I am not Ximen Qing.

Emerging from the subway, I stood by the bus stop waiting for the bus. Should I go to Badachu or to the mountains of Mentougou? I was hesitant. The ancients valued culture; whether it was the creation of the world or the establishment of cities and states, the first thing they did was build temples. There are several ancient temples in Mentougou that are thousands of years old, standing strong despite wars, unlike the Zhaoxian Pagoda at Badachu, which was destroyed by the Eight-Nation Alliance.

The Boxers and Li Zicheng's peasant army were practically identical in character. They had neither Confucianism nor concern for the common people; all they cared about was opportunism. Their claim of invulnerability was a self-deceptive trick. No wonder the common people didn't understand the true meaning of the *Book of Lord Shang*. Under the closed-door policies and the long-standing policies of keeping the people ignorant, they had become numb and apathetic. What did family or nation matter? Food was the most important thing for the people. How could one talk about family and nation when the people were barely able to eat or wear? That was a joke. The people only felt hatred. Once Li Zicheng's peasant army and the Boxers entered the city, the dazzling world made them forget their homeland and simply continue their evil deeds!

The people are truly disappointed. These guys are worse than before; they've all become collaborators. High walls and thick defenses don't matter; they just pull out their own ladders. The people have no concept of family or country in their bones; all they have is extreme hatred, a long-standing hatred. They only want to change the dynasty because only by destroying everything in the past can there be hope. So, although the Sino-Japanese War was fought with ironclad warships, and although Ding Ruchang and Ding Shicang bravely sacrificed their lives, they were still insulted. Heroes were insulted instead. History has truly wronged the warriors of the Sino-Japanese War. The Qing government hesitated and repeatedly missed opportunities. Even if the Empress Dowager hadn't built the Summer Palace, defeat would have been inevitable. It was an irreversible defeat.

Mentougou in the past wasn't like it is now, with roads carved through mountains and treacherous terrain. Whether it's the Five Sacred Mountains or the Himalayas, the majestic peaks and ridges are easily accessible. This is why ancient temples have survived countless wars. Of the 480 temples of the Southern Dynasties, very few remain today. It's like the various Taoist temples and ancient monasteries in Beijing, such as Huguo Temple and Princess Tomb, where only their names remain, enduring through time. Then people start talking about Kyoto, Japan, wishing Beijing could be like Kyoto. But Beijing desperately needs a new look; the past needs change. There's no right or wrong here. The magnificent Forbidden City has become the cultural symbol of Beijing. The cultural history of the Forbidden City is concentrated here. The moat beneath the vermilion walls of the Forbidden City uniquely displays its historical glory. There is no greater city in the world than the Forbidden City.

It seems that only in the ancient temples of Mentougou, a thousand years old, can Beijing's past, present, and future coexist within the dragon veins of the Taihang Mountains. On Miaofeng Mountain, Zhu Di once surveyed the land; the ancient pines and cypresses in the Imperial Ancestral Temple, planted by Emperor Chengzu of Ming, remain majestic and powerful. For Mentougou, familiarity was limited to the villages nestled in the mountains—a matter of chance, much like living in Beijing for over a decade without understanding its grandeur. It takes five years to understand a person, but a lifetime of cultivation and experience to understand a city. Even in the era of Prince Dan of Yan during the Spring and Autumn and Warring States periods, Jing Ke represented the chivalrous spirit of Yanshan, the spirit of chivalry, and the spirit of the great scholar—the spirit of Beijing still exists in the mountains and rivers of Beijing. The spirit of Beijing is... Unconquerable, like the majestic Taihang Mountains, the backbone of China. It's a pity not to have visited Kunlun, but I've certainly been to Wutai and the Taihang Mountains countless times. My intuitive understanding is that the Taihang Mountains possess a humanistic spirit that the Changbai Mountains lack. Chinese mythology originates from Kunlun and the existence of mythology itself. It's also quite strange to think about the Taihang Mountains; once you enter their towering peaks, all your worries seem to vanish with the majestic mountains before you, as if Shakyamuni, Buddha, and Maitreya were alive. The Taihang Mountains possess the wisdom of liberation. Cities are bustling and noisy, all driven by profit, clinging to Confucianism, just like the Forbidden City built upon the Four Books and Five Classics! When Qin left Hangu Pass, Su Qin ultimately lost to Zhang Yi's diplomacy. It wasn't that Su Qin couldn't defeat Zhang Yi, but rather the inevitable historical trend of division and unification. Zhang Yi won because of the trend towards unification, while Su Qin lost because of the overall trend of the world.

