Universe in Dreams: Expired Passports, Meteor Showers, and the Labyrinths of Blocked Departures
Dream of September 24, 2026:
I woke up a bit early this morning, so I did meditation for about an hour. Around 6:30 AM, seeing that it was still early, I went back to sleep and had a dream.
My passport was about to expire; tomorrow was the deadline. Holding my brown Chinese passport, I wanted to find someone to handle the extension process. I knew exactly who to look for—two teachers from my dream. Yet, when I actually found them, I discovered they did not handle this matter at all. I woke up in a state of anxiety, feeling thoroughly relieved!
Waking time: 7:50 AM.
Note: Regarding Dreams of Blocked Departures
Dreams of blocked departures form a major category among my dreams, and they are intensely difficult every single time.
Once, at the end of a rugged road, a steep mountain suddenly appeared, rising straight up like a massive shield blocking the path ahead. In the dream, I thought to myself that as long as I climbed over this mountain, everything would be fine. So I climbed and climbed until I was utterly exhausted. Just as I reached the summit and wanted to catch my breath to celebrate that victory was in sight, a vast, boundless ocean presented itself before my eyes.
Another time, I was waiting in line to cross a grand bridge that formed an international border. The crowd trying to cross was incredibly congested, pushing and shoving. The middle of the bridge was separated by a barbed-wire fence, leaving a gap wide enough for only one person to pass at a time. Someone stood guard on the other side, inspecting documents before letting people through. As soon as night fell, they stopped letting anyone pass, and I did not make it across either.
Fortunately, all these dreams occurred while I was in a foreign country. Upon waking, I always secretly rejoice that I have already arrived on the other side.
Dream of September 15, 2012:
At dusk, I was walking alone on the street when an acquaintance led me cryptically into a quiet corner. I thought she was showing affection toward me, but then she called out for her mother to open the door; it turned out to be her home. Once inside, she mixed a cold drink and handed it to me. The ceramic cup was very elegant, and the drink contained tiny black iced berries. Her parents, her brother, and her twin sister (born just one hour apart) all hosted me with great warmth.
After finishing the meal, I walked over to the window and looked out. It turned out to be an upscale architectural district. The buildings were all palace-style, and the stone sculptures in the central plaza were beautiful, designed in a Renaissance fashion. Beneath the window ran a river—a city river—flanked on both sides by luxurious structures. By the riverbank stood another large stone sculpture, half-submerged in the water. Looking closely, it resembled a crouching giant lobster with its head turned toward the distance.
She led me out the door, accompanied by her brother. The streets were crowded and busy. We sat on a double-decker, roofless vehicle that looked like a tour bus. Just as her brother got off the bus to head home, I was the first to notice a dark, irregular sphere, larger than a fist, descending from the sky trailing smoke.
"A meteor!" I shouted, pointing at the rapidly plunging object.
Before anyone could react, a barrage of meteors followed in quick succession, growing larger and falling almost directly beside the bus. One sphere, about the size of two fists, flew straight toward me. I stuck out my right hand to push and block it. Upon meeting the force of my fingertips, the sphere slightly altered its direction, scraping upward past me and leaving a mud mark on the pad of my index finger.
"Quick, take a photo of my finger!" I showed the mark on my finger to the group.
Before anyone could take a photo, a dense rain of meteors, large and small, began falling heavily. On the road, several large fireballs the size of cars were already rolling toward us. The driver steered the vehicle, twisting left and right, barely managing to dodge them. More and more fireballs filled the road, and just when it seemed completely impossible to evade them, the vehicle drove into the entrance of a thick-canopied tunnel or a grand bridge.
Safe now, we merged into the flow of people, and the street appeared quite crowded. Soon, my friend was separated from me by the crush. I asked her loudly, "Where am I going?"
She named a specific country, which seemed to be located far away on the border between Europe and Africa.
"I don’t want to go there, I want to go back to Shanghai," I shouted. "Then get off halfway," she waved goodbye to me as she drifted further and further away in the crowd. "Which bus do I take?" I called out. "XXXX," she shouted back a few digits, then added that the bus was about to leave and told me to hurry to the embassy to handle the paperwork. Then she vanished from sight.
Opposite the path I had come from, three roads branched out into different directions. At the fork, with no time to think and no way to choose, I was swept by the crowd into the leftmost road, which was relatively wide. Amidst the crowd, I inquired everywhere for the direction of the embassy.
