Friday, June 21, 2013

Free Writing: A Journey to a Misty Mountain Village


My feet want to walk up the mildewy steps of a Chinese village, high up in the mountains. The sweet melody of a mandolin plays lightly. Young and old perform tai chi in the damp stone square 
of the village. Two men walk down stairs from higher places with roots hung up on a wooden pole. I see an old woman –old to some, but a baby to the oldest - washing and dunking modest clothes into a flat bucket on her lap. Rinse, a chime of water disturbed. 

I hear the moving of the mist and the quiet flow of wind through the village. Little children are laughing somewhere in a room with no furniture.

A sage of the old looks out his window and observes the hushed village high, high up, so removed from the buzz of cell phones, dishwashing agent ads, millions of tourists snapping photo after photo after photo and the arguing of political agendas with the aftertaste of corruption, bitter on the backs of their tongues. 
I see in his eyes, possibly not the understanding of Facebook, Whatsapp, cars and electricity, but the understanding of the wisdom of silence. Remain in silence. Silence transcends all.

Anthea