At a Crossroads
My Adventures with Shifu Tan
The fruit trees at Yi Suo were ripe, and the flower gardens were in full bloom. I had been practicing daily for three months now.
“Today I will test your internal strength,” Shifu Tan announced.
I stood in Horse Stance. He grabbed a sledgehammer and swung it hard, aiming for my Lower Dantian. My belly bounced it off like a rubber tire.
“Your guardian Qi is strong,” he said, swinging again. “Normal punches won’t hurt you anymore.”
Summer break ended and the fall term began. I returned to school eager to see my classmates. Shifu Tan demanded that I give my schoolwork the same level of commitment I gave my martial arts practice. He inspired me to excel, and I surprised my parents with high grades. None of my friends were aware of my training. I led a double life; I woke up before dawn, scurried over to the boiler room with my schoolbag, and practiced martial arts until I heard the ring of the first school bell. I then had five minutes before the second bell rang and class began. The school was a three-minute run from Yi Suo, so I sprinted there with my schoolbag bouncing behind me and sat down at my desk with a minute to spare. When the school day ended, I reversed my steps, and within five minutes I was back in the garden behind the boiler room practicing martial arts.
Over time my training intensified. I completed Tiger Fist and learned more advanced fighting sets. I sparred with Shifu Tan regularly and he was content with my progress. My arms and legs became more resilient and much stronger. I experienced explosive power flowing through my body whenever I practiced. Each time I mastered one exercise, Shifu Tan taught me another that was more challenging. I became proficient at three-, two-, and one-finger push-ups and did sets of fifty without tiring.
Shifu Tan could do all the drills he taught me with graceful ease. When he demonstrated handstand pushups, he rooted his hands to the ground and his inverted body bobbed up and down effortlessly. He explained the proper breathing method as he performed a dozen repetitions without straining. I fumbled at first. But my master’s presence motivated me to train hard, and eventually I mastered it.
Three years passed in this fashion.
“Let your parents know you’ll be sleeping over in the boiler room tonight,” Shifu Tan informed me one morning after practice.
That evening my master and I ate an unusually early dinner.
When I was finished Shifu Tan said, “Time for bed.”
I was surprised. I had anticipated some exciting late-night activity.
“Where shall I sleep?” I asked.
“Over there,” he answered, pointing at a rope. One end was tied to a window bar and the other end was tied to a pipe halfway across the room.
“That rope is my bed?” I said in disbelief.
“Jihui, you’ve mastered basic rooting and balancing skills while standing up and awake. Tonight you’ll learn to develop those skills while lying down and asleep.”
“But Shifu, I can’t even lie down on a rope when I’m awake. How will I sleep on it?”
“I will show you how.” Shifu Tan climbed on the rope as if it were a mattress and folded his arms behind his head. One of his feet balanced on the rope and the other was crossed over his knee.
“Swing the rope,” he instructed.
I pushed the rope back and forth like a hammock. He looked very comfortable swinging, and half a minute later he sprung off.
“It’s your turn. Focus on your Lower Dantian and relax,” he said.
I sat on the rope, leaned back, lifted my legs in the air, and instantly plopped to the floor.
“Try again,” Shifu Tan insisted.
I concentrated harder, but had the same results.
An hour later I still hadn’t made any headway. I was frustrated and exhausted. I looked helplessly at Shifu Tan.
“Now that you’ve tried a hundred times, I’ll teach you the secret. Simply visualize your center of gravity dropping halfway between the rope and the floor. See yourself balancing in the air.”
I positioned myself carefully on the rope.
“Bring your attention to the Lower Dantian and sink your Qi there. Feel your weight slide under your body.”
I lifted my legs in the air slowly and envisioned my body weight dropping. I managed to hang on for a few seconds before falling off the rope again.
“That’s much better,” he encouraged.
“Let me try again,” I said optimistically.
I climbed back on the rope. My second attempt lasted longer, and within ten minutes I was lying on the rope swinging back and forth, hands behind my head with one leg crossed over the other.
