by Richard Bell
Chapter 2
Growing up in Guangzhou as a later son of a mid-level lower-ranking bureaucrat, and grandson of a scholar I had an extensive education by tutors before entering the Nan Hua monastery. First and second sons might expect university education and careers, but I was destined for the monastery. Once ordained, I stayed to serve Master Lu as the bright young protégé of a venerable abbot.
Influenza swept Guangzhou twice that winter, taking both noble and plain as well as my father, mother and both elder brothers. It brought piled tasks before me faster than I could address them. As the monastery’s priest-managers died I inherited responsibilities beyond my experience. Writing reports and making suggestions, I moved from one office to another to simply maintain basic functions.
The civil bureaucracy my father served was famously efficient and organized, but the monastery was simply disparate elements stitched together with little plan or thought. Week after week I ended unfinished projects and simplified functions I barely understood,. I deciphered receipts, read old reports and sorted piles of notes trying to guess the plans and intentions of the original managers.
Having no other forms to follow I modeled my effort on my father’s work. I reassured teachers and calligraphers that their work would continue. I found money to pay past due kitchen bills, reviewed contracts and made lists of purveyors. Without any real over-view I set up procedures and forwarded recommendations to the abbot.
Unlike government agencies, no element in the monastery seemed to keep efficient records or file reports that explained what was ongoing, completed or planned. Simply maintaining essential functions like the kitchen presented outrageous problems. Projects ran-aground and stranded with no one knowing what their original aims had been. Loose ends dangled chaotically. I reviewed finances, studied correspondence and past decisions and passed-on what was left to likely candidates.
One day I was summoned to Master Lu. Concerned for my clerical career and spirits, he decided to send me for maturation to a sister monastery in Korea. I would pass on messages and serve as envoy at a minor conference. Most importantly I was to observe and befriend young scholars and priests, building alliances with the next generation’s abbots. Master Lu insisted that my true mission was to make contacts and be a bridge between temples in our rapidly changing world.
For a provincial like myself who had never set a foot outside the province, a journey to Korea seemed an incredible adventure. Traditionally, young priests beg for food and shelter as they wander between temples. But as an emissary from the Sixth Patriarch’s own temple, I would arrive with significant standing.
Since ordination and the influenza deaths, my life had been over-filled with responsibility. This trip would be a fortuitous beginning to a priestly career, but my daily life continued unchanged. In the months before I left I would continue to straighten disorder and create order out of chaos, feeling more of a bureaucratic char than priest.
Then the epidemic returned and with the next wave of Judge Yan’s hand my departure was postponed again through summer.
But time did pass. In the week before leaving I felt like a baby bird hopping out a branch, knowing I’d either fall to the ground or soar. On my final day at Nan Hua I waited with my bundle packed, my good-byes exchanged and messages tucked away, waiting at the gate for Master Lu’s blessing. I already felt a world away. With my head freshly shaved I wore my newly washed everyday robe with my formal robe folded in my bag. Standing by the temple gate I felt estranged. My heart had already disconnected from the long-familiar walls that enclosed my youth.
Master Lu approached me slowly. Taking me by the elbow, we walked a few steps in silence.
I expected advice or words of wisdom, but when he finally paused we merely stood looking in silence into each other’s eyes. His face was relaxed and his eyes were clear; I felt transparent as he gazed into my soul.
When at last, a silent encouraging smile flicked the corners of his mouth, I felt I’d understood and made a brief nod of recognition. He shut his eyes as in a moment of prayer then reopened them, shiny with un-shed tears and a smile. I wanted to believe that it showed me his love and pride. That wonderful minute stretched on. And when it inevitably passed his smile relaxed, returning the stolid expression I’d always known.
His eyes brushed closed again as he offered a benedictory bow. Giving my arm an encouraging squeeze he simply murmured “Good journey.”