I searched for elusive answers in black and white, only to realize at the end that what I had found was myself. — Preface
I read an prose by Mr. Shi Tiesheng and greatly admired the vitality within it. So, I bought a copy of I and the Temple of Earth to read carefully. Little did I know it would become one of my most beloved books.
I thought, he encountered difficulties that could almost completely crush a person, yet he did not fall. Was the reason he did not fall the answer to my confusion? No, it's different. In his most trying times, he called out to "God," but the answer he found was "leaning on my wheelchair, I ask the way."
And so I read I and the Temple of Earth on sunny afternoons, on nights orchestrated by wind, rain, and thunder; I read it when proud of small achievements, and when halted by small setbacks... After many days, I suddenly realized that I seemed to have made this book my own "temple," a temporary sanctuary for my spirit. I originally thought I was an atheist, yet in moments of utter helplessness, I still wanted to pray to gods; I originally thought I was mentally independent, yet found myself still dependent on lines of black text. That book is so thin, yet I was reluctant to reach the end—"Answer me! Tell me the answer! Support me, give me strength!" I often murmured to it, while it remained silent, its black characters faithfully recounting the author's past from many years ago. My questions unanswered, I remained immersed in the old stories depicted in the book, sighing with emotion from time to time. Yet returning to reality, I still found myself stuck before "small dilemmas." Finally, one sentence gently touched my heart, startling me—"I am no longer at the temple of earth, the temple of earth is within me." Oh! So, some answers are quietly stored within the heart, waiting for the right moment to reveal themselves?
Then, why do we call out? Reading "Notes Under the Wall," I think we call out to break through the wall's barrier. Because there are always walls, seemingly blocking something. Because of the separation this barrier brings, we can only sometimes curse, sometimes plead, sometimes sigh, until everything turns into a fierce, almost prayer-like call. We call out, but the wall remains, the barrier persists; it does not disappear because of our calling. That fervent call whistles through the air, finally crashing against the wall. The wall is the listener, without a stance, merely silent, yet accepting all calls. It faithfully reflects every call, and we take this as the echo the wall gives us, as the answer. So, the wall always exists, the wall must exist, just as written in "Notes Under the Wall," "The wall asks you to accept its existence." Of course. Without the barrier of this wall, how would we strive to grow in order to bridge the distance? Without the regret born from the separation the wall brings, how would we know the abundance and preciousness of what we already have?
So, what are we calling for? The wall cannot bring answers; perhaps the call itself is a kind of answer.
I once thought everything was myself, everything was the answer. Through repeated calls, I saw my own shadow in all things. But I gradually understood, no, they are not the answer, because they are not me. They have their own unique rhythms of growth, and so do I.
Understanding this, I no longer obsess over answers, because I discovered some answers are not unique, and some require patience, for they only reveal themselves little by little, quietly, in the continuous search. Perhaps long, long after a call, I will suddenly sigh, "Oh! So that's how it is!"
Actually, it's not always necessary to call with the purpose of breaking through something or gaining something. I often think during the call, engaging in serious or light-hearted conversation with myself, and then harvest some unexpected joys.
Perhaps, at a certain moment, I will hear a long-held call finally receive a response—"My dear, you need not become anyone else. Just be yourself. Always remember to be proud of yourself, and then go enjoy life. Go encounter wind, rain, and sunshine. Seek the beauty unique to you. Walk your own path steadfastly."
Then I recall a sentence by Shi Tiesheng: "—No matter what we believe in, it is a description and guide of our own spirit." I suppose calling and echoing are similar. The origin of the call, the final destination of the echo, perhaps both lie in the softest, most hidden, and most needful place in our hearts.
I walk slowly, but I am still moving forward. To understand myself, to become myself, to surpass myself.
Epilogue: This is a rather fragmented article. Some views might be one-sided, unable to break through the limitations in writing and content brought by my own cognition—it might even seem a bit "mawkish." But I am still very grateful to every reader who has made it here. Perhaps this article can also let you glimpse a bit of the essence of calling and see clearly the self you originally wanted to become.