“Shifu, I made it!” I exclaimed triumphantly.
“Good,” he acknowledged, then gave me a spoon. “Hold on to this and go to sleep.”
By now I was tired, so it didn’t take me long to fall asleep. But the spoon slid from my fingers and when it clanked to the ground I woke up—still balancing on the rope!
Shifu Tan picked up the spoon and handed it back to me.
“This time chant song jing zi ran as you fall asleep. Open up to peace, tranquility, and acceptance and you will remain aware and balanced even in restful sleep.”
I woke up the next morning still holding the spoon. I continued to practice rope sleeping regularly until it become as easy as sleeping on a bed. When Shifu Tan was confident that I had mastered the skill, we slept on tree branches. At first I slept on thick boughs only a few feet off the ground. But gradually we climbed higher and slept on slimmer limbs. We spent many warm summer nights twenty feet above the ground slumbering under the stars.
One night we set out for the countryside.
“Tonight we won’t be sleeping in a tree,” Shifu Tan said.
“Where will we sleep, then?” I asked.
“We’ll be spending the night in a graveyard.”
I shuddered.
“Every human being has a spiritual essence,” my master explained, “and that energy hovers around a body that has recently died.”
I knotted up. “You mean their ghost?”
“In the transition between life and death, powerful energies are released. We are going to meditate on that energy. The spirits of the dead are no different from the spirits of the living, and there is nothing to fear,” he answered calmly.
We entered the graveyard. The silence was unnerving.
Shifu Tan sat cross-legged over a freshly dug grave. I sat beside him. The ground felt soft and warm, like a cushion.
“I have chosen to bring you here in the springtime when the Earth’s energy rises most strongly,” he explained. “Earth Qi mixed with the spiritual essence of the recently dead creates a powerful elixir. The energy around us is potent. Tonight’s meditation will be memorable. Jihui, when you close your eyes, focus on the Lower Dantian until you see a light glowing there. Then allow that light to float through the core of your body straight up to your third eye. When it arrives there, you will feel your midbrow light up like a screen. Keep looking at it and you may see some friendly spirits.”
I closed my eyes and brought my attention to my Lower Dantian as instructed.
Shifu Tan continued, “You might feel the sensation of a hand touching you. If that happens, don’t be alarmed. That’s a sign that a spirit is communicating with you. Breathe deeply into your Lower Dantian and allow the spirit’s energy to flow there. No matter what happens, don’t open your eyes. If you panic chant song jing zi ran and shine the light of your heart on the darkness in your mind.”
After meditating in inner darkness for a while, I saw a light glowing in my Lower Dantian and it floated up to my third eye. My forehead expanded energetically and then it brightened. I could “feel” someone looking at me. The sensation startled me, and my heart was racing. A face came into clear view. It was an old woman. We just looked at each other. She didn’t say anything, and after a few moments she vanished. Then more faces appeared, some younger and some older, but each of them seemed friendly enough, so I relaxed until suddenly a ghoulish, negative presence disturbed my pleasant, peaceful meditation. The negative energy latched on to my lower back and began to crawl up my spine like a slimy reptile.
“Song jing zi ran, song jing zi ran, song jing zi ran,” I chanted.
“Keep chanting,” Shifu Tan whispered. “Don’t be afraid. Keep chanting.”
I focused the light of my heart on that dark energy and it melted away. We meditated until dawn without any further unpleasant incidents.
My time with Shifu Tan wasn’t always spent doing grueling exercises, daunting acrobatics, or spine-chilling feats. The playful side he had shown me when we first met resurfaced whenever he wasn’t instructing me. On our off hours my stern teacher became an amusing clown. He liked to entertain me with colorful facial expressions, and, to my delight, he made me laugh a lot.
On one occasion my master visited a close friend who had a five-year-old son, and I tagged along. Shifu Tan picked up one of the boy’s tiny shirts that was lying around and asked, “Can I borrow your shirt?” The little boy nodded yes.
