Mingmei Yip - Petals from the Sky

Her face glowed. “Yes, but as you know, work in the temple never ends. People always tell me to relax and do things slowly, but how can I? So many Buddhist treasures either vanish or are damaged in China every day.

“That picture of the monks chanting in a temple in Tibet that I photographed six years ago-do you remember? When I went back last year, the temple was all gone, mysteriously burnt, not a trace left behind.

“As I planned to leave for Shanxi to record the chanting of a ninety-year-old monk-the last one who knew a particular style-I learned that he had just died from choking while taking some Chinese herbal soup for longevity. The news arrived two days before I was to leave. So how can I slow down when I see these precious traditions disappearing before my eyes? On the contrary, I have to work faster.”

Yi Kong stopped. “Oh, I’ve been all immersed in my own talk. Are you hungry? I’ll ask the chef to cook something for you. Today we have very fresh tofu, bamboo shoots, and mushrooms.”

“Thank you very much, but I had lunch before I came.”

She squinted at me. “Do you still eat meat?”

“I’m a part-time vegetarian now,” I said, avoiding her gaze.

“Ah, part-time!” Yi Kong exclaimed.

I blurted out, “Shifu, although my mouth is not completely vegetarian, my heart is.”

Yi Kong smiled, then spoke jokingly. “Ah, that I don’t know, but I’m sure you have a tongue rolled not in vegetable oil, but in pig fat.”

I felt my ears on fire.

Sensing my embarrassment, she picked up from her desk a round clay incense burner and changed the subject. “Let me show you my little treasures here. This one is a rare Ming piece from an antique store in Kyoto. See how the lid has several small holes? When you burn incense inside, the smoke coming out through them smells exceptionally good, since it is the essence extracted from all the fragrance inside.

“Besides, the meandering smoke is such a pleasure to look at, like cursive calligraphy forming in the air. If you meditate on its ever changing lines, you’ll gain more insight into the transience and impermanence of life.”

Yes, like Professor Fulton’s death, and even the kitten’s. Was the professor now contentedly stroking the kitten in Amida Buddha’s Western Paradise?

Yi Kong went on. “You’ll also feel calm just by looking at the graceful shape of the burner.”

She handed me the container. “Feel the smooth and subtle cracks on the surface; it’s very soothing.”

True. It felt like her creamy skin, which I’d once touched after the fire. I felt embarrassed, but my hands refused to leave its comfortable form.

Next Yi Kong showed me a small ceramic teapot made to resemble a Buddha’s Hand citron, the shape and deep purple color of which reminded me of eggplant, a favorite dish in the monastery. Two rows of calligraphy on its round belly read:

FLOWERS CAN LISTEN AND UNDERSTAND,

AND STONES CAN BE AMIABLE.

“Very nice-a stone can be likable. I love the idea,” I murmured while peeking at my engagement ring. I’d meant to leave it at home before I left for the nunnery, but had completely forgotten to do so.

“Stones are indeed charming,” Yi Kong said. “But not just the idea. I would also like to collect stones, you know, like those in a scholar’s study. Besides being appreciated as objects of art, do you know that stones can also be served as food?”

“Oh, really? No, how?” I was still peeking at my stone.

“Ah, a modern girl who rarely enters the kitchen.” Yi Kong eyed me disapprovingly. “It’s quite sad, though, since the stone dish is only for the poor. In the past, poor people could rarely afford to eat meat, so sometimes when they wanted it so much or when they had a guest, they’d cook stones. There were different ways to prepare the dish: stir-fry with black bean sauce, quick fry with Chinese scallion, or fry and then stew with wine. Of course, you couldn’t eat the stone. The idea was to pretend, so you’d flip your chopsticks into the dish and pick up the scallion, or the black bean, or mix the sauce with your rice. The whole thing aimed to boost your appetite, so you’d end up finishing the big bowl of rice in a happy mood.”

Amazed at her account, I thought for a while before I asked, “It’s sad and not very Buddhist, is it? Pretend instead of facing the truth.”

“But that’s their truth, to be happy and eat one more bowl of rice. Besides, people in poverty usually don’t think much about the truth one way or the other.”

“It’s sad then, the truth.”

“If it’s the truth, it’s just a truth, nothing sad nor happy about it, just the plain truth.” Caressing the teapot, Yi Kong remained silent for a while.

Was this meant for me?

“When we choose to accept or reject, we do not see the true nature of things.”

This did seem meant for me. The great Zen teachers always knew what their disciples needed to hear. I’d once thought I saw the true nature of things; now I did not know what to accept or reject.

Yi Kong looked up at me for a fleeting moment and spoke again, this time staring at my hand. “Our temple welcomes any form of donation, including nice stones.”

Involuntarily I moved my right hand to cover my ring.

“Well…” Not knowing how to respond otherwise, I laughed, though harder than I would have liked.

Yi Kong went on calmly: “All right, enough of stones and truth. Now let’s look at musical instruments.”

She turned to a wooden fish and a bronze bowl resting on two cushions identically embroidered with red, gold, and blue lotuses. Then, picking up a wooden mallet, she gently struck the bowl’s belly with its cloth-padded head. It vibrated softly yet sonorously, reverberating in the cabinet, expanding into the room, then lingering for a while before departing into silence.

Pleased by my bemusement, Yi Kong eagerly showed me her other collections. She pulled open a drawer in her desk from which she took out a small wooden box. “Smell…this is a very precious kind of eaglewood incense, which you can only get in China, not in Hong Kong.”

Yi Kong lowered her head to scoop the incense. I could clearly see the twelve scars on her scalp’s bald surface.

So round and so bare.

A guarantee that no hair can grow again in these spots.

A proof of faith through the willingness to be marred.

A symbol of a path of no return.

What is it like-this path of no return? How much did it hurt when the burning incense scorched this flesh? What had she been thinking when her master did this to her? Did she hesitate even a tiny, tiny bit, upon leaving this mundane world? Now, when she scorched her disciples’ scalps, what would she think about? I wanted to know all but didn’t have the courage to ask. After all these years, Yi Kong still remained an enigma to me.

I felt a pull inside; I still wanted to learn all the mysteries along this esoteric route.

Now Yi Kong carefully put the incense into a small silk bag and handed it to me. “Take this and offer it to Buddha every day.” Then changing into a joking tone, she asked, “By the way, are you still very busy with your writing and research? When are you coming to play with us? There’s always lots of fun going on here.”

As I would never learn the mysteries along the forbidden path of a nun, Yi Kong, similarly, would never taste the pleasure of a man’s warming hand on her breast, his tender eyes eagerly finding their resting place in hers.

I hoped she didn’t see the hot pink crawling up my cheeks. I’d thought she’d guessed already. How could I face disappointing her, telling her that instead of forsaking the world and striving for Buddhahood, I had fallen in love with a man, flirted dangerously with another one, and even…had sex with a woman? I hesitated, inhaled the piquant incense, and said, also in a half-joking way to cover up my guilt and embarrassment, “I know there’s lots of fun going on here, but I…I…” I paused, then involuntarily blurted out, “Someone…is waiting for me.” Was I so sure of marrying Michael?