Petals from the Sky

This center was quite unlike the temples I had known in Hong Kong. Everything seemed depressing-the bare, paint-peeled walls; the bare, gray stone floor. What appeal did Michael find in this place where there were no pretty nuns, no tender yin energy, but only monks like bundles of dried-up sticks? I let out a long breath.

“See, Meng Ning, “Michael, oblivious of my mood, said jokingly. “Master Hidden Virtue is not interested in the fact that you’re my fiancee and that we’re getting married.”

I didn’t respond.

Michael continued on a different track. “He must think that, as a gweilo, I’d like martial arts, but I don’t.”

“I do.” I deliberately contradicted him to vent my frustration.

“Do you?” He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve never told me that.”

“You never asked.”

But Michael looked at me tenderly. “I’m sure there’re still lots of things I’ll learn about you, Meng Ning. I look forward to that.” He took my hand in his and whispered into my ear, “I love you.”

Again I didn’t respond, but kept inching forward with the crowd. Ahead of me stood a Chinese boy whining to his mother that he hated vegetarian food and wanted a hamburger from McDonald’s.

The mother lowered her voice, widened her eyes, and chided, “Son, I warn you, no more complaining! Now it’s only one more week before you can eat meat again. Can’t you wait just one more week? When your grandfather recovers from his operation, he’ll give you big lucky money for the merit you accumulated for him by eating no meat. You understand? So stop fussing right now and think about your karma!”

The boy, though he stopped complaining, continued to sulk, his face a wrinkled tangerine. His mother pinched him on the ear.

“Aiii-ya!” He made an animal-being-slaughtered sound.

Michael and I got our food, then sat down on a bench to eat. The food was tasty and balanced in qi-cooked with the right proportion of sugar and salt, wine and vinegar, water and oil. A mindful preparation, but even that didn’t arouse my appetite. For now, things in my life seemed-like the smell of the food and the pained “aiii-ya!”-suspended in midair.

Michael put some of his fungus and mushrooms onto my plate. “I’m so happy we can be together in this temple.” He began to eat ravenously. “Reminds me of how we met in the Fragrant Spirit Monastery.”

“I hope there won’t be another fire.”

Michael squinted at me curiously, then returned to his food. In this modest temple, Michael seemed transformed, especially in comparison to his bearing at the Met the other night. Then and there he’d acted and talked fastidiously, while here he seemed happy and relaxed, like someone in his natural habitat.

When most had finished eating, Master Hidden Virtue walked to the center of the hall and announced, “Gud afternun, evibody. I hope you all enjoyed your lunch. Before we start our meditation sexssions, the monks from the Shaolin Temple of the Henan province of China will perform for us their famous marso arts.” Now I was even more annoyed by this bony monk’s thick accent.

He motioned to the fourteen gray-clad monks standing behind him by the altar. The monks smiled back, showing fourteen rows of teeth against darkly tanned faces.

Master Hidden Virtue pushed his glasses up and, bulging-eyed and bucktoothed, went on. “Shaolin kung fu has been handed dan drough seventy generations-over one dousand years-from the northern Wei dynasty to the present day. This heart and mind boxing, which mimics the actions of animals and men, is known to be as swift as lightning, as ferocious as a taiger, and as elusive as qinging clouds. All the Shaolin Shifus are renowned for their airlegant posture-sitting crossed-legged like a bell, standing steadfastly like a pine, woking speedily like the wind, sliping with bodies curved like a bow.

“Shaolin kung fu specializes in boxing, cudgeling, and internal exercises that embody a deep Zen philosophy. Combining soft and hard strategy, the monks defend like a virgin and attack like a tiger.”

Amidst waves of applause, the Shaolin monks now strode to the center. I felt a little happier that they looked young, muscular, and full of confidence. One with an angular face and torchlike eyes walked in front and led the others to bow deeply to the audience, hands in the prayer gesture. Fleetingly, fourteen bald heads caught the reflection of the bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Another round of applause exploded in the hall.

When the cheers finally died down, the monks stepped aside. Then, out of nowhere, four young child monks dashed to the front. Pink-cheeked and robust, their eyes darted like dark marbles on a cloudless sky. From the side, their clean-shaven heads resembled big question marks. They giggled and bowed; the audience clapped halfheartedly.

But then, like flashes of lightning, they thrust their fists and jolted their legs in a series of graceful movements-kicking one leg to the side, squatting on one leg with arms punching, stretching hands like a dragon’s claw, kicking while standing on their heads, back-somersaulting…

The audience was silent for a beat, then broke into thunderous applause.

The next performance was qigong. The head monk, all muscles and fierce eyes, firmly planted his feet apart on the ground and looked quite still, when in fact, Master Hidden Virtue told the audience, he was moving his qi-internal energy.

Michael said into my ear, “I like this, motion in stillness, or vice versa.”

Still upset, I didn’t respond. Now the head monk finally finished moving his qi and was ready for actual kung fu. Four younger, twentyish monks tested their broad knives by rubbing their blades back and forth on the head monk’s abdomen. Then, before I knew what was going to happen, the novices let out a sharp “Ahhh!” and stabbed him in the stomach with full force.

I screamed; Michael pressed my shoulder against his. “Meng Ning, you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

And so was the monk’s abdomen. It was not even lightly injured. There was no gash, no blood, nothing.

“I don’t like this, Meng Ning. Why don’t we leave?”

“No, I want to see,” I said stubbornly.