Shifu Tan slid his hands into the narrow sleeves and wriggled his arms until they also slid in. He wriggled his shoulders, and his body seemed to deform as he buttoned up the shirt. His head and legs appeared to be their normal size, but his upper body looked as if it had shrunk in half. The boy, his father, and I all watched in awe. Shifu Tan made some comical faces and waved his disproportionate arms. He looked like a puppet. We all laughed.
“How did you do that, Shifu?” I asked after we left.
“The connective tissue that sheaths your whole body is called fascia,” he explained, “and through special practice you can learn to control your fascia and dislocate your joints at will. I dislocated my shoulders and passed my arms through the sleeves.”
My master rarely displayed his Qigong abilities in public, but he made an exception one day when we visited the zoo and his mischievous side came out.
It was hot and humid. The lions were lying around their cage like big, lazy house cats. One of the visitors was yelling at them to get up and start acting like lions.
“Watch this,” Shifu Tan whispered to me.
He extended his index and middle fingers and curled his other fingers together to form a gesture called Sword Finger. Then he discreetly projected energy from his two extended fingers toward the backside of the biggest lion. About twenty seconds later the lion leaped off the ground with a loud roar and began running around in circles chasing his own tail. A crowd of people gathered around the cage. The lion continued to act wildly. I giggled. A few minutes later Shifu Tan discreetly waved his hand back and forth, sending energy toward the lion’s third eye, and the lion calmed. It yawned, lay down, and was asleep within seconds.
Then we walked over to the monkey pit and saw twenty chattering monkeys running around.
“Should we bring a little order to the monkey cage?” Shifu Tan asked.
“Okay,” I agreed.
Shifu Tan pointed his fingers at the largest, loudest monkey. All of a sudden it stopped, stood still, and looked puzzled. Then my master directed the monkey to one side of the pit. Shifu Tan waved his hand again, and soon another monkey joined the first one. Then, one by one, all the monkeys lined up quietly against the wall.
“On the count of three let’s wake them all up,” he said.
We counted down together. He waved his hands, and the monkeys snapped out of their trance. All at once the whole bunch screeched and jumped up and down simultaneously. We had a good laugh.
My master always amazed me with his Qigong skills, but his most extraordinary demonstration took place on July 16, 1975. People traditionally gather every year on that date at the Xiang River Bridge in my hometown to celebrate summer and swim across the half-mile-wide river. Two of my master’s older disciples came to visit him that day. I had never met them before and I never saw them again afterward. Shifu Tan was overjoyed to see them, just as they were to see him. It was a blisteringly hot day, and the three men shielded themselves from the sun with red paper parasols. We all walked past the crowd cheering on the throng of swimmers and strolled farther down the bank, away from all the commotion. I lingered a few paces behind my master and his disciples.
After continuing for about twenty minutes, we were finally alone near the river’s edge.
Shifu Tan turned to me and said, “It’s lunchtime and we’re hungry, so we’re going to cross here. You go back, walk over the Xiang River Bridge, and meet us at that noodle house on the other side.”
“Yes, Shifu,” I answered obediently.
I wondered how they planned to cross the river. There were no boats around. The area was deserted. I wondered if they would swim across, like the others. They were wearing short blue pants and white shirts. I watched curiously as they took off their cotton shoes and slipped them into their pant waists. Shifu Tan headed for the water, flanked by his disciples. They stepped ankle deep into the water and waded farther out. They kept on walking, but they didn’t sink. The water reached just below my master’s knees and just above the disciples’ knees.
The three men were walking on water!
I stared incredulously until they were halfway across. They were still chatting and spinning their parasols. Then I sprinted back to the bridge, ran across, and rejoined them. They were sipping tea, waiting for me. Shifu Tan ordered noodles for all of us. The combination of the delicious, fresh noodles and the mind-blowing feat I had just witnessed made this my most memorable meal ever.
