Magic Precincts: Five Buddhist Temples and How They Grew

by David McCraw

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Fahang

Here’s my favorite example of the tranquility traditional Chinese literati sought and found on Jiuhua (“Multifloriate”) Mountain. Here’s longtime Jiuhua hermit Chen Yan (d.1299), writing about a Hall for the Venerated Sage (167):

Mountain contours on all sides, as waters pour forth.
Within, a golden lotus: Heavens of the Realms of Form.
One clear note from chimestones--a monk arises from meditation;
Among the pines a Magic Crane spins a whirling, swirling dance.

A note seems in order here. The Hall also got known as Magic Crane Abbey, because it sits on Magic Crane Alp (sometimes called White Crane Alp). The 33 levels of Buddhist Heaven form 3 classes: highest, the realm of No-form; next, the Realms of Form; lowest, the Realms of Desire. Chen's closure gains additional resonance from covert allusion to "Crane Grove"; according to legend, when Shakyamuni entered Nirvana in the sala grove near Kusinagara, sala leaves whirled about and transformed into white cranes.

Chen’s kind of peace proves elusive these days, as Jiuhua enjoys an era of heavy pilgrim traffic and large-scale rebuilding. Of course, such ups and downs in the history of a Buddhist sacred mountain hardly ring new. Pilgrim traffic has formed the lifeblood of many Chinese Buddhist centers. Already in the late Ming, one observer estimated that Huacheng Temple alone raked in "no less than 10,000 guilders per year" (Cai Lishen, qu. in 9HZ 1997:419). Even after the Taiping devastation, Jiuhua temples by the end of the Qing could accommodate 7500 visitors per day (9HZ 1997:419). In recent years the village of Jiuhua, home to less than 2100 citizens and 270 clergy, found room for nearly 2.4 million visitors (during the period 1979-87; recent figures have to have climbed immensely—see 9HZ 1997:421,479). Now you see rebuilding everywhere, from humble mountain priories to major Buddhist palaces with marble floors, teak pillars, and giant bronze Ksitigarbha statues (his "Hall for Great Commiseration," near Jin Qiaojue's Mummy Hall). Soon a new tourist extravaganza will rise in the upper Min Valley: a 99-meter statue of Ksitigarbha, complete with staff and Mani-pearl, will command a huge new temple complex—the Dajue "Great Awakening" Temple. The project, expected to involve some 25 buildings, 100,000 square meters, and a cost of 400 million yuan, will likely in the next few years greatly increase the scope of Jiuhua's pilgrim trade. Small wonder that when i called upon venerable abbot Rende, now 71, i found him at a large table beset by wheelers, dealers, contracts, supplicants, donors, two secretary-monks, and a very busy cellular phone. He graciously allotted me a few minutes; when i asked if he wouldn't sometimes rather close his doors, meditate quietly, and imitate Wang Wei:

In my evening years I love only stillness/ The myriad affairs don't touch my heart.