Along the way, a well-dressed, middle-aged Japanese woman asked me for a favor, wanting me to add up the numbers on a few bills she held. Mindful of finding the embassy, I said, "I'm sorry, I don't have time. Do you know where the embassy is?" She replied, "Come with me, I am heading in that direction too."
So I followed her, even exchanging a few sentences with her in Japanese. She led me through several turns in the busy streets and alleys, suggesting we sit in her office for a moment first. The buildings there were all solemn and beautiful, resembling European architecture from the Renaissance. In a quiet spot along a corridor inside a grand building, she set her things down on the floor; it appeared this was her office.
Suddenly feeling that I had been deceived, I turned to retrace my steps along the original path. Yet, I simply could not find the way back. Pushing open a door that looked like an exit, I saw a large, rectangular room with a narrow walkway down the middle. Both sides were filled with people working, all staring at me with expressionless eyes. The room had no other exit. After backing out, I made several more turns along the corridors. Every spot that looked like an exit had people working, and none offered a way out. Only then did I realize I had been tricked into a massive labyrinth.
Looking down from a semi-open corridor on the third or fourth floor of the building, I saw several large hounds at the entrance of a nearby street corner, snapping their bloody jaws at anyone attempting to enter; even the police could not get in. The corridor itself was also packed with an immense crowd, with a few people patrolling while walking dogs whose jaws were bound with ropes so they couldn't open wide.
Feeling something pressing against me, I looked down to see a large dog pushing hard against my body. Wedged tightly by the people and the dog, I hung suspended in mid-air against the wall, yet I still couldn't evade the hound. The area of my left palm near the pinky finger was clamped tightly in the dog's mouth; it refused to let go, and I could distinctly feel its sharp teeth sinking in, causing intense pain.
Turning my head again, I saw a row of several people all standing suspended against the wall, each being bitten by some small animal at the same time. The middle-aged woman beside me said to me, "You must endure it. Wait until it loosens its grip, then find a way to escape."
Enduring the pain, I suddenly felt the jaws loosening, as if the teeth were shifting toward my pinky finger. I immediately exerted all my force, broke free from the dog with a sharp pull, and woke up.
特別感謝 Gemini AI 提供充滿活力的翻譯和文本潤色。
Special thanks to Gemini AI for providing the spirit translation and text refinement.
Fieldwork in the South, 1982: The Pingpo of Yunxi, a Sunbath in Butterfly Valley, and a Belated Enlightenment in Art
Merely two months after our trip to Wenzhou in July 1982, at the beginning of September, our same group headed south once more. This time, our itinerary took us to the South China Botanical Garden, the primeval forests of Dinghushan in Zhaoqing, and Qixingyan (Seven Star Crags), which is widely praised as a "miniature Guilin."
I. Vignettes and Anecdotes from the Old Streets
Upon arriving in Canton, it was only natural to wander through the alleyways, take in the cityscape, stroll along the banks of the Pearl River, and observe the local customs.
The old streets of Canton, whose names I can no longer recall, exuded a primitive and heartwarming charm. Flanking the uneven brick paths stood rows of old shops—unequal in height, mottled, and weathered lime-brick structures. There were shoe shops, flower stalls, pharmacies, and stores for furniture, timber, hardware, and general merchandise. Miscellanies of goods were packed tightly from inside the shops right out onto the pavements. It left one with the distinct impression that the entire population was engaged in commerce. It truly felt like a place where every household hoped their business would span the four seas, and every family wished their fortune would reach the three grand rivers.
One major avenue was a bustling sea of people, with tents and stalls completely choking the roadway, and multi-colored fashions hanging high from clothing racks. Only later did I learn that this was the famous Gaodi Street—similar to Xiushui Street in Beijing or Huating Road in Shanghai, but far grander in scale.
Some small vendors chatted idly with neighboring stall owners, while others haggled loudly with customers. "Giving it away to you!" "Giving it away to you!" they would laugh and call out to customers who were playing hard-to-get by feigning departure, acting as though they were genuinely losing their shirts just to seal the deal. Out-of-town buyers and secondary wholesalers hurried back and forth through the marketplace, carrying large bundles and sacks. Although quite a few among them were newly rich "ten-thousand-yuan households," we still lacked the concept of placing money above all else back then, and we considered running this kind of trade to be rather unrespectable.