From the Martial Arts to the Healing Arts
When I was thirteen an incident took place that forever altered the course of my training as a martial artist. It began when I met my best friend, Jianqing, on the street and noticed his face was badly bruised.
“What happened to you?” I asked.
“Zhang Gong beat me up,” he replied.
“Why?”
“Yesterday I wore the soldier’s cap that my uncle gave me as a gift, and Zhang Gong grabbed it from me. I tried to get it back and he attacked me, as did his whole gang.”
In those days a soldier’s cap was a valuable fashion item for a teenager. As my friend recalled the altercation, his blackened, swollen eyes moistened and I became enraged.
“Where did this happen?”
“On the street corner where they’re always hanging out.”
I marched there in a fit of rage to confront Zhang Gong, who was there with three of his hooligan friends. They were each three years older and at least one head taller than I, but that didn’t stop me. I stepped right into the middle of their circle.
“You stole Jianqing’s cap yesterday and I want it back!” I barked.
The biggest thug in the group taunted me. “Or else what?” he asked, winking at the others.
My martial arts instincts took over. Without warning I smashed him in the chest with a devastating punch. He flew backward. After a moment of stunned silence, the rest of the gang members jumped me. I moved with blinding speed and struck one of them to the ground. Another pulled out a knife and sliced my lower back. I smashed his ribs with a vicious strike and punched his face. He fell to the ground unconscious. Zhang Gong jumped on me, but before he could hit me I snapped and broke his arm, then continued to pummel him mercilessly while he lay helpless on the ground. Within seconds the fight was over. Each gang member was either disabled or unconscious.
I quickly ran away to hide in another part of our neighborhood. As I calmed down, fear grabbed me. I began to wonder if I had killed Zhang Gong. My short-lived feeling of triumph suddenly turned into bitter anxiety that stalked me for the rest of the day.
That evening Zhang Gong’s parents came to our building and banged on our door. My parents let them in. His mother was livid. She told my parents that her son was lying in a hospital bed, and she threatened to have me thrown in jail. My father berated me in front of Zhang Gong’s parents while my mother cried. They made me apologize.
The following day I visited Zhang Gong in the hospital with my mother. We brought him dried lychees and apples. His face was badly disfigured and his right arm was in a cast. He was in pain and unusually timid. He didn’t look like an arrogant bully, but like a weak and cowardly boy. To my surprise, I felt heartfelt sympathy, and I apologized to him.
Later that afternoon my master greeted me with a cold, unfriendly stare. My mother had paid him a visit earlier.
“You lost control over your emotions,” he said sharply.
“I’m sorry,” I replied.
“I’m very disappointed in you.”
I could handle my mom’s disapproval, but my master’s reproach was unbearable.
“Today your lesson will be the washboard,” he said.
Shifu Tan leaned his wooden washboard against the wall at a forty-five degree angle and made me kneel on it. After five minutes my knees ached badly. He made me face the wall for two punishing hours.
Not long after the fight, Shifu Tan had an unusually serious, straightforward conversation with me.
“Jihui, you are standing at a crossroads, and you must choose only one way forward. You can continue training as a martial artist and fight in competitions to establish your reputation. At the end of this road you’ll become an accomplished fighter, and you’ll be able to open your own martial arts school someday. But down the other path lies a different destiny. I can train you to become a Qigong healer. This journey requires developing your healing abilities, refining your inner vision, and greatly empowering your Qi. Though it might not seem apparent, the training for the second path is far more rigorous and demanding than the first. Take your time and decide which path you want to follow.”
Over the years I had witnessed Shifu Tan heal many people with Qigong. His reputation as a healer had quietly spread around our neighborhood. Strangers often knocked on his door at odd hours, and Shifu Tan never turned anyone away. Sometimes he even let me watch him treat a patient.
Just a few weeks before I fought with Zhang Gong, a woman had limped into the boiler room on crutches asking for help.
