Jiming Temple: Where Ancient Hearts Linger

Walking along Beijing East Road to the mountain gate of Jiming Temple, you look up to see layers of eaves peeking out from the shade of the trees, like a flock of geese returning south in the blue sky. The temple, with its yellow walls and black tiles, is built against the mountain, its three hundred stone steps polished to a sheen by the shoes of countless pilgrims. In front of the Hall of Heavenly Kings, a silver-haired elder raises incense sticks above his eyebrows, the smoke etching patterns of varying depths on his crimson-red kasaya. The legend of Emperor Wu of Liang's devotion to Buddhism here ripples through the air, accompanied by the clear ringing of the bronze bells on the eaves. Rounding the Sutra Depository, a sudden burst of chanting breaks the silence. In front of the Mahavira Hall, more than a hundred people are reciting the Heart Sutra, their plain robes unfolding like lotus petals. A young woman kneeling in the corner rests her forehead on a cushion, her shoulders trembling slightly. The scent of sandalwood mingles with the saltiness of tears, forming a mist above the incense burner. This reminds me of a record in the "Southern Dynasties Temple Examination": in ancient times, whenever there was a famine, the aroma of rice porridge would drift from the dining hall of Jiming Temple. Leaning on the railing, I gaze into the distance. The misty waves of Xuanwu Lake and the moss-covered Ming Dynasty City Wall stretch out in the rain, while the glass curtain wall of the Zifeng Tower becomes a signature in the corner of an ink painting. Suddenly, I catch sight of faded prayer ribbons tied to the bronze bells of the pagoda. Someone, on a certain date, wrote in blue ink, "May my mother recover from her illness." The characters are swollen from the rain. As the evening drums begin to sound, I take refuge in the tea room of Huomeng Tower. Outside the window, night cherry blossoms flutter onto the Buddhist altar. A master in a gray cloth monk's robe lifts a copper kettle to add water, smiling as he says that when Monk Fahai practiced here, he must have watched the misty rain of the Six Dynasties in the same way.