Our Mid-Autumn Festival

Author: Peng Guoliang / Yang Liang
Publisher:
Publishing Date: 2004-09-01
Features: "Moonlight shines, purple light glows, you offer moonlight, I light incense. Grandma kneels in the field to worship the moon, asking me to light a stick of incense. One stick of incense, may Grandpa buy a piece of land; two sticks of incense, may Grandma live a long life; three sticks of incense, may my sister give birth to a precious child; four sticks of incense, may my brother go to school. I also worship the moonlight, lighting a bundle of sugar candy every day." This is a book that provides a detailed introduction to China's traditional festival, the Mid-Autumn Festival. It meticulously records the customs of the Mid-Autumn Festival during the Song, Yuan, Ming, and Qing dynasties, as well as the customs of different ethnic groups in China on this day throughout various historical periods. It combines both entertainment and knowledge. Excerpt: Moonlight and Poets / Artists are indeed extraordinarily talented individuals because their emotions are particularly fervent; their imagination is exceptionally rich; their thoughts are highly refined; and their intuitive power is exceptionally strong—qualities that cannot be cultivated through later learning. However, no matter how exceptionally talented an artist may be, they cannot escape the influence of their environment. By "environment," it refers to both human factors such as politics, customs, and education, as well as natural elements like the clear moon, lush grass, radiant flowers, and towering mountains. All of nature has an impact. Each era has its representative writers, and their works are never free of the colors of their time. This concerns the human environment. As for the different aspects of interaction with nature, none can fail to affect the writer and not be reflected in their work. Sima Qian said well, "To wish for extraordinary charm in writing, one must travel to the famous mountains and great rivers of the world." This speaks to the relationship between artists and nature. I have occasionally browsed through the poetry of ancient Chinese scholars, observing the materials they used for description—such as wind, flowers, snow, and moon. While these were commonly used, the moon appeared more frequently. Let me take a few examples from Tang poetry: —"Together we gaze at the moon, tears should fall"—Bai Juyi —"The pine moon brings night coolness"—Meng Haoran —"Mountain moon reflects on the stone wall"—Wang Wei —"Mountain moon sits quietly"—Li Qi —"Moonlight is especially cool in autumn"—Li Yin —"Singing loudly, waiting for the bright moon," "Facing the moon on this stone," "Mountain moon follows us home," "A pot of wine among the flowers, drinking alone without companions, lifting the cup to invite the moon, three of us are formed by the reflection. The moon does not understand drinking, the shadow follows me alone. For a moment, I accompany the moon and the shadow, enjoy the joy while the springtime comes. I sing, and the moon wanders"—All of these are by Li Bai. —"The bright moon hangs in the middle of the sky," "The new moon does not rise high"—Above all, Du Fu —"Autumn moon shines on Xiangyang, bright moon hears oars rocking"—Liu Changqing (Others are omitted). These are just a few examples. Others, like Zhang Ruoxu's "Spring River, Flower Moon Night," are even more numerous. Why do poets favor using words like wind, flowers, snow, and moon? The main reason is that these words contain beauty, which is why poets often use them. Sima Qian once remarked on Qu Yuan's "Encountering Sorrow" with the words, "His conduct was pure, hence his praise of fragrant things." This is exactly the meaning. Moreover, the beauty of moonlight is different from that of "wind, flowers, snow." Moonlight is the most beautiful color, and blue is the color of cold, yet it is the essence of cold. Cold colors differ from warm colors. Warm colors like red can excite people, leading to thirst, anger, and restlessness. Blue, on the other hand, brings calmness and a sense of leisure and comfort. As for the variations born from blue, one is green—formed by the combination of blue and yellow. Painters consider yellow an ideal color (representing changes in will). Green gives hope, hence it is called the color of hope. Another is purple—formed by the combination of blue and red. Painters call purple the color of longing. The moon's blue is also unique. Its color is light, close to white, and its light is dimmer than the sun, tinged with gray. White is pure and free of self, while gray is close to black and melancholic, making people indifferent to material desires and fostering transcendent emotions, thereby igniting artistic impulses. Moreover, the world illuminated by the moon is night, a time for resting and recuperating, while the sun represents the struggle for life. The moonlit world is different from the sunlit one. The sunlit world