“A steel beam fell and crushed my toes,” she winced. “The doctors gave me painkillers but they no longer work. I’m in constant agony. I was told you are a healer.”
“Show me your foot,” Shifu Tan said.
He massaged her leg and directed his Qi into the wound. He blended some herbs, mixed them with medicinal liquor, and sprayed the concoction on her foot. Then he bandaged it.
“Come back in a week,” he instructed.
A week later the woman returned. Her pain had diminished considerably. He repeated the same procedure. The following week she knocked on the door one last time and walked in without her crutches.
“My foot doesn’t hurt anymore,” she said, beaming.
My master examined the foot. It looked almost normal.
The woman burst into tears. “Thank you.”
Her gratitude touched me, and each time I recalled her appreciation I became more interested in following the path of healing.
I gave Xiao Yao my answer on the spot. “Shifu, I want to become a Qigong healer.”
“Good.” He seemed pleased with my choice.
The transition from the martial arts to the healing arts unfolded gradually. I continued to practice the same martial art forms Shifu Tan taught me as well as the same meditations and breathing techniques, but he stopped teaching me new forms. Instead my master asked me to join him in the boiler room whenever someone came in for a treatment. At first I merely watched him work while he explained the techniques he was using, and eventually I began to assist him by pressing various energy points during a healing session.
A month before my fifteenth birthday, Shifu Tan announced, “Today I will be giving you a special empowerment called Guan Ding. This experience is the first of several empowerments intended to awaken your healing powers.”
I sat down on the floor in the boiler room. Shifu Tan touched my third eye with his index finger. A powerful vibration jolted from his fingertip into my head. It felt like an electric current that flowed steadily from his arm straight into my brain. As the intensity of the energy increased, the electrical impulse began to flow down my neck and chest into my arms, my torso, and down my legs. Every energy channel inside my body was aglow. I was growing lighter and brighter until I felt myself dissolving. An invisible hand suddenly seemed to lift me higher and higher. I lost awareness of the outer world. I was like a cloud of sweet bliss riding across a vast, illuminated inner sky. Then even that sensation melted away. The cloud dissipated and I merged into the blissful sky. There was love everywhere. Nothing else, just love.
When I opened my eyes, Shifu Tan was there. “Jihui, I have planted a spiritual seed in you. Over time it will sink deep roots and grow stronger. When you are older there will be a second, more powerful empowerment, a practice called Biguan. I will let you know when the time arrives. For now, just continue to meditate as before.”
The Guan Ding empowerment transformed me. I felt blissful currents of Qi flowing through me all the time. I basked in the sweet afterglow of my newfound happiness until a few months later when Shifu Tan broke some bitter news that rattled me to the core.
“I received a letter last week informing me that Jiuyi Temple has reopened,” Shifu Tan said. “I have to return.”
The news stunned me. Although the Cultural Revolution had recently ended and people everywhere were celebrating the social changes, I never imagined that the newfound freedoms would separate me from my master.
“Ten years have passed since I left,” he continued, “and the boiler room has become my second home, but as a senior monk it is my duty to go back and rebuild. It is not your destiny to follow me to the monastery and become a monk. I know you would come if I asked you to, but I want you to stay in Xiangtan. All my disciples are uneducated mountaineers and monks, and I would like you to pursue a university degree. China is going to go through many changes. The world is transforming quickly. Doors will open for you and your destiny lies through them. So it is essential for you to stay here, study diligently, and strive to pass the university entrance exam.”
I heard Shifu Tan’s words, but they didn’t register. I had spent time with him every day for the last seven years. He was like a second father to me. The boiler room was our sacred temple. I couldn’t envision my life without him.
“While I am gone you will meditate regularly and keep practicing the techniques I’ve taught you. During winter breaks and summer vacations you will rejoin me at the monastery, and I will continue to teach you.”
“Yes, Shifu,” I said. My voice was hollow and flat.
