365 Ways With Words

Instinctual Sunrise

From the curve of the earth, the ocean births the star afresh, the sizzling light pushed out on arms unfathomable. Unseen to all, the new radiant waves scouring the sky cause a daily migration in readiness for the long day beneath the ocean's current-swell: the lightphobe dwellers start to sink and their counterparts begin the rise. It is the pattern of things.

I stand at the helipad. It is 6:41. The scene unfurling before me is magnificent. I take it in as best I can – a rich drink more than my body can absorb. Before me is the narrow stretch of seawater between mountains called Long Harbour, within which I swim from time to time. Beyond that is Sharp Peak, the dramatic mountain silhouette that momentarily cradles then sun. On either side there is the ever-living, ever-thriving world inhabiting the forested hills of subtropical southern China, and there is also the still and dead – the hidden graves of ancestors gradually subsumed under the ever-falling detritus from those thriving trees. Behind me is the Hoi Ha Road, the narrow ribbon of tarmac that leads over the hill, and beyond that the camp ground and barbecue pits more often deserted than occupied. I am nestled in time and place: the hills and waters, sky and soil, living and dead, past and future.

Across the water comes a kaido, a noisy little boat ferrying people to Wong Shek pier for one of the early buses into town. Its wake is a broad V that breaks lazily upon the whelk-encrusted rocks of the shoreline. Around are the birds, announcing territory, flitting about their bird business. The cicadas and crickets, their grating songs filling the ear, sit and endlessly transmit. On the mud by my feet are the footprints of wild boar that have passed in the night, in the harsh meadow grass sits a pat from the bull that rested here until dawn, and all around a host of hurrying ants pick seeds from the yellow sand. High above on the new day's thermals are black kites, circling for movement, their eyes catching my form.

For I am here, too. I have become a part of this world – my sensual input taking me deeper inside. My feet touch the soil, my lungs breath the air, my water is from the stream. I have eaten fruit from the trees and mushrooms from the trails. I have cut bamboo for a roof shelter and used wood for winter fire. I have watched deer and porcupine pass by my window, thrown snakes out the door and accepted that mosquitos and thorns will taken my blood.

But that is all in the past. In the here and now I live in a street in a small city in central Europe. I have had my time in the sun, and as it rises so I fall, back into the shadowy depths.

Jewels In The Forest

三寶

I Take Refuge in the Buddha

I Take Refuge in the Dhamma

I Take Refuge in the Sangha

The Three Jewels are both metaphorical and literal: they are an appropriate metaphor for an approach to something precious that cannot be seen or sensed, and they are also literal in that they represent a cherished set of life experiences encountered by millions of people that often call themselves Buddhist. In this short essay I will attempt to concentrate on the former metaphorical interpretation because I believe the Jewels in the Forest of the country park can be seen in a similar vein. However, before so doing I must firstly draw attention to the literal.

As a thoughtful visitor walking through the Sai Kung Country Park it may be difficult to identify any certain specialness with regard to the place that cannot be sensed directly through pretty views or luscious smells, etc. And as a species we regularly identify specialness through the use of sensory language, i.e. we are sometimes moved to express poetry about the ‘sense’ or ‘feel’ of a place. I am no stranger to the ‘feelings’ aroused by living in the Country Park itself, but as a species we are generally sensory-driven and have simply grown to understand and readily use this sort of language as our understanding, and to even sometimes use it quite well.

However, I believe the experience of the Jewel of the place of the Sai Kung Country Park goes beyond the physical or sensually-identified. I will explain what I mean by this later.

The literal sense of place in the Country Park is obvious to see:

• The hills are beautiful at any time of year; the foliage and flora are to be adored in their intricacy and simplicity, the many fauna a constant source of visual wonder and curiosity,
• The multitude of birds are at their most obvious in the morning in terms of that which can heard, just before any human traffic dominates,
• As one approaches the park the air changes its fragrance from the polluted city to that of bouquets, deep resins and moulds – any visitor encountering wild cows or pigs on their path will no doubt be aware of the intense smells such animals can exude,
• As far as taste and touch are concerned, most Hong Kongers are cautious about what is picked up with their hands, but the soil is really very good and some leaves have the texture of the richest velvet. Although I am sure I should not recommend the stream water for drinking, I nevertheless find it sweet and pure.

It is easy to present a picture that conveys the Park’s obvious beauty. However, the language describing the ‘sense’ of place in the Country Park –however good that language may be– does not, I believe, truly convey what is present in this wild and relatively remote locale in Hong Kong.