Trudging through the streets under the blazing sun amidst the incessant, noisy rattling of cicadas was already exhausting and dull. Suddenly, a deafening blast of music would erupt from a tiny shop. At the beginning of the 1980s, pop songs from Hong Kong and Taiwan had barely entered the mainland; this incomprehensible Cantonese, delivered at an unfamiliar, high-decibel volume, only added to the irritation.
Looking up, every inch of narrow space in the shops was fully utilized. Doors, windows, shelves, and display cases were loaded with items hanging, standing, lying down, or leaning. The merchandise ran the gamut from cigarettes, lighters, toad-lens sunglasses, bell-bottom pants, T-shirts, and costume jewelry, to cassette tapes, stereos, and television sets. The jumble of goods stuffed the shops so completely that there seemed to be nowhere to step, leaving one utterly dazzled. With such visual and auditory congestion, how could anyone find the desire to shop?
At noon, few pedestrians walked the roads, and customers in the shops were scarce. Some shop owners threw basins of cold water onto the street to lower the temperature, while others sat on smooth, worn bamboo chairs by their doorways, swinging large palm-leaf fans.
After a long walk around, you couldn't help but notice that Canton truly deserved its reputation as the City of Flowers. Potted plants and herbs sat on the windowsills, before the doors, and behind the houses of the residents. Blooming in clusters and single flowers under the September sun all along the streets were vibrant hibiscus bushes. That was the first time I had ever seen this flower. It had five petals, with a long pistil dusted with pollen elegant protruding outward, leaving a deep impression on me. The hibiscus flower was so glamorous it was dazzling, so graceful it provoked envy, so fragile it brought an ache to the heart, and so delicate it held one spellbound. If my colleagues hadn't urged me along, I might have truly become a lingering, spellbound "flower fanatic." Later, upon learning that the hibiscus blooms almost year-round and is easy to cultivate, I felt a sudden, empty sense of loss.
Canton’s deeply rooted culinary culture was also immensely attractive to visitors. Restaurants, teahouses, and street snacks were everywhere, boasting a vast variety of foods.
Small street-side shops sold a type of pickled white radish that was sour, delicious, and thirst-quenching. It cost ten cents a skewer, with about three or four chunks on it. Other vendors set up stoves at street corners, boiling large pots of beef offal. That also seemed to cost ten cents a skewer; the owner would lift the offal from the pot right in front of the customer, snip off a few pieces with scissors, skewer them on a long bamboo stick, and hand them over. Pedestrians would take them and eat as they walked.
Along the food streets, restaurants lined up one after another. Whole spit-roasted suckling pigs, roast ducks, and marinated geese hung glinting and glistening with oil inside glass windows, trying to stimulate the appetite. Inside the dining rooms, the four bold characters for "Live Seafood"—written in a fiercely energetic script—caught the eye, though the lobsters and crabs in the large aquariums out front were no longer looking particularly lively. There were also budget snack shops serving clay-pot rice, sampan congee, Shahe rice noodles, and wonton noodles. Outside some doors, young girls stood calling out loudly to invite customers inside to eat.
It was only after arriving in Canton that I realized congee could have so many variations. Before this, my only experience with congee was boiling plain white rice with water, or making rice soup by adding water to leftover overnight rice.
As night fell, both banks of the Pearl River drew on a mysterious, romantic veil. A refreshing evening breeze blew, dispelling the last of the summer heat. Long root tendrils hung from the swaying ancient banyan trees along the shore, drifting gently in the wind. Tourists strolled in groups of two or three, and couples leaning against the waterfront railings murmured sweet nothings to one another.
Strolling across the Pearl River Bridge, the low-hanging starry sky and the lights on both banks reflected off each other with brilliant splendor. Halting my steps in the middle of the bridge, I leaned against the railing, watching the surging ripples and listening to the low murmur of the river torrent, wishing that time would stand still...
Under the dim yellow streetlights beside the grand banyan trees along the river, small food vendors occasionally set up tiny braziers to cook delicious midnight snacks for passing pedestrians and tourists. Having walked the length of the Pearl River and taken a night tour of Liwan Lake, we sat down to rest on stools beside a short wooden table. With great relish, we used toothpicks to pick out and eat the deliciously seasoned river snail meat fried for us by a middle-aged landlady who still retained her youthful charm.