“In the monastery I will be known by my monk’s name, Xiao Yao, but I will still be your Shifu. I realize that many things will change for both of us, but in the end it will all work out fine.”
On the way back home that day, I cried.
A month later my entire family accompanied Xiao Yao to the train station. I spent all of the little money I had saved on a gift, a diary. I inscribed the front page: To My Beloved Master. Have a good journey, Jihui.
My sister and mother knitted him a brown wool sweater, and they gave him a basket of food for the trip.
Xiao Yao’s eyes moistened. The conductor announced the train’s departure. My master boarded. The whistle blew. He waved good-bye from the window, and moments later the train was gone.
A few days later I returned to the boiler room and saw the new boiler room attendant shoveling coal into the burners. That’s when it really hit me. My master was gone. After that I hardly ever returned to Yi Suo.
After my master left I became more involved at school. I joined the track team and discovered that I excelled as a hurdler. I was relatively short for the sport, but my martial arts training compensated for my size. I also focused more energy on my studies. That year I took English as my second language. The teacher was an inspiring man named Li Yuntao. He was passionate about the subject and enchanted us with classical stories like Hamlet and The Prince and the Pauper. I decided that if I were ever accepted to a university, I would major in English literature.
Three days after the semester ended, I set off on my first visit to Jiuyi Temple. I climbed aboard the same train Xiao Yao had taken. I carried a small canvas backpack containing two pairs of underwear, a T-shirt, a toothbrush and toothpaste, a hand towel, and a bag of dried lychees to offer my master as a gift. The train ride took a full eight hours and then I traveled by bus for two more hours and got off at a makeshift stop near a remote village. I asked a local farmer for directions to the monastery. He pointed the way.
In the forest I met another farmer, who asked me where I was headed.
“I’m going to Jiuyi Temple to visit my Shifu,” I answered.
“Who is your Shifu?” he asked.
“The monk Xiao Yao.”
“You are a disciple of Xiao Yao?”
“Yes.”
“Then please allow me to invite you to have lunch with my family. We are poor, but it would be an honor to host you in our home.”
I accepted. Lunch consisted of rice mixed with sweet potato bits. One of the farmer’s relatives was an old mountaineer who shared many endearing stories about my master. While listening to him I realized that Xiao Yao had touched many people’s lives before he became a boiler room attendant. These kind people made me appreciate his humility even more. We drank tea together, and then I thanked them for their hospitality and continued my trek to Jiuyi Temple.
I hiked for several hours along the steep path. Parts were covered by a ceiling of thick foliage, and others snaked along the bare, narrow edge of the mountain. I paused a few times to admire the valley below.
When I finally saw the main gate of Jiuyi Temple, I ran toward it and entered the courtyard. Neglect and bad weather had taken a toll on the monastery. The grounds were in need of maintenance, and the structures were in dire need of repair.
A young monk greeted me with his right hand in the traditional prayer position against his chest. “E mi tuo fo—Buddha bless you,” he said.
I wasn’t familiar with the religious formalities.
“Uh, hi. E mi tuo fo. I am Jihui, and I’m looking for Xiao Yao,” I replied.
“Oh yes, I know who you are. He told us you’d be coming. Follow me. I’ll take you to him.”
My master was in the dining hall. His head was shaven and he wore a chocolate-colored robe. I nearly walked right past him.
“E mi tuo fo. Jihui, did you have a good journey?” he asked me.
His new look startled me. It took me a few moments to regain my bearings.
“Yes, Shifu,” I answered.
“Good. Let me show you around.”
Xiao Yao gave me a brief tour of the temple and introduced me to everyone. There were about a dozen monks living on the premises. Most of them were new to monastic life. Only a handful of the older monks had returned. I met the abbot in charge of administration, who was a veteran monk named Liu Bo. The monastery was understaffed, and everyone was overloaded with work. Xiao Yao was in charge of reconstruction as well as training the new monks.
