Source: "Taoism, the road to Immortality", by John Blofield, Shambala Publications, Boston, 2000
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In the reign of the Emperor Shen Tsung (1573-1620), a scholar surnamed Fan, who was a native of I Ping, so distinguished himself in the public examinations that he received a succession of high appointments in various parts of the Empire. No matter where he went, his duties brought him into contact with the evils of society - greed, avarice, lust, vanity, cruelty and oppression. Having taken leave of absence in order to spend the period of mourning for his deceased father in his native town, he decided not to return to official life but to retire to the solitude of the mountains and cultivate the Way. In the vicinity of Mount Omei he acquired a small hut where, during inclement weather, he shut himself up with his books and devoted hours a day to meditation. A nearby stream trickling amidst moss-encrusted rocks and clumps of fern provided him with clear, sweet water; for food he had brought a few sacks of rice and one or two jars of oil, to which slender resources he added the bounty of the forest - silver tree-fungus, bamboo shoots and all sorts of delicious, nourishing plants. In fine weather, he rose early to enjoy the panorama of floating clouds richly tinged with coral, pink or crimson and edged with gold, then wandered amidst peaks and valleys searching for medicinal herbs and titbits for his table, often sleeping out beneath the stars. Within three years, his heart had become attuned to the more ordinary mysteries of nature; yet the Tao eluded him. 'I see it is there. I behold its transformations, its giving and its taking; but, shadowy and elusive, how is it to be grasped ?' Though known to his few neighbours as a skilful healer and accomplished immortal, to himself he was a wanderer who had left the world of dust in vain. One day he had a visitor who, though dressed coarsely like a peasant, had the sage yet youthful aspect of a true immortal. Broaching a jar of good wine he had left untouched since the day of his arrival. Fan listened to his guest with veneration. Said the visitor: 'I have the honour to be your nearest neighbour, being the genie of the stream running behind your distinguished dwelling. May I venture to inquire how it happens that a scholar of such high attainment as your good self has failed to find the starting-point of the Way, especially as it lies right in front of your nose ?' Then, pitying Fan's confusion and wishing to put him at his ease, the genie added: 'It is a sign, sir, of your lofty intelligence. There are recluses in plenty who persuade themselves they have found the Way, but who would be hard put to it to substantiate that claim. Look for it not in the radiant clouds of dawn and sunset, nor in the brilliance pouring down from cloudless skies during early autumn. Seek it in the mists that shroud the valleys at which, hitherto, you have scarcely condescended to glance.' With these words, the genie made him a handsome bow and departed. Thence forward our scholar spent his mornings seated upon a knoll gazing down at the white mist swirling in the lower valleys. No spiritual illumination followed, but he persevered. Another three years went by. The woodsmen round about, seeing him sit for hours as still as the rock beneath him, blessed heaven's benignity in sending an immortal to dwell among them. Timely weather was attributed to his virtue; untimely weather was presumed to have been at least mitigated thereby; Fan himself knew otherwise. Then came a day when he hastened joyfully to where the stream bubbled out from an underground cavern and called upon the genie, who straightway appeared clad in a summer robe of brocaded gauze worn over garments of fine silk. 'No need to tell me!' boomed the genie in a voice like muted thunder. 'You have found the Way! May I venture to inquire how you did so ?' 'Ha-ha-ha!' laughed Fan. 'Why did you not tell me sooner ? I did not find but suddenly realised that I had never lost the Way. Those crimson dawn clouds, that shining noonday light, the procession of the seasons, the waxing and waning of the moon - these are not majestic functions or auspicious symbols of what lies behind. They are the Tao. To be born, to breathe, to eat, to drink, to walk, to sit, to wake, to sleep, to live, to die - to do this is to tread the Way. When you know how to take what comes along, not bothering with thoughts of joy and sorrow, wearing a quilted or unlined robe not because it is the fashion but because nature prompts the change, gathering pine seeds or mushrooms not for the taste but because hunger must be stayed, never stirring hand or foot to do more than passing need requires, letting yourself be borne along without a thought of wishing something to be other than it is - then you are one with the valley mists, the floating clouds. You have attained the Way, taking birth as an immortal. Wasting years on seeking what was never lost really is a joke.' The cavern before which they were standing now echoed and re-echoed with their laughter. Then the genie composed his features. The skirts of his brocaded robe and the ribbons of his silk gauze hat streaming in the breeze, he bowed his head to the earth nine times, as to an emperor, crying joyfully: 'At last, at last, I have met my master!' |