"Fuchun Tu No. 5" Zhu Ming painting
I have come to follow a river, a river full of spring. So wide, like the curtain of history, unfolds from the Huangshan Mountains to the West Lake. Green mountains flow in green water, and green water lingers among green mountains.
Hanging in the distant sky. Standing on the bank of the river, watching the river roll over in the empty green, the boats are longitudinal, "the tree color is divided, and the tide is full of rich spring" (Tang Wang Wei).
"The Qiantang River reaches Tonglu, and the water and mountains are not as good as the green paintings" (Tang Weizhuang). Floating from the stream, anything. Pull up the corner of the curtain in search of a quality.
"From Fuyang to Tonglu, a hundred miles" "The wind and smoke are pure, the Heavenly Mountains are of common color" "The mountains on the shore are all cold trees, the negative trend is competing, each other Xuanmiao, competing for heights, thousands of peaks" "The water is all green, and the thousands of feet are at the bottom." Swimming fish and fine stones, looking directly at it is not hindered" (Southern Dynasty Liang Wu Jun).
What kind of purity can tell the quality I want to pursue more than here?
The mountains are cold and stacked, and the spring mountains prefer Fuchunduo. On the Tonglu River, "a fold of green mountains and a screen, a bay of clear water and a piano." Silent Poetry and Sound Painting" (Qing Liu Sixuan), which makes the poetic imagination bend.
"Horizontal and shaded, in the day and dusk; sparse strips, sometimes see the sun" "Spring water rocks, the sound of the water; good birds sing each other, hissing into rhyme." The cicadas are endless, and the apes are endless", so that "the irises fly to the heavens, look at the peaks and rest their hearts; the economic worldly servants, peeping at the valley and forgetting the reaction" (Wu Jun).
That year, he came out of the ornate fence, boarded the drifting boat, and never looked back. The name of the hermit, no one knows. Night and pine winds, caressing the mountains, above which is an endless starry sky, the stars silently whistling. The wilderness sinks, the raft is lonely, and it retreats between the grass and trees. Under the stars, the breeze of the valley swept away the time. Forget the uncultivated mountains under your feet, and reach the frontier of the arc of thought. After the dew and floating flowers, recount the life.
There is no longer any need to delve into this world that you are fighting for, and there is no longer any need to painstakingly speculate on prophecies and make suggestions.
Never miss the best years again.
In the longest and longest winter, you can no longer go out. In the longest and longest summers, walk through jungles and mountain streams, or wade barefoot, or sleep in a suit. Let the petals flutter and write poems on the placket.
In the morning it is the clouds are blazing, and the day is the river. The Story of the Wilderness, nothing has changed. Morning light, frost dew, mist, green over shallow new tea, daisies, purple weeds and pine cypresses, wildflowers bloom in between. In the inlet under the mountain, there are women making clothes and laughing. Smoke rose on the slope, fish were rattling underwater, and farther away, a water bird stopped at the bow of the boat, staring at the hermit through the fog, watching the joy and sorrow of childhood on his face.
Desire and detachment have always been entanglements that cannot be combined. For so many years, the grandeur and qi and blood have been consumed. Excellence and talent, which once made him a hall of eminence, are now happy because of ordinary trifles. What is ignored in everyday life melts and rises in this moment. Where there is no man's land, there will be a new pastoral of its own. Push open the cold window and plant words on the bookcase. Outside the mottled courtyard walls, livestock return home late. Moss and duckweed floated in the ditch, quietly waiting for the white frost and snow.
Gray thatched huts, surrounded by flowers, undulating along the hillside. Surrounded by boundless silence, while the seven strings are chirping. The orchid and bamboo leaf cloak went up and saw the distance. Holding the fishing rod and holding the serenity, the silk silk outlines the rhythm of the mountain house.