Next, Xiao Yao showed me the main hall that housed the Golden Buddha. We stood on the veranda and looked out. The far view of the mountains was spectacular. The near view of the courtyard was less inspiring. Piles of bricks and stacked lumber were strewn throughout the temple grounds.
“As you can see, the monastery is a mess,” my master explained. “We are busy with major repairs that must be completed before winter arrives.”
He ushered me inside the temple. The dilapidated walls desperately needed patching and a fresh coat of paint, but the space still radiated a high spiritual vibration. The open-air room exuded the musty scent of sandalwood incense, which mixed pleasantly with the scents of summer in bloom. The Golden Buddha sat peacefully on a lotus flower and appeared unperturbed by his cracked skin of faded-gold paint.
He was flanked on either side by two life-sized standing Buddha statues. Beyond him dozens of smaller Golden Buddhas were illuminated by seas of red candles on two long tables that ran alongside the walls.
A silky red curtain hung down from the ceiling, framing the Golden Buddha and his retinue. Xiao Yao led me behind the drapery and quietly showed me the beautiful, radiant, kind-faced, golden statue of Guan Yin, the goddess of compassion. She was twice my height and stood graciously on a stack of lotus flowers, facing the back of the temple.
We returned outside, and Xiao Yao said, “Jihui, you’ll be staying with me. I have to get back to work now. Settle down and walk around the grounds if you’d like. I will see you later.”
Then he asked a young monk to show me to his room.
Xiao Yao’s room was set into the perimeter wall of the monastery just across the courtyard from the main temple. The quarters were neither small nor large. There were two narrow beds on opposite ends of the room shielded by mosquito nets. On the far wall was a small window and a wooden desk with a kerosene lamp and a few candles on it. Two chairs were tucked away in the corner. I placed my backpack down on one of them.
“Our daily routine is simple and it never changes,” the monk explained before he left. “We pray and chant three times a day, we work two shifts, and we eat once, at lunchtime.”
I followed the daily routine and the next day, after morning prayers, Xiao Yao led me outside the temple grounds while it was still slightly dark. We walked for twenty minutes through the early morning mist in dreamy silence. The path narrowed as we walked along the edge of the mountain overlooking a deep ravine. Then the path widened and the Earth became grassy. We stopped in front of a pine tree that had put down roots at the very edge of a steep cliff. Half its branches overhung the rock and extended into the void. From here the neighboring mountain peaks, which were suspended like celestial islands in the swirling, curling morning mist, were an awesome sight to behold.
“I practice Qigong here almost every morning,” Xiao Yao said. “The mountain Qi is powerful and it is peaceful and quiet.”
We practiced a set called Four Golden Wheels Exercise and meditated under the tree, facing the majestic sky.
Two otherworldly hours passed and my master said, “Jihui, take a look.”
By now the sun had risen and its heat had chased away the morning mist. The sky was blue and clear. Xiao Yao was pointing above the pine tree at a double rainbow that seemed to bridge Heaven and Earth.
“These rainbows appear here almost every morning,” he said, his face reflecting the golden sunlight.
We practiced Qigong by the “Rainbow Tree” daily. After morning practice my master usually went back to work and engaged in various activities. Sometimes I helped the monks with construction. At other times Xiao Yao instructed me to read old manuscripts that were stored in a large wooden chest in a small reading room. Some of them were hundreds of years old. I was amazed to discover that many described the same practices that Xiao Yao had taught me. I read them with care, realizing that Xiao Yao and his masters had read the same scrolls when they were my age.
Whenever a villager came for a healing, my master would call for me. I would set aside whatever I was doing and assist him with the treatment in a room near the main temple, just as I had done in the boiler room.
And when I wasn’t meditating, working, reading, or assisting Xiao Yao, I explored the sleepy mountain trails and swam in the gurgling streams. The summer passed at a leisurely pace, and I grew attached to the pleasant simplicity of monastic life. When it was time for me to return home, I was sad to leave peaceful Jiuyi Temple for the lively streets of Xiangtan.