II. First Sight of Massive Fruits at the Botanical Garden
It was likely the morning of September 5th when we walked into the South China Botanical Garden. The grounds were entirely quiet, with no tourists or early morning exercisers in sight. But when we checked the park's teahouse—wow! It was absolutely packed with people having morning tea! Some elderly men had brought their caged birds to the teahouse, hanging the birdcages from the beams and pillars as they drank tea, chatted, and read newspapers. What absolute leisure and freedom!
We also hastily ate a breakfast in the crowded teahouse before moving outdoors. To tell the truth, a stomach raised on rice soup, deep-fried dough sticks, fried rice cakes, sesame balls, and sticky rice rolls—with pan-fried buns as a rare luxury—simply couldn't adjust all at once to nutritious delicacies like chicken feet, shrimp dumplings, and rice noodle rolls.
Guangdong people are deeply fond of drinking tea. Herbal tea is cooling and dispels heat, relieving the summer climate and removing dampness. Morning tea, afternoon tea, and night tea serve not only to fill the stomach but also as occasions to catch up with friends, talk business, and spread rumors.
It was precisely this custom that allowed us to roam completely unobstructed through the botanical garden, making it feel as though the entire three-hundred-hectare park existed solely for us.
Stepping into that vast nature of carpet-like green grass and ancient forests, we were instantly captivated by the beautiful tropical and subtropical landscape.
There were many grand trees in the garden, and many fruits on the trees—that in itself was nothing rare. What was thrilling, however, was that the fruits on the trees were incredibly massive! Weighing down heavily! Wow... I had never seen fruits that large growing directly on trees before! The fruits were so immense that one worried whether the branches could bear the weight—though, of course, that worry was entirely redundant.
Little Q pointed out to us which grand trees held hanging jackfruits and which bore papayas. Carambolas (starfruit) hung from the trees—now those I recognized! Each one was bright and appealing, making one's mouth water! Amidst the bunches of bananas extended a long, thick stalk, with a large purple flower still attached to its tip.
In the past, I hadn't eaten many pomelos, always finding them too sour; looking at that rough rind and thinking of the juicy segments inside instantly made my mouth water with a phantom tartness. As for durian, I had never tasted it at all. There were many other tempting fruits glistening in the sunlight whose names I couldn't catch or remember in the moment, let alone know what they tasted like. I truly envied the residents of the South for their fine culinary fortune.
Everything here was entirely novel! In those days, there was no internet and information was scarce; a northern girl like me, with shallow knowledge who had never seen the wider world, truly felt like Grandma Liu entering the Grand View Garden—my eyes were opened wide!
The word "palm" alone could evoke distant, hazy, and romantic fantasies in my young, innocent, and imaginative mind. It goes without saying that the moment I first saw real palms, I was instantly spellbound. The straight trunks lining both sides of the palm avenue, the dense, feathery fronds, and the fiery sun overhead felt like the fulfillment of a wonderful dream.
Stepping into the tropical plant conservatory felt like entering a fairy tale world. Plants of every family grew to highly exaggerated proportions. The largest barrel cactus I had ever seen before was only the size of a fist, and the largest club-shaped cacti were only as thick as a finger and half a foot tall. Yet the barrel cacti here were unimaginably large; if you weren't afraid of the prickles, you couldn't even wrap both arms around them. The agaves, snake plants, aloes, and club-shaped cacti all grew taller than a human being.
The plants whose names I could call out here were pitifully few. Various succulent and fleshy plants—a new term I had just learned—presented an endless, dazzling array. The flowers there bloomed in what could truly be described as a riot of vibrant colors.
The fern and shade-plant section was cool and humid. The plants here preferred shade over sun, generally did not bloom, and were grown for their foliage. Hanging and dangling from the large nursery frames were numerous slender, delicate, and elegant ferns, providing a thoroughly pleasing sight.
Little Q told us that the tree fern (Alsophila), known as the king of ferns, is hailed as a living fossil of the plant kingdom alongside the dawn redwood and ginkgo. The tree fern coexisted with dinosaurs, dating back 180 million years, and is an ancient relict plant that survived the catastrophe of the Quaternary glaciation on Earth. The dawn redwood was once believed by scientists around the world to be entirely extinct.
