The path from the north gate to the cemetery is lined again with stately junipers on both sides. 73 on the right representing Confucius' age when he passed away, 72 on the left representing the number of his disciples. Halfway through, he passes under the Everlasting Green Archway.
Beyond the cemetery gate is a lively market with stalls selling all sorts of curios, mementos and souvenirs. The noise gradually fades away as he enters deeper and deeper into the forest.
Here, it is quiet. The only sounds that can be heard are the wind rustling through the leaves and the crickets searching for a mate. Here and there, tombstones stand decrepitly amidst the trees of the forest, the trails leading up to them lost in the undergrowth.
Before the palace of Xiang stand four pair of stone statues. Guardians and protectors of tombs. The Wangzhong stand solemnly with a knowing smile on their cold hard lips, guarding the secret of death which everyone eventually come to know.
He approaches the huge tombstone slowly. Its yellow characters are telling. The tombstone is fit for a king. But the emperor is cleverly hidden, partially by the altar. To save face, we Chinese call it.
He stands in silence for a few minutes. Respect. Meditating on the inscription and allowing it to form understandable pictures in his head. He clicks his feet together sharply and gives a sharp bow. Reverence. To a great thinker whose thoughts still permeate today's Chinese society.
This is why we have names that appropriately distinguish our paternal relatives from our maternal ones. Two thousand years since his passing, we still sweep the graves of our grandparents during Qing Ming. And even till today, we rush back to our homes and families for family reunion dinners on New Year's Eve. Two thousand years later, his teachings and words can still be felt in the ordinary Chinese family.
Beyond the cemetery gate is a lively market with stalls selling all sorts of curios, mementos and souvenirs. The noise gradually fades away as he enters deeper and deeper into the forest.
Here, it is quiet. The only sounds that can be heard are the wind rustling through the leaves and the crickets searching for a mate. Here and there, tombstones stand decrepitly amidst the trees of the forest, the trails leading up to them lost in the undergrowth.
Before the palace of Xiang stand four pair of stone statues. Guardians and protectors of tombs. The Wangzhong stand solemnly with a knowing smile on their cold hard lips, guarding the secret of death which everyone eventually come to know.
He approaches the huge tombstone slowly. Its yellow characters are telling. The tombstone is fit for a king. But the emperor is cleverly hidden, partially by the altar. To save face, we Chinese call it.
He stands in silence for a few minutes. Respect. Meditating on the inscription and allowing it to form understandable pictures in his head. He clicks his feet together sharply and gives a sharp bow. Reverence. To a great thinker whose thoughts still permeate today's Chinese society.
This is why we have names that appropriately distinguish our paternal relatives from our maternal ones. Two thousand years since his passing, we still sweep the graves of our grandparents during Qing Ming. And even till today, we rush back to our homes and families for family reunion dinners on New Year's Eve. Two thousand years later, his teachings and words can still be felt in the ordinary Chinese family.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment