Charles Belbin

Yu Xiang Temple

Simple folk and a 
simple life. They’re 
Bai, layman, nominally
Buddhist with lots of 
other elements. How did
they all get here?  They
just seemed to have
ended up here.  Asked
if the officials interfere
with the running of
the temple one old
guy with a quick smile
says, ‘If I say they do,
they don’t; if I say they
don’t, they do.’  Donations
have supplied a lot of new
figures—a laughing Buddha,
a Quan-yin, a Sleeping Buddha—
with the vague hope of some
tourists and pilgrims coming,
but no one’s overly concerned
about it.  The blue robed,
grizzled, slightly worldly
abbot says the officials
interfere but don’t give
him any money (he’s also
the head of the danwei). 
But that doesn’t bother
him much he smiles.  An
open porch with a wood stove
for boiling water at one end
and a table and stools for 
tea for guests at the other
end.  A good sized welcoming
enclave lined with chairs
with well worn cushions and
weathered inexpensive
reproductions of good poems
on the walls.  Nothing seems
very deliberate and their
ready smiles and good nature
and good cheer seem a matter
of luck and happenstance.
The women of the kitchen
where we have lunch have
worn faces that reflect
good hearts.  Up the cliff
in one of the oldest pavilions
above and behind a refurbished
one are three old worn figures
probably from the influence of
Song: Lao-zi on the left,
Buddha in the middle and
Confucius on the right.
Perhaps that is the wisdom
that makes the place
so much a song out of
Tao Yuan-ming’s heart.