The tree fern is the only surviving woody fern plant. Its trunk stands straight and erect, reaching heights of up to eight meters. The top of the tree clusters with numerous massive feathery fronds that can grow up to three meters long, swaying gently in the wind. It does not flower, bear fruit, or produce seeds; it reproduces through spores hidden on the undersides of its fronds. The tree fern prefers a warm, humid climate and typically grows in shaded, damp areas beneath the forest canopy or along the banks of rivers and valleys.
Stepping out from the damp, cool nursery frame back into the bright, sunny world felt exceptionally comfortable. Suddenly, I felt an intense, unbearable itch on my calves. Lifting the hem of my skirt to look—wow! Both of my legs were covered in tiny, dense red bumps that looked exactly like heat rash.
Little Q told me that I had been bitten by "little biters" (xiaoyao / midges) in the shade-plant section. What fierce little biters they were! They are a type of tiny insect similar to mosquitoes, but far smaller. While inside, I had been entirely absorbed in admiring the plants and hadn't paid much attention to those few tiny flying insects—who would have thought the lingering consequences would be endless! The suffering was immense; it took a full two days for those "heat rash" bumps to completely fade away.
III. Trekking Along the Yunxi Stream in Dinghushan
Following our stay in Canton, we arrived at Dinghushan in Zhaoqing, a place widely celebrated as the "emerald on the Tropic of Cancer." It contained over a hundred hectares of primeval forest that remained strictly closed to the general public.
Around noon the next day, we trekked from east to west along the Yunxi Stream, stepping into a completely untrodden primeval forest featuring classic tropical rainforest traits.
The river course wound and twisted continuously, and the torrent rushed and leaped, remaining crystal clear right down to the riverbed. Massive boulders and smooth river cobblestones clustered and scattered along the banks and inside the water, their moist sections coated with a layer of slick, velvety moss.
Bright sunbeams filtered through the dense foliage of the towering ancient trees, splashing a dappled pattern of light and shadow across our bodies, the ground, the stones, and the water surface. The gurgling of the stream rang out with a crisp, refreshing melody that soaked into the heart, while the soft chirping of wild birds inside the woods delighted the ears.
Following the narrow path beside the torrent, we walked sometimes along the southern bank of the stream and sometimes stepped across the stones protruding from the water to walk along the northern bank. Above our heads, ancient vines and fresh creepers climbed, hung, interlinked, and twisted around one another. Beneath our feet, ancient roots and weathered, dead branches jutted out in every direction, tripping our feet and knocking against our knees. Quite often, tangled networks of vines lay directly blocked across our path, forcing us to bend low to crawl underneath. The fallen leaves on the ground formed a thick blanket, rustling softly under our steps, while a gentle breeze drifting past carried a wave of subtle fragrance.
Interspersed among the fallen leaves lay various unidentified, dried-up seedpods. The pod of one particular plant was exceptionally striking. Measuring about two inches long, it resembled a two-segmented edamame pod, though it was considerably larger. Split open and curled outward along one side, the inner lining of the two thin shell-flaps was a brilliant, vivid scarlet—resembling the slightly parted red lips of an innocent young girl experiencing her first awakening of romance. What kind of bean had these red lips once held? And where had they bounced off to? I picked up one of these red lips, wishing to place it inside a book, yet I couldn't bear the thought of pressing it flat.
It brought to mind a poem by Pushkin:
I see a tiny flower forgotten in a book, Long dried away, its fragrance spent and gone; And yet, right at this moment, within my soul A strange and fleeting fantasy is born:
Where did it bloom? When? In which gentle spring? Did it bloom long? And whose hand plucked it there— Was it a stranger’s hand, or one well-known? And why was it laid down inside this care?
Was it to mark a tender, warm embrace, Or for a fated parting of the heart, Or in remembrance of a lonely stroll Where quiet fields and forest shadows part?
Does he still live today? And does she live? Where is the quiet corner where they dwell? Or have they both already withered away, Just like this hidden, nameless flower as well? ......
Holding the red lips in my hand, I kept it until it was time to exit the mountains. Only then, with great reluctance, did I place it back on the forest floor, leaving it in that pristine corner where it belonged. (In 2009, while writing my blog, I searched the internet thoroughly and finally found information on these red lips: the plant is called Pingpo [Chinese sterculia], also known as the "phoenix-eye fruit," a type of arbor tree whose seeds are entirely edible.)