"The Tongjiang River is long in autumn, and the Fuchun Mokong smoke trees are flying." The guest star is cold and the Han Palace is barren" (Ming Li Changqi). Once a cloth Yisuke, Fuhan Jiuding. In an era when dirt becomes the wind, and the festival is incorruptible, the snobbery is broken, the forest spring is high, the wind festival is cold to stir up the waves, and the youyou tian retreats to the filthy customs, "because the mountains think of the platform, because the water thinks of the beach, because the grass thinks of the silk, because the wood thinks of the rod" (Ming Yuan Hongdao), alone to the Tong River to fish for smoke and water, rather than the sheep qiu xi hanging the waves. Saying what "Zi Chen is sleeping with the imperial palace, Xuanxiang Inspector Star" (Tang Wujun), saying that "respecting Mo is respected by the Son of Heaven, and being unworthy of the cloth" (Tang Luoyin), for a person who is "distant and loose, and on the clouds of love" (Southern Dynasty Fan Ye), the worldly dignity and inferiority do not care long ago.
There was a string of quiet longings floating on the surface of the water, and the pond held a flute. How many people sit down at the water's edge of life, hold their breath, lengthen the fishing line of the soul, make themselves bait, sink in the deep shallow, waiting for the future to be hooked.
Who understands the meaning of mr. fishing? Fishing alone in the snow of the cold river is not empty writing loneliness. I don't care about finding nothing, just grasping the fishing rod and immersing myself in my own world, "what I catch is not in the fish, and I can adapt myself to myself" (Don Lee Tak-yu). It has nothing to do with the fish, it has nothing to do with the water, it has nothing to do with the world, it's just about the comfortable gesture and a complete self.
The meaning of seclusion is always so doubtful. "Look down at the bait scales, look up at Ling Xiaohong" (Don Kwon Tak Yu). The pretentious avoidance of power and the deliberate pursuit of fame are two sides of the same coin.
What Yan Ziling makes me admire is not his contempt for wealth, not his spiritual contact with heaven and earth, his reclusiveness, solitude, but his pure quality of respecting life and loving life.
Nearly 2,000 years of history, Tonglu retains the simple ancient style. Old and young, walking with the sun and the moon. Tonglu's Yaolin Cave is the crown of the middle of the country; Tonglu's Qinxi is the fragrant valley filled with autumn gui; Tonglu's jade, the Yellow Emperor takes it as a soldier; Tonglu's Tongjun is the originator of Chinese medicine; Tonglu's daughter village, continuing the customs of the matrilineal clan; Tonglu's wild tea, Tangche buds stand like silver swords out of the sheath, and the fragrance is clear; Tonglu's cave wine, aged wine, has not been opened for a long time, and the altar is opened to drink as if it were empty.
Lu people, residence also; Tong people, oil tong also, sycamore also. Wutong leads the phoenix, so the Tonglu phoenix comes to the phoenix. From the Wei and Jin Dynasties to the Qing Dynasty, there are thousands of famous sages, leaving countless famous works here.
Yanziling Diaoyutai overlooks the Longmen Gorge of the Fuchun River. The stone caves of the Yanzi River still contain legendary stone bells, stone wells and old stoves for decoction. A light smoke drifts away from the memory, painting the ordinary twilight of an old man in the countryside:
Cloaked in akebode, pacing strangely, planting in spring and summer, harvesting in autumn and hiding in winter. All things follow cause and effect, and the Heavenly Path naturally reincarnates. But the earth that carries everything is always deep and solid.
Rivers flowed between the stars, and an unknown fragrance filled the air. Twelve changing colors throughout the year, gather together. And every morning, the clear stream of the Fuchun River washes the heart.
The dead leaves of ancient trees are flying like snow. In a trance, the man is old. The quiet long river, through the hustle and bustle, the bright eyes are blurred by the sunset, and the plain clothes and water have walked through the years. Stone bridge under the moon, the story is old. No one knows the riddle of the wind when withering. No one is wearing a morning dew when the moon sets, tapping on the wood door.
Baiyun was silent. The blue sky is silent. Aoyama was silent. Ren wrinkles climbed on the forehead, ren qing silk changed into white frost. All the majestic plans, all the mercurial tricks, all the common ideas that shake the ancient and the modern, can only maintain a shallow life. A life that is entirely its own, feathered in the clouds.
Countless green mountains stood sideways in the night, all the nobility had long since dissipated, only he was always like a water but brilliant. Flowers fall in unknown places, personality always stands in the depths of the dust, indifferent to the face of sentient beings...