presents a variety of colors, each attracting and confusing the mind, leaving one only focused on dealing with reality, with no room for lofty thoughts. In contrast, the moonlit world lacks self-contradictions, making people feel as if the "real world has vanished" and forget their ego. Under such pure and melancholic moonlight, people forget their small self and enter a realm of the great self. Freed from the constraints of limited reality, their imagination surges, lofty emotions boil, and artistic impulses cannot be restrained. Art—whether the art of life or the art of art—always requires beauty. Since moonlight is so beautiful, it is natural for poets to think of it when picking up their pens or to be inspired by it to write. Thus, moonlight truly helps artists create great works. No wonder artists often compose poetry under the moonlight, using its beauty as the backdrop for their art. Afterword: On the eve of the Mid-Autumn Festival, a man climbed onto his roof. He fanned himself with a large fan and sat on a small stool. He looked up at the moon, his gaze filled with confusion. Was the moon high in the sky, squeezed flat by the concrete jungle of the city? Was it polluted by car exhaust? Was it dazed by the glow of neon lights and the allure of wealth? "On the 15th of the eighth month, the Mid-Autumn Festival, I visit your home as a relative. Holding glutinous rice mooncakes in my left hand and a big hen in my right." The song drifted across the fields, carrying a touch of sadness. "The moon walks, and I walk too, carrying my basket behind the moon." What is in the moon's basket? If the moon were careless, it might just jump in and take a look. In the village's field, the man lay small on a bamboo mat. The moonlight above illuminated his childhood and his childhood fantasies. Zhang Guo, the old man who made straw sandals. His mother had told him. Who would wear the straw sandals Zhang Guo made? How much straw would Zhang Guo need to make straw sandals all year round? And who would pound the straw for him? His mother said Zhang Guo only came out on the 15th and 16th of each month, making straw sandals under a cassia tree. The rest of the time, he rode his donkey backward, traveling the world. Cassia tree? Wasn't there an old man named Wu Gang who kept chopping at it with an axe? With every blow, the cassia tree sighed softly, but as soon as the axe left, its mouth closed again. Wu Gang felling the cassia tree seemed endless, yet Wu Gang didn't care. It was a process, a way of survival. If Wu Gang didn't fell the cassia tree, he would face greater punishment. Like the rabbit pounding medicine, if it stopped, its life would be in danger. And what about Chang'e? Why couldn't she be friends with Zhang Guo? Did Zhang Guo not see her beauty? Chang'e danced alone, humming a sorrowful song. Was Wu Gang foolish or dull? He kept chopping at the innocent cassia tree with his annoying axe, completely ignoring Chang'e's dance and her song. Not even the rabbit knew to put down its work, to sew a needle, to build a bridge. If they could all put aside their tedious tasks and think about forming a family, the Moon Palace wouldn't be so cold and desolate. —"The courtyard floor is white, crows perch in the trees, silent dew dampens the cassia flowers." Tonight, the moon is bright, and everyone gazes at it. But who knows whose thoughts are filled with sorrow? This is a poem by Wang Jian of the Tang Dynasty. "Tonight, the moon is bright, and everyone gazes at it?" Now, fewer and fewer people look at the moon. The man dropped his fan to the ground. He wanted to smoke. He wanted his thoughts to become flickering sparks. He wanted to borrow a wisp of smoke to talk to the moon. In Fujian or somewhere else, a little girl was searching for bricks and tiles. She wanted to build a small tower about her own height in the square in front of her house. On the night of the Mid-Autumn Festival, the little girl and her friends, joyfully carrying wood and dry grass, pushed them into the center of the tower and set it on fire. "The blazing fire shot out from the gaps between the bricks, sometimes I would toss handfuls of salt onto the crimson little tower. The crackling sound came from the tower, followed by a bluish flame. The red-hot tiles made the tower even brighter and more beautiful. I clapped my hands in front of the tower, jumping and dancing, my two braids swaying gently on my shoulders." Did the man on the roof know that little girl? She was in his dream. The man was still thinking about the moon above. From afar, the moon looked beautiful, but it was a cold world. Who was Hou Yi? Who was Xi Wangmu? Who created the tragedy in the Moon Palace? Whose guilty hand was always hidden? Wu Gang's axe was meant to fell the cassia tree, but the hand was too large, too formless. The entire moon was shrouded in the shadow of that black hand. Still, some people knelt, bowing and worshipping, offering mooncakes and fruits