Most urban Chinese appear to live in fairly cramped conditions, so they
are very inventive when it comes to using public space for daily
activities. The side of a busy dual carriageway serves as a fine arena
for Tai Chi practice. It’s perfectly acceptable to hang clothes to dry
wherever there is space; any flat wall on a roadside is likely to have
a line tacked on to it from which to hang pyjamas and suchlike.
High-rise blocks are a patchwork of colour; verandas crammed, layer
upon layer, with flags of laundry.
The public park almost reaches saturation point by 7am. A dark tangle of bicycles forms a complex unintentional sculpture
at the entrance. Three long stone hoops create a gateway, each hoop
crested by curled green tiers of roof tiles. As if locked in some darkened oil painting, clusters of Mahjong players
converge on stone tables. Smoke hangs like carded wool between them and
the awning of trees above. Some practise Tai Chi alone; others form groups. I am mesmerised. They
move as one body, so they are acutely conscious of one another, yet
their faces betray only an inner awareness. Each face is devoid of
expression, basking in the serenity of concentration. Tiny children stump around with overflowing energy as they do
anywhere in the world. They are perfect models of charm; fine porcelain
faces touched with bloom. Nothing seems to be used as an excuse for inactivity. Even the most
wizened are out shuffling or stretching with what vigour they have at
their disposal, however limited that may be.
I continue to the vast, placid
scenes of a botanical garden. In the damp breath of morning huge
rounded rocks adorn the edges of a
lake. Through mist an ornate summerhouse, open to all sides, juts out
into the depths. All thoughts are suddenly hijacked by its classical
splendour. Trees reflect their softened versions in the water; I
reflect on a life composed of love and beauty. Within that stunned
silence there is space for a fount of gratitude. A steep hill behind
invites me to a higher viewpoint. I accept, and climb. Many others are
climbing too, so perhaps there is a destination.
Perhaps mine is not the same as theirs though. The road winds and
splits, winds and splits again. Town looks toy-like; tall buildings
rendered squat. The road twists and splits again. Youths are calling to
one another from craggy peaks, voices echoing eerily in the gorge
below. I pass an elderly lady under a tree... then for a moment there
is only me.
The sun stretches warm fingers out to me through a haze broken by
branches. There is a tangible stillness beyond the mere lack of
movement: a living stillness. Bags
of sand and cement are propped against trees. Then I see why: ahead is
a bridge of white stone – so new one would think nobody
had ever set foot on it. With soft, reverent steps I reach its centre
and look sunward. In an envelope of clarity that brief moment sets me
alone with God, and it all makes sense.
Sumangali Morhall
December 2004
