is open.

The third day, the fourth day, the fifth day.

He organized mountain by mountain, temple by temple, academy by academy, and sect by sect.

Shaolin taught him "not established through words." But without words, how is the Dharma transmitted? Zen Master Huijue said the snow just falls. He sat for three days, thinking of nothing. During those three days, he had no words, but his heart was clearer than ever before.

Daxiangguo Temple taught him "ten thousand thoughts returning to one." He funneled all his thoughts into the Buddha's name; as he chanted, even the Buddha's name vanished. What was that? He didn't know. But he remembered the feeling—like a drop of water falling into the sea, unable to distinguish the water from the sea.

The Leiyin Ruins taught him "the Dharma-body is ever-present." He entered samadhi at the ruins and heard brahma sounds. Those brahma sounds didn't come from outside; they arose from within his heart. He suddenly understood that the Buddha is not in the Western Heaven, but in the heart. The Dharma-body is not in the temple, but in the place where thoughts arise.

He noted all of these down and set them aside.

On the tenth day, he began to organize Confucianism.

Yuelu Academy taught him to "investigate things to exhaustively understand their principles." He debated with those scholars for three days and still didn't understand. But now he did—investigating things isn't about breaking them into pieces, but seeing the principle through the object. Like looking at a flower: it's not about the petals, stamens, or sepals, but seeing why it blooms, why it falls, why it is this color, and why it looks this way.

White Deer Grotto Academy taught him that "Nothing exists outside the mind." He had debated "the the flower in the rock" with that Young Scholar of the School of Mind until he was red in the face. But thinking about it now, the youth was right. When the flower is in the rocks and I have not seen it, the flower and the mind are both silent. When I come to see it, the flower and the mind both become clear. The flower is still the same flower, but after seeing it, it is no longer that flower.

The Beggars Gang of Junshan Mountain taught him "the greatest of heroes." The Gang Leader said that being a hero isn't about fighting and killing, but about protecting those who should be protected. During those few days at Junshan Mountain, he had seen the Gang Leader stand up for a complete stranger and saw the members risk their lives to protect a village. That was not the Dao, yet that was precisely the Dao.

The Tang Clan taught him that "skill and clumsiness arise from each other." Tang Zhuo said that extreme skill is clumsiness, and extreme clumsiness is skill. He didn't believe it. But later at Mount Hua, he saw those swordsmen: some had a sword Move so clumsy it was deadly, yet impossible to avoid; others had a Move so skillful it was brilliant, yet easily seen through. He believed it then.

Mount Hua taught him that "the way of the sword is the way of the heart." He stood before Zhenyue Palace, looking at the Five Peaks like swords, and thought for a whole night. At dawn, he understood—ten thousand swords return to the source, and the source is not in the sword, but in the heart.

On the twenty-first day, he finished organizing all of this.

Five years of travel, nineteen places, and countless sights were all laid out in his heart. Neat and categorized. Like stalls in a marketplace: this one selling talismans, that one selling swords, this one selling Zen, and that one selling principles. Clear and distinct, not interfering with each other.

But he still felt something was wrong.

These things were placed separately. But his Dao could not be separate.

His Dao was called "Heart as the Mysterious Pivot."

What is a "Shu"? It is the hinge of a door. The door opens and closes, but the Shu does not Move. Yet the Shu is connected to the door, and the door is connected to heaven and earth.

His heart was that Shu.

But were these talismans, swords, Zen, and principles the door? Or were they heaven and earth?

He didn't know.

He only knew that he had to make them Move.

Not moving separately, but moving together.

Like a wheel: the spokes turn individually, but they are all connected to the hub. The hub is the heart. When the heart Moves, all methods Move.

But how to make them Move?

He sat on the stone bed and thought for a long time.

He couldn't figure it out.

On the twenty-second day, he stopped thinking.

He sat, just sat.

No organizing, no thinking, no questioning.

Sitting and listening to his own breathing. It was slow and light. Listening and listening, the breathing vanished. Only the sitting remained.

After an unknown amount of time, he suddenly "saw" the Dantian.

Inside the Dantian, the Primordial Spirit from his Soul Transformation sat quietly. Around the Primordial Spirit, those talismanic scripts, Sword Intent, Zen Intent, and the Qi of principles, which were originally in their own places, now began to flow slowly.

It wasn't he who made them Move. They were moving on their own.

Like clouds in the mountains, drifting on their own without wind.

Like water in a stream, flowing on its own without being pushed.

He watched those things flow, and as they flowed, he suddenly discovered—they weren't flowing randomly. They were flowing in one direction.

Flowing into his heart.

He suddenly understood.

It wasn't about making them Move. It was about letting the heart be still. When the heart is still, they Move on their own. When the heart does not disturb, they return on their own.

Return to where?

Return to where they belong.

The thirtieth day.

He opened his eyes and looked at the cave entrance.

The sunlight was shining in, spreading a layer of golden yellow on the ground.

He looked down at his hands.

They were still the same hands. But he knew something was different.

Inside the Dantian, those flowing things were still moving. But the trajectory had changed—they were no longer flowing separately but were merging together, forming a vortex.

The vortex wasn't large, but it was very heavy. So heavy it felt as if it would suck in heaven and earth.

He didn't know what it was.

But he knew it was the embryonic form of "Wanxiang True Qi."

He had to continue.

There was still much to organize.

He closed his eyes and continued to sit.

At the cave entrance, the sunlight slowly moved past and then slowly moved back.

One day after another.