on tables. They worshipped the moon, sacrificed to the moon, played with the moon, and admired the moon, all centered around the moon. A thousand people, a thousand moons. "The ancients did not see the moon of today, yet today's moon has shone on the ancients." Ancient poetry goes: "Alone I climb the tower, thoughts as vast as the sky. Moonlight like water, water like the sky. Who among those who played with the moon is here today? The scenery is faintly like last year." That gentleman who stood on the tower, lost in thought, had seen the moon of today, but he did not know that the moon of today was also shining on a man lost in thought on the rooftop. Compared to the full moon, people always prefer the bright, round moon. Yet sometimes, the bright, round moon may evoke sadness and tears. Under the painting curtain, a pair of pure-hearted people lean on the red railings, pointing to the pink wall outside. A crescent moon, though just a sliver, curved like eyebrows, evokes endless charm and joy. The clear light of the moon shines across the land. Some falls on the robes of lovers, some on the faces of wandering children, some on the piled-up bones on the battlefield, some on the pairs of mandarin ducks by the jade pool. These feelings are clearly distinct. Some are joyful, some sorrowful, some couples share the same bed, while others are adrift. Under the curved moon, these scenes of different fortunes are reflected, naturally evoking different perspectives. But "a thousand miles of bright moon," the moon remains curved, whether people are joyful or sorrowful, it shines with equal clarity or dimness. The curved moon does not ask about the joys and sorrows of the world; nor does it know about the cycles of yin and yang, fullness and emptiness. This was the lament of Mr. Lingxi decades ago. It seems that the lament of the man on the rooftop is also the same—what the. Have you heard of a professor's speech titled "China's Moon Landing Is Not a Dream"? It is said that the moon has no mountains, no water, only deserts. The moon is old and cannot breathe. There is no Chang'e, no Wu Gang, no Zhang Guo, no jade rabbit on the moon, but there is a valuable substance called helium-3. For this, people on Earth are crazy with schemes to conquer and exploit it. Someone planted a flag there, someone else is sharpening their knives. The man on the rooftop once turned on the TV and saw that professor speaking wildly about the moon. Listening, he couldn't bear it. He simply couldn't understand. The moon belongs to everyone. Why harm a perfectly good moon? Why can't we "leave some imagination for our childhood, some solace for our middle age, and a companion for our old age"? The sky is still as high as ever, the moon is there all year round, but the moon before the Mid-Autumn Festival is different. Noble, truly noble. Before the moon, humans should bow their heads in humility and shame. Gazing at the moon, worshipping the moon, playing with the moon, admiring the moon—today, can people still find a mood worthy of the moon? Or is it more sensible to just eat mooncakes? Mr. Shen Jialu said, "In the south, you must eat mooncakes to truly welcome autumn. A hundred-fruit mooncake from the Suzhou style, white and flaky, with a red seal on top. A light bite, and the sweetness makes the heart tremble." This isn't eating mooncakes—it's eating a distant memory blindfolded. Nowadays, eating mooncakes mostly means consuming status, packaging, and a fashionable herd mentality. Who still considers eating mooncakes a way to express longing, a way to celebrate reunion, or a way to find solace in the heart? People are noisy, restless, and increasingly indifferent to mooncakes, just as they are indifferent to the moon. Thinking about it, it's truly a strange kind of melancholy. Is the man on the rooftop still looking at the moon? Is he still smoking? Is he still fanning himself with his fan? It's the same Mid-Autumn Festival, but different places have different customs. Different customs mean different ways of celebrating. But no matter how different, the moon above is the same, and the mooncakes are similar. As for people's hearts, they vary greatly depending on time, place, and individual. If there were a book that contained the moon of the Mid-Autumn Festival, a book that captured the moods of people during the Mid-Autumn Festival, a book that recorded the customs of the Mid-Autumn Festival across the land, a book filled with many pictures you rarely see—If there were a book, a beautiful mooncake box, elegant and luxurious or simple and refined, filled not only with exquisite mooncakes but also with such a book, a book about the Mid-Autumn Festival—that would be wonderful. The man on the rooftop, his fan is gone. The man on the rooftop, holding a book under the moonlight, a book about the Mid-Autumn Festival. The book is being turned by the autumn wind. The moon, however, pretends not to see it. Editor: July 15, 2004