Since the history of the Prince of Yan cultivating the land here and the Prince guarding the capital, Beijing has become a place where the rise and fall of dynasties is like reading a book. The bustling cityscapes described are not necessarily the book's theme, but rather its flesh and bones. It lies in the Mutianyu Great Wall, in the mountains and rivers of Beijing, in the rugged peaks of Beijing—the mountains are the bones of this book, Beijing. While kings and generals gathered at Shichahai in the Forbidden City, the Qing emperors filled the ancient temples of the Taihang Mountains with their calligraphy and inscriptions. This is also akin to the saying in the *I Ching*, "Extreme stillness leads to movement." An emperor sitting on the throne for too long would seek enlightenment in the ancient temples of the Western Hills. The Qing emperors were keen to erase the imprint of the Ming emperors; truly, cause and effect cycle endlessly. In Beijing... In the deep alleys and lanes, there are many old men and women with leisure time who can tell stories, all from the Qing Dynasty. But the truth of history exists only in the ancient temple in the mountains, where eminent monks of all ages have practiced and sought the Dharma in the deep mountains. Modern people are too confident, so confident that they only believe in science and consider everything else as superstition. But science is also superstition. All theories created by mankind, whether scientific, humanistic, or religious, are all classified as superstition. To doubt everything is both progress and backwardness.

Humanity's greatest flaw is forgetfulness—forgetting the fundamentals. Now we realize that the most terrifying thing is the likes of Mozi, who believed in nothing, rejecting everything and seeing everything as an obstacle to progress. How is this different from the Indians forgetting Sanskrit and destroying Buddhism? How terrible are people now? It seems that everything except houses and cars is superfluous. So they go to extremes, insisting on building hermitages in the mountains for self-cultivation, calling it the hermit life of Tao Yuanming, picking chrysanthemums by the eastern fence and leisurely gazing at the southern mountains. But they don't understand the spirit of the Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove, the spirit of the scholar. In fact, to truly understand the spirit of the scholar, only the historical records in the Records of the Grand Historian provide a truly accurate description. Apart from Sima Qian, everyone else is a corrupted, pedantic figure.

Lu Zhishen can be considered a scholar, but Lin Chong, Wu Song, and even Cao Cao can be, though Cao Cao was too great. Therefore, Cao Zhi is considered a more representative of the scholar. After the fall of the Ming Dynasty, the spirit of the scholar died—a tragedy for Chinese culture. At least Fang Xiaoru embodied the great spirit of the scholar. The scholar's willingness to die for himself, Shi Kefa, and Wen Tianxiang were the last struggles of the scholar. Zhang Sheng knew he wasn't a scholar, but the Buddhism and Taoism in the mountains made him understand the existence of eternity. The Buddha's teachings exist in these majestic mountains, along with the pagodas of enlightened monks. Generation after generation of high-ranking pagodas, including one for Japanese monks seeking Buddhist teachings in China. Yao Guangxiao, a god-like figure, became a confidant of Japanese monks. The young master often practiced in a quiet room by the Dragon Pool, and in the long river of history, he even influenced the historical status of Beijing. Just like the ancient temples that have guarded Beijing for thousands of years, how many virtuous monks have participated in the history of Beijing? And how much has changed?

The weather turned gloomy, a harbinger of rain. Spring rain is beautiful; the gentle drizzle is a kind of spiritual practice. Good rain knows its season, falling when spring arrives. Listening to the taxi driver talk about his knowledge of Mentougou, I realized that the best inheritors of Beijing's history are neither historians nor literary figures, but down-to-earth taxi drivers. He talked about the ancient town of Mentougou, how only a treacherous valley path led to the border residents stationed along the Great Wall, and how the film "The Warlords" was filmed there. Zhang Sheng particularly liked to say that the origin of "The Warlords" comes from Yang Zhi's joining Liangshan Marsh in "Water Margin," where he had to kill like a bandit. The stories of Mentougou are endless; this is the true history. Driving along the winding mountain road, the rain intensified. There used to be a bus that stopped specifically at the entrance of the mountain temple, but for some reason, now it seems to only run twice a day, morning and evening. The bus to the temple stops at the entrance. The driver asked if I wanted to wait. Zhang Sheng, unsure how long he would need to wander, reluctantly declined. The worst thing about traveling deep in the mountains is having worries; it would rob him of his freedom and ease. Ancient temples, with their thousand-year history, are places of excellent feng shui, filled with ancient trees and abundant exotic flowers and herbs. Entering the temple from east to west, the first thing one sees is the cheerful, pot-bellied Maitreya Buddha. Maitreya is the future savior—perhaps future humans will be narrow-minded, hence the need for Maitreya to guide them into the Buddhist realm. After worshipping Maitreya, one must then worship Weituo, the great protector of Buddhism. The incense smoke in front of the main hall curls and rises, the gentle rain unable to extinguish the ascending Buddhist teachings from the bronze incense burner. Monks are performing rituals for the deceased; their compassionate voices, like resounding bells, guide the souls away from the torments of hell and directly to the Buddhist realm. Because the high monks are performing rituals, he can only stop and bow. What is the purpose of this visit? He could only think of burning a packet of incense for wealth, which shows that Buddhism is an omnipotent mantra in Zhang Sheng's mind. Perhaps the Buddha did not expect that the Dharma would be used by sentient beings in the end times to worship wealth. Only when you have Buddha in your heart will it be effective. The Supreme Being responds. The vast majority of sentient beings who enter the temple are there to get rich. The Buddha is great. If you want to get rich, you can get rich!

