After a prolonged spell of rain, the sky cleared, and it was like finding again something which had been lost. The distant greenery and the sapphire sky reappeared in the morning window, and the sunlight saturated my room.
I rose and walked down, smiling to myself. Nobody was about, and I felt as if I were no longer me. I got out to take a stroll, rolled up my sleeves to feel the breeze, and felt as light as a puff of air. I lifted my head to the sky, and felt the dazzling sunlight share its warmth to my face. My heart had never felt so expansive. For some reason the sunlight made me feel giddy, almost as if I had swallowed some wine. I saw in the distance sprawling paddy fields punctuated by bundles of unhulled rice. It was like a picture from the olden times. I wandered into a vast clearing, with yellow and green grass and strange-shaped rocks. I chose a smooth one, sat down on it, and felt both bare and blanketed by the hot sun. For a long time I sat there, hypnotized, and transported with bliss. It’s not often that we meet up with such a warm and comforting sun.
I thought then of how I have often compared my own restlessness to the summer sun, which people find irritating and try to avoid. I have yearned to be like the winter sun: bright, but not dazzling to the eyes; warm, and yet not scaldingly hot. When will I learn to be more subtle, a little more gentle and profound?
In a distance, I could see a man lying down, with his legs drawn up, and nibbling at a long stem of grass. I got up and started to walk. When I looked at him again, he had bent his arms to form a pillow. I could not help envying his posture, which seemed to say, “Worldly riches are to me as scudding clouds.”
The sun was right above my head now and it was getting a little hotter to feel comfortable. The thin clouds lined up in the sky were like a short poem. Watching, watching, I thought of a Yuan dynasty verse about why a man failed to write a letter: “Its not that I have no sentiments; its just that I can’t find paper as expressive as the sky.”
I rose. The rock was still a little warm, but a chill had stolen into the air. A group of children passed by, each carrying an armful of tinder.
I got back home by afternoon, and felt that I had more than when I left in the morning. In the evening as I was sitting in the terrace in the gathering darkness I seemed to find what I actually made out of the day. It was a painting; “A fine day,” painted in pale ink on my peaceful heart, and the darkness became filled with it.
