Wenxin Soliloquy - Collection of Wu Guanzhong's Works

Author: Wu Guanzhong
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-08-01
Features: At the end of summer and the beginning of autumn, the colors of the leaves begin to change, from deep green to sparse yellow, with traces of lingering red. The ground is scattered with slender willow leaves, broad catalpa leaves, and unknown yellow specks like osmanthus, all woven into the net-like shadows cast by the branches. Every year, as spring and autumn come around, the elderly still climb their life's path, though they know their physical condition is declining year by year and cannot defy the laws of nature. In fact, the scenery is the same—today's spring flowers and autumn leaves are no longer the ones of last year. "Ten years to grow a tree," and this park has only been open for less than ten years, yet it is already lush. "A hundred years to raise a person," the distance between infants and the elderly seems vast, but today they meet in this small park, showcasing the brevity of life. People only see the illnesses of the elderly and fail to recognize the hardships they have endured for human society. As people grow old, they grow old so quickly—few can escape the pain and loneliness of old age. Indeed, the bitterness of life lies in its later years. In this small park, Sakyamuni saw birth, old age, sickness, and death, which led him to renounce the world and become a Buddha—to seek immortality! Indeed, the body will perish, but thoughts endure eternally. Thought is Buddha, and Buddha is thought. A thinker becomes a Buddha the moment they arise. From Sakyamuni, I think of the Bodhi tree where he attained enlightenment. I have never seen a Bodhi tree, but over fifty years ago, passing through Ceylon (now Sri Lanka) in Colombo, I encountered the folk customs similar to India's. Small vendors wrapped snacks in Bodhi leaves, and I was moved to record my feelings: the south, the ancient land, the land of Buddha—filthy and dark. Today, the world is so impoverished that Colombo is like Djibouti (a port in Africa), inexplicably asking for a piece of Bodhi leaf. Time flies, and now I too am old, pushed by relentless years into the ranks of the elderly. Yet my passion refuses to age, unable to adapt to the rhythms of old age. Playing cards, chess, raising birds, or growing flowers no longer interest me. Coming to this park to stroll is the only path to becoming a Buddha. Here, I search for the Bodhi tree, but find none. Yet, I discover that every tree is a Bodhi tree—the roots of the Bodhi tree originally extend deep into the hearts of all people. P36