IV. Survival Tactics in the Ancient Forest
Within the vast expanse of the tropical rainforest, the jagged, lush vegetation was split cleanly into tiers of trees, shrubs, and grasses. As we walked along, we collected specimens, filmed, and recorded video footage while listening to the botanists explain various plant phenomena.
We located a wild living fossil of the fern family. Gazing at those slender, elegant branches and fronds, and thinking of their 180-million-year history—an epoch far more ancient than the entire span of human existence—my mind went completely blank...
Immersed in this magnificent nature, with the rushing mountain stream flowing right beside us and intertwined creepers climbing upward along the gnarled, twisting trunks of ancient trees, I couldn't help but recall Sándor Petőfi’s poem:
I would be a torrent ...... If only my love Were a tiny fish Swimming joyfully back and forth Within my flying foam.
I would be a wild forest ...... If only my love Were a little bird Building a nest and singing sweet notes Among my dense, thick branches.
I would be a ruin ...... If only my love Were a strand of green ivy Climbing and winding intimately upward Along my desolate brow.
I wished to be a tiny fish, a little bird, or a strand of green ivy—yet who in this vast world was my torrent, my wild forest, or my ruin?
Lost in these thoughts, I suddenly heard Little Q pointing at a massive tree enveloped by climbing creepers, saying, "This is the phenomenon of strangulation in the natural world." Snapping back to reality from my daydream, I listened to his explanation—and wow! It brought an instant, sobering realization.
As it turned out, the natural world beneath that sun-blocking canopy wasn't nearly as romantic as I had imagined; the plant kingdom was full of fierce competition and cold-blooded execution!
The root systems of plants anchor themselves into the soil to absorb moisture and nutrients necessary for growth, while also serving to balance the trees against external forces; they are constantly expanding both in depth and width. As the forest grows denser, neighboring plants naturally battle one another for space and resources. The closer to the surface layer, the more fertile the soil and the easier it is for plants to breathe, making the competition among vegetation even more intense.
However, the ancient trees in the tropical rainforest grew toweringly high with incredibly heavy foliage. If all their root systems remained at the surface, the trees would become top-heavy and lose their structural balance. Furthermore, the tropical rainforest was incredibly rainy and humid, making it very difficult for tree roots to dig deep into the air-deprived deeper layers of soil to breathe.
What could they do? It seemed the plant kingdom possessed its own distinct wisdom, and each species used its own methods to survive. Some grand trees grew stilt roots outward from their branches, supporting the canopy at multiple points to effectively maintain balance—a phenomenon known as "a single tree forming a forest." The bases of other tree trunks flattened and expanded outward into wing-like shapes, forming buttress roots that wound along the ground to provide additional support, appearing incredibly thick and solid. Surface roots, on the other hand, allowed the root systems to fuse and heal together as they extended across the topsoil, creating a dense net to prevent other plants from invading their territory.
Entwined vines and creepers were a major characteristic of the tropical rainforest. For the sake of sunlight and space, many plants took shortcuts, scaling rock faces and winding their way up tree trunks. Relying on the physical support of other vegetation, they threaded through the gaps in the canopy to climb into the sun-drenched upper tiers. The variety and quantity of these vines were immense; they grew incredibly thick and long, with the longest reaching over three hundred meters, making them the longest living organisms on Earth.
Then there were the predatory epiphytes. These plants chose the weathered, ancient branches of grand trees as their homes, anchoring their highly developed root systems deep inside the fissures and narrow cracks of the bark to live and multiply.
The most brutal of all were the strangler plants. Falling somewhere between vines and epiphytes, their methods represented the absolute pinnacle of predatory warfare for sunlight, space, and nutrients. A strangler began its life just like an epiphyte, anchoring itself onto the branch of a tree; it then climbed upward like a vine to steal the sunlight. Below, it sent down aerial roots that anchored into the soil to siphon away nutrients. These descending roots formed a thick net that completely encased the host trunk, gradually fusing together to lock the host tree in a vice-like grip. In the end, the original tree died from a total deprivation of sunlight and nutrients, leaving the strangler plant to stand on its own as a brand new, massive tree.
How utterly ruthless! Listening to this left me completely stunned. Was human society the exact same way? Must we crush one another just to survive? Lacking experience in the wider world, I fell into a deep maze of confusion. Did this realization ignite a fierce desire to compete and survive within me, or did it plant the seeds of a weary detachment from the world—or perhaps a mixture of both? Did I still wish to be a strand of ivy?
