Reading Road to Heaven
“佛教徒和道教徒走的是同一条路。他们只是做着不同的梦而已。”
This was the first line I wrote down while reading Road to Heaven, and the one that hit me hardest. Bill Porter, an old American, spent decades searching for hermits in China's mountains, and this was his conclusion — not that Buddhism won, or Taoism won, but that the road itself was always there. Enough people walked it, and it became two roads.
Zhongnan Mountain. Moon Mountain. Scarlet Bird Mountain. The Bridge of Sorrow.
These names themselves are like dreams. Bill Porter followed these place names looking for hermits. He found them, and he didn't. He found them because people really are still cultivating the Way in the mountains. He didn't find them because "when you meet them, you won't recognize them; unless they want to be found, you won't find them."
This sounds like mysticism. But think about it — isn't so much of life like this? The truly important people and things are never something you can just "find." You "encounter" them. Or rather, they let you encounter them. Only then do you encounter them.
The hermits in this book each had their own path. Some were Taoists, meditating on the cliffs of Mount Hua, breathing in pine wind unchanged for a thousand years. Some were Buddhist monks, chanting sutras in thatched huts on Zhongnan, under a moon older than the Tang dynasty. They ate different food, worshipped different things, spoke in different ways. But they had one thing in common: they were all trying to answer the same question.
What are we living for? Where do we go after death? And the hardest one: right now, in this very moment, how should I live so that I'm not wasting my life?
You might call these religious questions. I don't think so, not entirely. Religion is just the language system they use to answer them. Some use the Taoist language — "the Way follows nature," "heaven and humanity are one." Some use the Buddhist language — "all things are empty of inherent nature," "everyone is one with the Buddha." Different languages, same question.
“天下有道，则与物皆昌；天下无道，则修德就闲。”
This is a line from Zhuangzi quoted in the book. The meaning is simple: when the world is at peace, go out and do good work. When the world is in chaos, withdraw and cultivate yourself. It sounds like making excuses, but on second thought, this is the most down-to-earth survival wisdom the Chinese have — you don't always have to charge forward. Sometimes stepping back really does open up the boundless sea and sky.
I keep wondering: does our generation still need hermits?
We live in concrete boxes, take the subway to work, come home to phone screens. Zhongnan Mountain is so far away from us, it only exists in travel guides. We can't really disappear into the mountains for decades. But —
Aren't we all searching for our own "Zhongnan Mountain"?
Some people turn the gym into a temple; sweat is their practice. Some turn the kitchen into a meditation hall; cooking is their meditation. Some write in journals late at night; that half-hour conversation with themselves is their samadhi. The forms have changed, but the core hasn't: we all need a place to put the things that can't be put anywhere else — not on the subway, not in the meeting room, not at family gatherings.
一千五百年前，菩提达摩为了防止坐禅时睡着，把眼皮割掉了。他的眼皮落地的地方，长出了第一批茶树。
I don't know if it's true. But the story itself is beautiful — cutting off your eyelids to stay awake, and the eyelids becoming tea plants. If someone made a movie of this, it would be a thousand times more interesting than those fantasy cultivation dramas.
More importantly, the story tells us this: practice grows things. The price you pay, the blood and sweat you shed, all come back to the world in some form. Bodhidharma's eyelids became tea. Your effort becomes your temperament, your craft, your way of seeing the world.
This is the second layer of "different paths, same destination": no matter which road you take, as long as you're really walking it, really paying the price, none of that accumulation is wasted. It will come back to you in ways you never expected.
“在云中，在松下，在尘廛外，靠着月光、芋头和大麻过活。除了山之外，他们所需不多：一些泥土，几把茅草，一块瓜田，数株茶树，一篱菊花，风雨晦暝之时的片刻小憩。”
This passage is too tempting. So tempting that I can't help thinking: if only I could live like that.
But I also know I can't. Not because there are no mountains, but because I don't have that mindset of "apart from the mountains, needing little." I'm still greedy, still anxious, still can't put down my phone. I still can't "cultivate virtue in quiet retreat."
So reading this book, for me, is less about understanding hermits and more about holding up a mirror. Looking at my restless heart, asking it what it really wants. Practice isn't a fixed thing. Every generation has to answer those ancient questions in its own way. Different methods, same purpose.
So we come back to that line:
Buddhists and Taoists walk the same road. They just dream different dreams.
- — Written in May 2018*