Shaxi sits in a mountain basin, once a way-station on the old Tea Horse Road.
On the first nights I would walk to Heihui River by the small dock. The stars are low enough to ladle; they crouch on the surface and drink. The wind smells of wood smoke, as if someone in a courtyard were turning over yesterday.
By day I keep to the eaves and study light. Beams, lattice, a curtain - four walls for the gaze, a small altar. A square of brightness crawls across the table. Steam lifts from the teapot, a quiet spring in the room. In the corner a triangle of sun; beyond the door a figure moves from shade into light. Here, most beings are currents of air: the tread on stone is a gust; the dog asleep by the street a warm knot of air; the bowl of pine mushroom soup, steam rising from the hands that lift it. Birdsong crosses the high sky, writing briefly on my forehead, then the wind erases the trace.
I make harbor in a small handful of places. In the loft of Long Vigil Teahouse, the bookshelves lean forward like a slope of mountain; outside, a slow procession of cloud crosses the lane. At Valley Wind, the dye house, curtain is painted with ridgelines; when the wind lifts it the couplet shows itself - 'Empty hills favour the moon; wide waters do not divide the sky.' Toward evening at Peter's Kitchen the old songs find their key; glass and bottle give a small answering hum. Steam cuffs the rim of a cup, keeping time with the hour.
On mornings when the bakery closes early, I sit by the Square with Fei; the town passes above our sightline as we sip our coffee on the futons. In the afternoon, beneath Yujin Bridge the blue lowers into dusk. Waterfowl and sheep keep a quiet conversation; words drop into the river and turn to circles. The world is turned one notch slower.
Shaxi keeps its own metronome. In winter the fields are pared to short stubble and the wind polishes the light clean. In summer the corn lifts in waves, a green sea. I ride the yellow cart through the fields to Fire Match Café; a sun-shower rinses the valley until even the stones show bone.
My friends are anchors set through the town and the small villages around it; I moor my heart at their doors. At each threshold the happy dogs arrive first. We play a little music, pour tea, talk about books and the seasons; distant matters fold themselves like old newspapers.
When I return to the outer world I hand over a letter and take our smiles with me. The plane lifts; lakes and hills blur in rain. People pass like swallows; the valley is a sand mandala. Another round has closed in the infinite game. My chessmen are set back on their squares.
2025.8.29, Mt. Kailash
