Author: jeffnaper
《航》
同舟唯有一株蘭， 兩岸迎香峽漸寬。
聽浪浮生濡耳易， 吞江渡世滌腸難。
水深自古多沉劍， 風怒而今再摘冠。
散發天涯涼薄夜， 拈來笑是釣鼇竿。
China is a winding river, and in its heart, a man and an orchid sway in the shallow bow of a boat. The boat, flimsy and solitary, refuses to go with or against the flow. It has a soul in charge, navigating the great expanse of water. In its trail lingers a faint scent, rewarding a die-hard follower in the shape of a butterfly.
The river, as the boat sails, continues its endless passage through cliffs, hills, and valleys, each bend promising new sights, unknown futures. It is the same old river. It is not the same old river. No river remains unchanged. Yet, every river tries desperately to stay the course. Meanwhile, envied by all rivers, this orchid-scented boat keeps charting its course in a humanly dignified way. Dignity, embodied by the orchid, has a narrow gorge widen. Yes, the boat may be tiny, but its shadow can't be larger. See? The cliffs slowly give way to open space, as if the river is unburdening itself, letting the wild winds and the horizon stretch beyond sight, just to please the beauty-carrying vessel. Don't doubt the orchid.
The boat sails on, unhurried, its passage so serene that it almost seems part of the river itself. But beyond this peace is the murmuring of the world—the eternal pull of the tides, the roar of unseen waves calling from beyond the distant horizon. The boatman—though it is doubtful whether he is truly a "boatman"—listens. He hears the soft rhythm of water against the hull, the splash of a jumping fish, and the steady wind. But he also hears something else: a whisper that fills his ears, beckoning him to remember where he comes from, where he belongs to. He cares about his past, but right now he can't care more about his future. He knows the world itself is floating with him, moving forward with him. Himself a dot, he takes in the big picture. Himself the focus, he attracts the tides of life, the currents of time, and the farthest reaches of the earth. He is no god. He plays no god. He is just like god, thanks to his consciousness that yearns to cover the whole universe. For now, though, he is quite content with his floating life, the only life he lives.
As the boat sails farther, the confining cliffs soften and widen. The river, once up close and personal, now looks set to stretch into infinity. However, even here, as the world opens up, the boatman feels the pull of something deeper, more elusive. No matter how wide the world grows, the currents still reach into him, tugging, teasing, and twisting his innermost thoughts. Existentially, he is thinking. He must keep on thinking as he must keep on breathing. Breathing makes sense to life. Thinking makes sense of life.
It is in this space—caught between the openness of the world and the solitude of the boat—that the boatman bears the weight of life itself. He realizes that the orchid can only do so much to calm the rising waves within him. The beauty, once a balm for the weary, no longer stills the thoughts churning in his mind. Instead, those thoughts, like the river’s ceaseless flow, echo louder and louder, making stillness harder and harder to hold. Time to move on. Keep moving, floating.
The river flows on, following the boatman, or so the boatman thinks. Anyway, nature moves. It is futile to resist nature. It is also futile to resist being part of nature. Be nature, not just be water. Water may freeze, may vaporize. Be nature and you will fight on, live on, through cycling and recycling, spiritually if not physically. Smiling are the boatman, the orchid, and all the imagined fellow travelers. Let's pitch in our stories, put them together, and put out a narrative as follows:
The waters deepen as they drift farther from the gorges, but the river, with its darkness and mystery, now appears less imposing. The boatman’s heart, once afraid of the depth, finds solace in it. The deeper the water, the more it holds and gives to the world. In its silence, he grasps a profound truth --- when he mentally gets to the bottom of the river, he finds countless swords lying rusty there. No blood. Just rust. So much for the countless wars. Whoever stops wars will likely be rewarded with more wars, cynics say. This is why cynics never die out.
History makes wars, and vice versa. Echoing this sentiment, winds howl like a storm, making the boat rock as it is pulled by unseen forces. There is a sudden fury in the air, an anger bursting from the earth itself. With long sharp claws, the gusts start tearing at the stillness. Immediately, the boatman clings to the boat with all his strength. While he feels the power and fury of the storm, he understands it will pass. The winds, too, are fleeting. The calm will return, the fragrance of his orchid assures him. He believes in the silent beauty.
Beauty wins. The calm returns, as it must, before the next storm.