Rain! A gentle drizzle, just right, almost enough to keep my clothes dry. A misty haze enveloped the mountainside. Walking along the path beside the main hall, I was surrounded by blooming pink and white lilacs. It turned out the lilacs in this temple were exceptional; there were thousands of them, some dating back to the Ming Dynasty, others to the Qing Dynasty. The ancient trees, flowers, and exotic plants in the temple all possessed a spirit, either immortals or Buddhas, living in the universal salvation of Buddhism. All things have a spirit, and it's certain that everything in this temple possesses a spirit; to underestimate it would be a great sin. Standing among the blossoms, looking up at their exquisite beauty, I felt as if I had entered a fairyland, my thoughts wandering. After walking a few steps, I pushed open the round vermilion gate to the Peony Courtyard and strolled in. Inside, there were beautifully arranged Taihu stones, revealing that this place must have been reserved for imperial use. Today, I am fortunate enough to visit. On one side of the Peony Courtyard, towering pines and cypresses grow on a cliff face like a peacock spreading its tail. The Peony Pavilion, built against the mountain, is the crown jewel of the garden. Antique tea rooms, studies, and glazed tile houses stand side by side. The peonies blooming in spring are like the finishing touch, a masterpiece of nature. The peonies, nourished by the gentle rain, display their elegant and luxurious beauty. Peonies are extremely picky; they prefer shade and will not bloom without the right conditions. This is why Empress Wu Zetian was so angry, and why Luoyang peonies are renowned throughout the world. There are also peonies in the Prince Chun's Mansion, the peonies in Jingshan Park, and the peonies in the Prince Gong's Mansion. None of the peonies in the peony garden possessed the ethereal beauty of the ones in the mountain temple. These peonies, like dragons and phoenixes soaring in the sky, echoed the graceful, lifelike forms of the other flowers. Strolling in the rain, one could wander in a world of their own, listening to the melodious chirping of birds and feeling as if the goddess Luo were dancing among them. One felt lost in the world, perhaps in a fairyland, or perhaps in a celestial paradise. Lost in the beauty of the peonies, enjoying their exquisite forms, one couldn't tell if it was Zen or Tao. Lost in the flowers, rocks, and ancient trees, one realized that such a place truly existed, a place beyond the reach of worldly concerns. In a daze, half-awake, half-asleep, it seemed like a place familiar from a dream. Ah, everything was there! The secrets of fate, destiny, were all contained within their calculations. Were they the reincarnations of peonies? The source of rebirth, tempered by the mortal world, truly hoping the fragrant soul returns to the celestial realm, not to fall into the mundane world. Awakening from a dream, not wanting to be too entangled, how could such a wondrous land exist? Without the heart to appreciate tea, the way of tea is ethereal. Tea is the essence of the tea trees in the mountains, tempered through trials. Lu Yu, with his immortal spirit, enters the temple to seek Buddha, needing a tranquil mind, preferably free from lustful desires. The ethereal master, the woman in green sits alone on the chair of the celadon flower island, Guan Ju... The vibrant spring scenery is truly breathtaking, a reversal of heaven and earth. In this sacred place, all the women are virtuous and graceful, like the Bodhisattva Miaomiao. It's clear that men of this world are mostly lustful and indifferent, lacking the love and affection for the lotus. In the study of the Peony Courtyard, the Thangka Buddhas are like illusory wheels, lifelike and vivid. The Lotus Sutra, the Vajra Sutra, and the Shurangama Sutra—reading and studying Buddhist scriptures and writing down salutations—are all karmic connections from past lives, giving this opportunity in this life. Even virtuous monks have a humble and unassuming nature; without opportunity… Fate, it is not that it does not manifest itself, but that one enters the land of books from among the thousands and thousands of Buddhas in the four directions. The Avatamsaka Sutra on the bookshelf, alas, lacks the diligence of Bodhidharma's nine years of meditation facing the wall. Lacking both forbearance and the devout heart to seek the Dharma, one can only silently chant Amitabha. Leaving the Peony Pavilion, one ascends the steps, hoping to grasp the outline and theme of the book before thoroughly studying its chapters and words. The petals of lilacs cover the stone steps, too precious to step on; their fragrant souls, not yet dispersed, are adrift in the water. One hopes that with Amitabha's blessing, their fragrant souls will soon return to the celestial realm of flowers. Perhaps due to the rain, some hall doors are closed, a slight regret for not being able to connect with the Bodhisattvas within. It is said that it is only in this mountain, yet one feels disoriented. It is best to wander according to one's nature. Climbing the mountain and gazing from the railing, all one sees is a hazy, indistinct expanse of forest mist and clouds. Only then does one realize that the Zen realm of the ancient temple is fully revealed in the rain. Climbing further up, one reaches the vermilion temple walls, the end of the broken walls and ruins. It is not the size of the temple that matters, but rather the influence of utilitarianism!