I think the ancients had a fairly good grasp of this concept because they were thoroughly immersed in the natural world: they worked with it in their everyday lives, were inspired to be creative in reflection of it growing and rotting around them, were fed by it and, indeed, often lived or died because of it. It was a source of richness and disaster, feast and famine, devotion and fear. For them, identifying a ‘sense’ of place went, therefore, far beyond merely observing (much as we might do with our cameras on an afternoon’s hike around Wong Shek). It is with much sadness that the last and very elderly generation with a direct connection with this concept passes from the Country Park. They will, of course, remain in concert with their surroundings in the strategically placed tombs on the hills: They lived it and they will remain part of it.

For those that are left, I think it is still possible to identify the hidden Jewel of the Forest: It is in that which is as much seen as unseen. The strong trees and vibrant flowers, the streams of clear water, the granite boulders and crumbling earth, the silent butterflies and rambling porcupines are also clearly the residents of this domain, and they are easy to celebrate. But one can better get a sense of what else is here only through the passing of time. I would argue that to understand this place one has to ‘live it’ – perhaps the most common way to identify with any place.

As mentioned, the last generation is nearly gone. And when they are finally extinct they will take with them the intimate knowledge of the herbs and cures, the secret paths of the animals, the laborious efforts incumbent with the old rice fields high up in the valleys which once fed them year on year and which are now nearly enveloped back into the leafy hillsides, or in the identification of valleys through which water flowed longest through the year. Their old distinctiveness was complete, yet also tested. Each year tearful sons and daughters left to settle elsewhere because rural lives were often too tough and the human presence had to be balanced with what could be provided by their environment. Others’ ambitions outstretched the closed beauty of the valleys, beaches and bays.

What is left by the human residents from those many years ago looks old – if it can be seen at all. Some villages remain alive and thrive, albeit with novelty foreign residents and may become dormitories for those working in the city. Those villages without roads but with access to the sea teeter towards oblivion. Other places are gone altogether and forever, their access difficult, their names on a map their only voice.

And this, perhaps, is the substance of the matter, where the literal becomes subsumed by the metaphor: as a voice. Long after people have gone and their absence is no longer noticed and their impact subsumed, their voice remains – one that was once sung but is quiet and active only in spirit. Perhaps the people joined with the continuing song of the land in which they lived, and perhaps they strove against it, but the voices still echo across the trees and in the sandy soil. These voices change with the seasons, as they do with the weather and the activity of those who now live under the region’s protection. This subtle song is rhythmic and powerful, imminent and sudden, silent and calm, repetitive and irritating, constant and beguiling. The song is the experience of man and animal, tree and bird, fish and insect, of sky and land. Together they are the jewels of understanding that mean all are united for better or worse. Each element is a beautiful jewel that makes up a magnificent whole living thing beyond comprehension and within which we can live in harmony.

So to conclude, although there are many beautiful things to be sensed in the Country Park, the Jewels in the Forest are largely instinctual and must be understood metaphorically. They are like voices individually spoken that together make up a beautiful jewelled song. Live long enough within it and you may also take refuge.

The Smell

I loved the smell of the old Cramphorns, Chelmsford; a big barn of a structure that existed years ago. Going there with my father on some errand or other, the very air would be full of heavy animal feed, so strong it would stay on your clothes until home.

I loved the overpowering smell of tomatoes that grew in the enormous old greenhouse that leant against the high wall at my grandparent’s. The dusky fruit would be sold at Broomfield Stores, along with everything else necessary for life.

I loved the sticky smell of the Underground, waiting on the platform for the breeze to indicate the next train to tumble through. The grime and grease and dirt and electricity on the tracks below amalgamated into a open working mechanical pit.

I loved the rich smell of the Spaghetti House Italian restaurant on Duke Street, full of garlic and basil. Saturday lunchtimes would sometimes be spent here with my mother, just she and I, as we carefully selected from the menu amidst the tang of rich Italian wine, Parmesan and ravioli.

I loved the satisfying smell of the mid-summer meadows, the cut grass ferment and the shaded hedgerow damp, the dry fields and skylarks. My only partners in the sweated walk along Lydiate Lane to the vantage point above Lynton, would be the lazing cows and sheep.

I love the rickety, seaweed smell of the large pebbles on Dungeness. Mixed with their squawk and rub that jarred on the long windy walk along the coast, would be the occasional rotten crab, fly-blown fish and seagull dropping.

I loved the air-still smell of wood smoke lazily ascending from the winter chimneys in the Weald. Some came from the old Hawkhurst house of us newlyweds kept warm by wet logs fresh cut that took an age to burn.

I loved the deep green smell of the River Weaver on the long walk round, full of rush and pike and weed. Brought home on the dogs’ wet coats, the wetness filled the house for a day and a half with a canine intensity, in time for a return visit.

I loved the clean smell of after-bath babies, wrapped in warm towels and drying hair. Only an hour before bedtime, the evening was a care-full snuggling, all kisses and love until sleep overwhelmed.