The next performance began with the head monk moving his energy while the novices brandished spears by his side. The audience sent waves of applause to the center of the hall as the blades swished in the air and light glinted off them in myriad directions. Then, barely had the master finished when one novice thrust forward with an upward tilt of his spear and pressed its needle-sharp point against the master’s throat.

“Nooo!!!” the audience blurted out collectively, only to discover that the master remained unscathed. The hall was now completely packed, and the audience looked high, as if they were on drugs- or attaining enlightenment. I clapped until my palms turned red.

More seemingly impossible martial feats followed. One teenage monk performed One Finger Zen by “standing” on only one finger. Another, after he’d moved his energy, defied gravity by leaping up to the ceiling in one bound. Toward the end, a white-haired, leather-skinned monk appeared out of nowhere, and concluded the show by licking a burning-hot iron shovel while maintaining perfect composure-the most difficult and masochistic of all stunts.

I was flabbergasted by the feats, the agility of the human body, and the monks’ perfect self-control achieved through kulian, bitter practice. But the little monks-how could they have acquired an adult’s perseverance and discipline? I knew that not only do the monks carry out year-round training with no rest, they also have to abstain from sex. The Shaolin Temple allows wine-imbibing monks and even carnivorous monks, but not sex-indulging monks. They believe sex will disperse their energy, distract their spirit, and so destroy their kung fu. Just as the nuns in Golden Lotus Temple believe that human passion, illusory as it is, will destroy their concentration for higher deeds. Since I’d fallen in love with Michael and had sex with him, was I also losing my qi, my focus in life?

The performance ended with everybody clapping enthusiastically.

As Michael and I were heading with the crowd toward the meditation hall for zazen, sitting meditation, he asked, “Did you enjoy the show?”

I nodded. It was cathartic for my present state of mind.

“But I didn’t. It’s militaristic, not peaceful.” He frowned. “I’m not impressed by Buddhist acrobats.”

“I disagree.” My voice rose, and I felt combative, like the monks. “That’s what Hidden Virtue said during his introduction. Shaolin kung fu is more than fighting. It’s art, philosophy, mysticism. Each routine has a symbolic meaning-a dragon leaving its cave, a golden cock spreading its wings, a warrior embracing the moon, a hungry tiger climbing up the mountain…” My tone was getting tenser and tenser. “So Michael, how can you just dismiss them as Buddhist acrobats?”

“Why do you sound unhappy?” Michael looked surprised. “You’ve been acting strange ever since I got home. Is something wrong?” He paused, then asked tentatively, “Are you still upset about my past with Lisa?”

“No, Michael, I’m fine.” I tried to appear calm, but my cheeks felt hot.

Right then Master Hidden Virtue came up to us and proudly asked, “Dr. Fuller and Miss Du, how did you like our kung fu?”

Michael said, “We loved it. It’s wonderful.”

The Master said, “This way, please, Doctor Fuller and Miss Du, meditation is about to begin.”

The meditation session was led by an octogenarian monk whose emaciated body and hollow-cheeked, coppery face made me think of a pile of dry sticks.

We sat down on meditation cushions amidst the other participants, and Michael, seemingly having forgotten our bickering earlier, leaned close to me. “Meng Ning, this is Master Silent Thunder. Don’t let his decrepit look deceive you; he has the sharpest mind I’ve ever known.”

I didn’t care whether Silent Thunder’s mind was sharp or blunt; I only knew that mine was now a killing field where all the monkeys were let loose-fighting against each other, slashing stomachs, spearing throats, burning tongues. My head ached, my legs cramped, my body fidgeted on the cushion as if it were a bed of nails. I could hardly breathe, let alone concentrate. I peeked at Michael, but he looked as stable as a rock. Then I peered at Silent Thunder. With legs locked in the full lotus position like the roots of a heavily gnarled ancient tree, he looked as light and detached as a cloud. A tide of envy rose inside me.

I was still fidgeting until I felt my elbow poked. Michael cast me a chiding glance, then he said in a heated whisper, “Meng Ning, you should stop that and concentrate on your breathing.”

The session seemed to last forever. Finally when it ended, Silent Thunder started to “open a revelation”-lecture on Zen.

The old monk’s eyes swept across the room like a peal of silent thunder. When they fell on me, I felt as if my body were being brushed by the cool blade of a sharp knife. I shuddered.

He spoke. “One time, the great Song dynasty poet Su Dongpo went to visit his monk friend Buddhist Seal. After they’d finished meditating, Su Dongpo asked his friend, ‘What did I look like during meditation?’

“The monk said, ‘A statue of Buddha.’

“Then the monk asked Su Dongpo, ‘Then what do you think I looked like?’

“Deciding to tease his friend as well as to test his cultivation, Su Dongpo said, ‘A piece of shit,’ expecting the monk to be boiling with anger.

“‘Ah, what a pity!’ Buddhist Seal said, smiling gently. ‘In Buddha’s eyes everyone is pure and possesses Buddha’s nature. But if one’s eyes are smeared by shit then he can see nothing but shit.’”

Barely had Silent Thunder finished when the participants burst into laughter, breaking up the solemn atmosphere. The octogenarian’s deeply tanned face remained as dry as a stick.

I was still chewing on Silent Thunder’s “shitty” revelation when Michael and I stepped outside the Zen center and started walking toward the subway station. It was five in the afternoon and the street was crowded. Ahead of us, a young Chinese couple held hands and talked intimately between giggles. Michael and I held hands, but we neither talked nor laughed. Our minds seemed to be on opposite sides of the Pacific Ocean.