One-Day Zen-Seeking Tour at Longtan Ancient Temple
Record of Longtan Ancient Temple: A Day of Pure Heart Journey
Setting off at dawn, the car winds up the mountain road. The city fades further behind, and the greenery outside the window grows denser. Upon arriving at the mountain gate, the sunlight just spills over the eastern ridge, bathing the stone plaque inscribed with "Longtan Ancient Temple" in a warm golden hue. A breeze blows from the depths of the valley, carrying the scent of pine needles and dew—a coolness far more precious than air conditioning.
Passing through the gate, a long stone staircase appears ahead. The steps are smoothed by time, with soft moss growing in the cracks. I deliberately slow my pace, counting my steps and listening to the faint sound of shoes against stone. Ahead of me walks an elderly woman carrying a bamboo staff; every ten steps she pauses, not from fatigue, but to look back at the path behind. This gesture makes me turn around too—the village below shrinks into a checkerboard, and the road looks like a gray ribbon. The meaning of climbing high is not conquest, but learning to look back.
In front of the Mahavira Hall, incense smoke curls upward, drawing soft curves in the morning light. I don’t burn incense myself, just stand under the corridor watching the devout kneeling in prayer. Their backs appear hazy in the smoke, as if merging with this ancient temple founded in the Tang Dynasty. What holds me longest is the wind chimes at the corner of the hall; when the wind blows, they produce a clear, pure sound—not like metal striking, but like water droplets falling on stone. This chime has lasted a thousand years, hasn’t it? The monks of the Tang Dynasty, the pilgrims of the Song, the visitors of the Ming and Qing—all must have heard the same sound.
Circling around the main hall, I follow a bamboo-shaded path to the famous Tang locust tree. Its trunk requires three people to embrace, and the hollow can hold a child. Yet the canopy remains lush, leaves sparkling in the sunlight like countless tiny mirrors. Beneath it stands a small stone tablet, the inscription faded but faintly showing the characters “Zhenguan.” I reach out to touch the rugged bark—rough yet warm. Suddenly I wonder how many travelers like me this tree has seen. It stands silently, sprouting in spring, shedding leaves in autumn, storing all stories in its rings.
At noon, I dine in the temple’s vegetarian hall. Simple white porridge, greens, and tofu served in rustic pottery bowls. Fellow pilgrims eat quietly, the clinking of bowls and chopsticks barely audible. This quiet is not oppressive but a tacit peacefulness. While helping wash dishes afterward, I meet a sweeping monk. He looks no older than thirty but carries a calm beyond his years. Standing side by side at the sink, he tells me he’s been here three years. “I used to design in the city, staring at a computer every day—my eyes hurt, my heart hurt. Now I sweep the floor daily, watching leaves fall and fall again, and I feel grounded.”
In the hottest part of the afternoon, I sit in the pavilion behind the Sutra Library. Mountain spring water flows by, its sound rising and falling like nature’s breath. Holding a borrowed copy of the Diamond Sutra—I don’t understand its profound teachings, but the words flow through my mind like spring water: “One should produce a mind that does not abide anywhere.” A squirrel jumps down from the eaves, boldly picking up crumbs on the stone table. Its little paws are nimble, its eyes bright and unafraid of me, a stranger. Even the animals here carry a hint of Zen.
Dusk arrives silently. First, the glazed tiles of the main hall shift from gold to orange-red, then the silhouette of the flying eaves sharpens against the sky. Evening chanting begins, the recitation washing over the entire temple like a tide. I stand at the back, listening to the unintelligible syllables yet feeling inexplicably at peace. The wooden fish drum sounds steady and unhurried, as if measuring time in another dimension—not seconds, but the intervals of breath and the rhythm of the heart.
Descending the mountain, the moon hangs on the horizon. Looking back, the temple’s outline blurs in the twilight, only a few eternal lamps still lit, like the earth’s gentle, open eyes. My backpack holds a newly acquired Heart Sutra, and my heart has shed the restlessness it carried up.
This day held no breathtaking scenery, no dramatic stories. Only stone steps, ancient trees, bell sounds, and gentle breezes. Yet in these simplest things, I touched a long-lost wholeness—just as mountain springs must return to the deep pool, the heart that stumbles through the world also needs to return sometimes to a quiet place like this, to listen to its true heartbeat. The “tan” (pool) of Longtan Ancient Temple may not be in the mountains, but in each person’s heart.