Rende smiled wryly and acknowledged he might wish so; of course, he remains bound to the service of his temples. But amidst all the hustle and bustle of a thriving popular Buddhist complex, you can find unexpected pockets of peace and sincere clerical cultivation. One morning i climbed up the main stone stairs to Heavenly Terrace—somewhat delayed by an unpardonable but delightful bushwack detour around lower Lotus Peak—and found myself part of the throng. Spry old pilgrims, jowly middle-aged officials and their broods, and lean porters with oversized loads of cement and bricks on their double-ended carrying poles vied for space on the steep stairs. A larger and larger knot of onlookers crowded each successive temple and priory up the hill, as the crags to either side got more and more dramatic. Maneuvering my way past the crowds, ignoring persistent begging from panting porters, i at last reached Heavenly Terrace's summit, only to find an even larger crowd, most of whom had just disembarked from the gondola. And this by no means marks the hightide of Jiuhua pilgrims; approaching Dizang's "birthday" on July 15, the number swells many-fold, during two weeks when Chinese celebrate the "harrowing of Hell." During that fortnight, pilgrims engage large-scale masses for dead souls during their window of opportunity to escape Hell; on July 31 (close to the ancient "All-Souls' Day," a major traditional Chinese lunar holiday and season to feed hungry ghosts) the gates of Hell close again (see esp. the account in 9HZ 1997:485) Forsaking the boisterous Chan Temple at Tiantai's peak, i sought some quiet and cleaner air east, along the path to Ten Kings' Peak and beyond. Amazing how quickly one peak shuts out their noise and my impatience. It strikes me how older Gazetteers once claimed Heavenly Terrace—with its wealth of literary associations—as 9-Flower's summit; only recent decades have recognized the preeminence of Dizang's colleagues, the "Ten Kings" who judge the dead. 9-Flower's mountains just keep rolling on to the south; a short bushwack, and you can climb Lohan Peak, the Seven Wise Men, and so continue perhaps all the way to Huangshan, as far as i know. And then you can relax and accept these pilgrims, who belong here as you might never. "The lotus emerges from mud and remains pure"; a few grandmothers emerge from the incense and greed with glowing eyes as they behold another shrine—or a child; and improbable slabs of granite rear above 10,000 meters of sea muck, clawing the skies and daring wind, sun, and rain to bury them again. Behind the spine of Heavenly Terrace you can still see isolated abbeys and solitary monks pursuing their dharma in out-of-the way cottages and caves, from 2.5 League Kiosk in the south to Old Roof Hamlet in the east and in, perhaps, dozens of other isolated pockets behind the mountain. Ironic that the eastern face of Jiuhua, the main route until the last 50 years—you can still see some of the 1-meter stone slabs traditional pilgrims slogged up—should today afford hidden retreats for less gregarious Buddhists. Now i sigh sympathetically with the couplet by Chen Qing (fl.1464):

Stone steps wind around bamboos, the path grows dark and deep/
How could vulgar dust ever invade here? (9HZ 1997:79)

As you proceed north along Jiuhua’s main ridge, the tourists quickly fade behind; now you can find your own boulder and stare off into space, like the near-anchorite inhabiting a tiny cottage west of "Flew-here Peak." Despite a stone stairway, you practically need a ladder to reach his spare hut, his tiny shrine, and his vast view that would reach the Yangzi if pollution didn't keep it veiled even on the clearest of days. No one home, so you trudge onward. Jiuhua boasts quite a few caves—the modern gazetteer lists more than 30 better-known ones—and lone monks or nuns have long frequented such sites as Fish & Dragon Cave, Manjusri Cave, Guanyin's Cave (both of them), Rebirth Cave, and Tiger-tamer Cave (not to confuse with the more northerly Tiger Cave). Now, cleared of human annoyances, Jiuhua's bizarre rock formations seem more and more amusing, better even than their names—although a few like "Old Rhino Gazes Moonward" really do capture the spirit and texture of these ancient slabs chunks blocks and spires of weathered granite, upheaved hurled ground worn and fractured into incredible tableaux. Some seem to shed old pelts of mossy grass like motheaten mammoths; others stand coated fringed and stippled by pines. The stone trail rears and vaults dips and plunges spirals and twists like a dragon. You climb a million or more stairs, each hoisted and borne, then dropped and fitted with some overburdened coolie's earnest prayer—if only for rest and a bowl of rice. Now the million-scaled dragon, gorged on the sweat of countless porters, glides sharply down into the Min Valley and Dragon Creek, largest of the "Five Creeks" draining Jiuhua's basin; he lumbers toward Centenarian Hall like the proverbial "Dragon Prince Heeding the Dharma," wending his way. And innumerable pines and bamboos, too, all seem to face downhill, leaning as if in prayer toward sacred Centenarian's Ridge. You wonder how so many Chinese visitors can claim: "Jiuhua really has no scenery to speak of." Maybe they only have eyes for their idols and each other.