Yet nature also offered enlightenment through a different type of vegetation: the phenomenon of cauliflory (stem-flowering).
The phenomenon where flowers bloom and bear fruit directly on leafless trunks or ancient branches is called cauliflory, a classic trait of rainforest canopy trees. Carambolas, jackfruits, cacao trees, and coffee trees all share this trait.
Most plants that exhibit stem-flowering are dioecious (having separate male and female plants), meaning they must rely entirely on insects to pass on their lineage. They found potential within their own structures, blooming their fresh flowers on the most easily accessible parts of their trunks for insects—convening others while ultimately saving themselves.
V、Played by Butterflies in Butterfly Valley
Around noon, we reached a slightly more open area, and our group sat down to rest on the large boulders beside the stream.
This spot was filled with magnificent butterflies of various colors and species fluttering amidst the blossoms and groves, a truly enchanting sight. Hearing Little Q mention that this place was called "Butterfly Valley," the female graduate student and I felt a sudden burst of childhood innocence and began chasing butterflies along the water's edge. The butterflies here were incredibly clever; they spread their light, beautiful wings and drifted elegantly right before your eyes, yet you simply couldn't catch them.
Spotting a butterfly land on a shrub near the stream, I crept over on tiptoe, drawing closer inch by inch to the insect resting on a leaf. The moment it settled down and folded its wings together, I nipped it gently between my fingers by complete surprise, catching it effortlessly. It was a blue butterfly rimmed with a black border and glinting with a silvery sheen, its thin, clearly veined wings adorned with beautiful spots.
Overjoyed and completely carried away, I became terrified of hurting it, so I placed it in the palm of my hand and cupped both hands together, leaving a tiny gap between my fingers so it wouldn't suffocate. When I walked over to the graduate student and slowly opened my hands for her to admire it, the butterfly gave a single flap of its wings and soared straight out of my palm. It left behind nothing but a slick, powdery sensation where the dust from its wings had brushed against my fingers.
Another butterfly landed on a large rock by the stream. I crept over quietly, but just as I reached out my hand, it took flight again, landing on another boulder out in the middle of the stream. I slowly made my way toward it, balancing on my tiptoes across the large and small rocks protruding from the water.
Just as I was about to snatch it, my foot suddenly slipped. I lost my balance entirely and crashed straight down into the water. In my single-minded focus on catching the butterfly, I had failed to notice that the river cobblestone I was stepping on was coated with a layer of slippery green moss.
Fortunately, the current was slow here, and the water at its deepest only reached a person's waist. I scrambled up from the water immediately, my shoes, socks, and trousers completely soaked through, and my shirt more than half-drenched. Baffled and utterly mortified, I had to endure the roaring laughter of my male colleagues, who had been sitting comfortably on the bank chatting and taking in the view the entire time.
Fortunately, there were several large boulders scattered along the water's edge. The side facing the sun was smooth and baked warm—almost hot—by the sunshine.
With the graduate student keeping watch, I hid behind a massive rock, took off my soaked outer clothing, rinsed them in the clear water, wrung them out, and spread them flat across the boulder to dry in the sun. Immediately after, I lay flat against the stone to enjoy a thoroughly comfortable sunbath—a genuine sunbath, though I had no idea what the term meant back then.
The two-meter-long boulder had a gentle slope that tilted at the absolute perfect angle. The incline faced southeast, with the northwestern end raised high; as long as I didn't raise my head and they didn't stand up, that group of men couldn't see a thing. None of us were at the age of marriage yet, and people back then carried very few stray thoughts; they were inherently reserved, so they all sat far away, continuing to chat and laugh cheerfully.
Our commotion must have disturbed the "mountain woodsmen" inside the dense jungle. Of course, who were they really? How could they suddenly materialize out of nowhere in the middle of this deep, ancient forest? Having been raised on a strict diet of atheistic education, we could only categorize them as "mountain woodsmen." The two men had deeply weathered, dark faces—one appeared younger, while the other looked middle-aged. They suddenly burst through the thick layers of leaves from a high vantage point. Materializing out of nothing in a split second, they looked exactly like visitors from outer space. We all stared at one another in utter astonishment. Having walked through this primeval forest for several hours, we hadn't seen a single human silhouette, nor had we spotted any other paths—though, of course, we had only followed the stream bed and didn't know if there were tracks higher up on the mountain. After all, this section was a closed nature reserve. After pausing for just a few seconds, they melted back into the dense forest and vanished.
