Before the temple, where incense smoke curled upward, devout figures remained kneeling. The Buddha statue, sacred for over a thousand years, sat high above them with a benevolent face. At that moment, I too followed the custom and knelt in worship: "May all kind hearts be protected, and may all suffering souls find salvation."
I stood with my palms pressed together. The Buddha statue smiled as always.
I did not know how many different prayers they had heard over the centuries: for a meteoric rise, success in the imperial examinations, or growing old with a beloved. To me, Buddhism was a culture-a culture of Zen rooted in care and springing from compassion.
Lin Qingxuan said that the Zen truth Shakyamuni realized beneath the bodhi tree began with equal love for all living beings. And so I believed that weaving unceasing love into a fragrant garland and offering its scent to all beings was the one true principle of Zen culture.
At the nursing home, as I wiped the filth from an elderly woman's body, I saw her smile bloom like a chrysanthemum: "Good child, I have another granddaughter now!"
At the orphanage, I gave the children several strings of brightly colored wind chimes. As the breeze stirred them, I heard the music of childhood ripple out.
In the intensive care ward, I told a girl my age stories about school. She had been quiet all along, but now she opened her ink-black eyes, and a bright longing appeared in her gaze.
This was "Zen culture" as I understood it: using a little warmth to ease another's cold, using even a little light to kindle a lamp in the darkness. The Buddha's compassion was like the sweet dew in his palm. Even if it could not bestow an entire spring, wherever