Near Manjusri Cave i explore a smaller trail and notice a cleft between two huge boulders. Clambering down to peer inside, i seem to have found the back entrance to some primitive living room! Making my way down around to the front, i surprise a young monk in vermilion Tantric robes—and he startles me. "Aiya" he goes; and i bow with hands at my chest and greet him: "Amitofo." Now he does a double-take, then grabs me by the arm—"Come in!"—and pulls me inside his little cave. Since we're in China, i enter without fear...and find a crevice, water underneath spanned by a tiny raft of interwoven bamboo trunks, a cot along its port edge, a small burner perched near the stern, and one metal container—nothing else but perhaps a plastic bag or two hanging from a tarpaulin ceiling, for the cave has no true roof. The monk sits me down, offers me boiled water, and reaches into his container for some long-hoarded sugar, which he dumps into my cup as if he hadn't seen a visitor in months. When asked if the occasional Chinese tourist doesn't find his cave, he answers that he sees no one. Given Chinese preferences for well-travelled routes and loud group excursions, this rings true. This monk has lived here more than 10 years without ever leaving the mountain--indeed, hardly without leaving his cave except to gather bamboo for fuel. He has a tiny plot of carefully-tended bok choy outside his door; 2 or 3 times a year someone brings him flour; and he subsists on oilcakes and greens. Aside from these simple mundane tasks—chop wood, carry water—he spends "all his time" meditating and chanting on the couch. He has found temples too noisy and commercialized for the "pure, quiet" qingjing realm he prefers as setting for his devotions. This young monk (34 years old) hails from the area and impresses me as lucid yet extremely intense, with his five-by-three pattern of burnscars on a close-shaven head. He strikes me as the most pious monk i've met today; ironically, after a day of declining to contribute to beggars, incense-peddlers, and commercial Buddhist establishments, i find myself dying to offer something to a monk who absolutely refuses any gift. On the contrary, he digs down past a sutra-book or two, fishes out another bowl and chopsticks, and tries to get me to stay for dinner. Here's a fellow with a handful of bok choy and flour to his name, and he insists on playing host! Finally i convince him i must head back soon to the monastery so my friend won't worry—true enough—and depart after more conversation. His cave shows no sign of extra clothing or bedding—"How do you bear the winters?" He answers: "I've chosen this path for myself, to make my way by my own sole efforts." And this adamant monk with his pure faith and diamond eyes moves me, again, to tears. He has taken the name "Dharma Raft." The Chinese for dharma includes the element "water," and the (unusual) graph for "Raft" (the hang of Hangzhou) means "a bundle of bamboo/wood for crossing a river.” Thus Fahang's name—“River-crossing Dharma Raft"—perfectly describes his life-course and the tiny one-man vessel of bamboo over water with which he plans to "reach the other side." As i depart, Fahang pushes aside a couple bamboo poles and shows me where he has carved his name into the cave's wall. He leaves a deep impression; i vow to myself that if my own practice and meditation do not deepen at least a little from his example, i will never live down the shame.

Fahang's not alone in his solitary ways; farther down i meet an older monk at Tiger-tamer Cave. He projects a commanding air and guides at least one or two attendants; the cave complex includes a farmhouse. This monk, Dengliang or Lamplight—a name that invokes multiple associations of enlightenment, religious devotion, and legendary Daoist magician Zhuge Liang's sagacity—seems very Daoist himself. He has evidently cultivated qigong for many years, and he answers my naive questions with Daoistically swerving wit. "Where's your master?" "Oh, he sits in a cave thousands of leagues away and knows everything that goes on" (an allusion to Laozi 46). "Where's your home?" "Oh, the Blessed Realm, where i'll return after death." Tiger-tamer Cave has a long history; it's named for a sixth-century monk who allegedly first made Jiuhua safe for Buddhism, and no less than 2 Qing abbots emerged from long periods of seclusion here to lead Jiuhua. Perhaps Lamplight's waiting for old Rende to pass on and take over!? (for the stories of recluse-monks Zhouan [fl. 1687] and Lungshan [fl. 1757], see JHZ 191,193). The old nun at nearby Guanyin Cave, who regularly entertains and instructs the young hotel receptionists who hike uphill during a long lunch break, also impresses me with her wit and wisdom. Within these cavedwelling anchorites, i believe, the numinous heart of Jiuhua Mountain lies. If its hills can still shelter such souls, then you won't grudge it a century of temple-building success and profitable incense-sales.

Preface

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