The "Water Curtain Cave" was the grandest waterfall along the Yunxi Stream. Its roar was deafening as a curtain of water cascaded down from a height of thirty meters, plunging straight into a clear pool and churning up a violent vortex. Behind the torrent lay a cliff cave. Little L and I hugged the edge of the cliff, treading carefully across the slick stones to slip into the cave mouth hidden behind the waterfall, the flying spray dampening our hair and clothes.
Standing inside the Water Curtain Cave and looking out through the cascading torrent, the green mountains and rocky gorges appeared completely distorted, poetic, misty, and full of surreal charm.
Opposite the waterfall, out in the pool water, rested a flat, square stone. I sat on that stone, writing down the pure shock and emotion that the beauty of nature had stirred within me. On the back of that photograph, I wrote four characters: "Heartfelt words flowing like water."As for what those specific heartfelt words were, I have completely forgotten them by now.
The Baiyun (White Cloud) Temple, nestled deep within the dense shade of ancient trees, possessed a history stretching back nearly four hundred years. A bowl of vegetarian hair-vegetable (facai) noodles prepared by the monks there felt, at that moment, like the single most delicious bowl of noodles I had ever tasted in my entire life.
VI. A Visit to Qixingyan (Seven Star Crags)
Emerging from the primeval forest of Dinghushan, we took the opportunity to visit Qixingyan, located just north of Zhaoqing City. Qixingyan is composed of seven limestone peaks that rise abruptly from the ground, arranged in the shape of the Big Dipper and scattered across a mirror-like lake surface spanning nearly 600 hectares. Long lakeside dikes, delicate small bridges, and winding paths split the Star Lake into five beautiful bodies of water. There was a popular saying that this place gathered the mountains of Guilin and the waters of Hangzhou. Regretfully, I have never been to Guilin.
The day we visited Qixingyan featured clear, boundless blue skies, and it felt as though we had no official duties, traveling purely for leisure. We walked along the shaded lakeside dike cutting through the scenic area, experiencing the absolute tranquility that nature offered. However, having just stepped out from the raw wildness of a primeval forest, arriving at this famous scenic landmark—which carried a somewhat delicate, artificially carved charm—left us feeling a bit too "entangled in the mortal world." By comparison, I far preferred the primitive simplicity and natural state of the ancient forests.
Those two wilderness expeditions in July and September 1982 remain completely unforgettable for the rest of my days. Especially inside those untrodden primeval forests, that sensation of melting into nature and achieving a total unity between heaven and humanity is truly beyond words. How incredibly fortunate!
Upon returning to Canton, Little Q managed to secure tickets for the French 250th Anniversary Painting Exhibition. On a certain day in October, we arranged to meet at the People's Park after work to view the exhibition together. That was the first time I had ever laid eyes on Western paintings, and it was my very first time visiting an art exhibition. It was an absolute, shattering shock. The exhibition displayed 78 masterpieces by 61 artists spanning the years 1620 to 1870, drawn from the collections of the Louvre and Versailles. That was my beautiful, long-belated enlightenment in art.
After we returned to the university, Little Q gave me a pot of maidenhair fern (tiexianjue)—slender, delicate, and extraordinarily elegant. A colleague helped me construct a custom-made, rectangular, flat tray from polished terrazzo cement, about two feet long. I filled the tray with water, living stones, soil, and moss, anchoring that pot of maidenhair fern right behind the miniature rocks of the water landscape.
The bonsai landscape turned out beautifully; a tiny world mimicking vast nature, it brought me an immense amount of pride and joy. However, because I didn't understand the survival habits of the maidenhair fern, that beautiful plant didn't survive very long on my office desk. For a very long time afterward, I carried a deep sense of guilt and regret.
Perhaps it was simply due to my own shallow experience, but it seemed that back in those days, flower shops and nurseries were rarely open to the general public. Whenever someone cultivated plants or flowers, they were invariably sourced from somewhere obscure or gifted by someone specific; I never once heard of a commercial place where you could simply buy them. Little Q's maidenhair fern had been obtained by asking the gardeners at the university nursery.
特別感謝 Gemini AI 提供充滿活力的翻譯和文本潤色。
Special thanks to Gemini AI for providing the spirit translation and text refinement.
