The oldest engraving in cave 169 in the Bingling (Tibetan for 10,000 Buddhas) Grotto site dates back to 420 A.D. Ten years after Rome was sacked by the Visigoths and a few years before Attila the Hun began his wild sweep westward, Tibetan monks began carving statues and shrines in Jishi Hills. It is easy to see why they chose this place: sandstone spires rise up and suggest shapes like stars do constellations. Two sisters, five monks welcoming, Buddha’s fingers, hands raised toward the heavens, an exalted stretching upward provoking emulation. It’s an ethereal, fertile glade, a valley long ago cut by a river, exposing a rock canvas perfect for carving out devotion, celebrating the spirit, demonstrating peaceful worship while the entire 5th century seemed to be enflamed by war. Even though exposed through the centuries to the eraser that is the elements, 183 grottos still remain, along with 694 Buddha statues in various poses, 82 clay sculptures, some 900 square meters of murals, as well as some of the oldest decorated caves in China. As soon as our boat docked, I literally sprang into the place, leaping off the boat and racing up the steps, where at the top I was greeted by sellers of trinkets I had no time for, brushed past them with promises of later purchases, heard the captain of the boat yell that I only had an hour and a half to explore, raced on and ran straight into the title of the story you are now reading. He was a man disguised—as all holy men appear, as rabble, who planted himself directly in my path, held his palms out in a stopping gesture, then smiled like an angel or maybe an idiot and said, “Being Bingling Grotto.” His smile was so beatific it froze me. Encouraged, he repeated the phrase over and over, sure now in the wisdom he was imparting. As he was nodding in expectation, I thought he was offering me a state of being, a way to deal with what my friend Bobby Anastasio used to call the tedious frustrations of life. That the cosmic answer to it all was: Being Bingling Grotto. To all annoyances, disappointments, trials and tribulations, the solution was to be this perfect, holy, and ancient sanctuary created by an overflowing and effervescent spirit. Then, deflating, I realized that he was actually saying, “Be in Bingling Grotto.” Be in sounded like being, but what he was trying to say was that I be in Bingling Grotto, in other words, I was in Bingling Grotto. I gave him my unopened tube of machined, stackable potato chips and hurried on, thinking that whether or not he was aware of it, he had actually given me great wisdom that would come in handy later on. I paid 25 RMB ($4.04 USD) and was released into the sanctuary. The first stop was the Lao Jun Cave. I raced up the long steps to the cave carved during the Northern Wei Dynasty (AD 386-535). Equal in height to the tops of the cliffs, peace reigned. There was an old man who guarded the place, but due to the rain had little traffic and had fallen asleep on a couch. I thought he had died, but then he twitched, so I was quiet as I took a photo and absorbed the view. The Buddha in the cave was startling. He was perched above an altar with flowers and other offerings—including a framed picture of Mao, but the waves emanating upward gave the viewer the impression as if they were floating with the Buddha, rising, lit up, alive. I was placidly and peacefully shook. On the way down I passed a lily pond where I would have liked to have stopped and contemplated eternity. It was all too rushed and right then I made a vow to come back and spend some time in this wonderful place, that this trip would merely be an introduction. But I still wanted to see it all and not get left behind when the boat departed. Mindful of the time, I raced on. The walkways were fenced with beautiful, ornate, engraved bridges over chasms, and after I passed the one tour group wandering through this day in the rain, saw a pheasant who looked at me with what I imagined to be scorn; he was wet but still beautiful while I was just a soggy blur. Right after that, I was in the grotto all alone, except for the guards on the other side and realized the rain was actually a benefit. I could see it all without distraction. The Cliffside was pockmarked with green-toned protective doors, some open, some closed, with wild wooden stairways leading upward, small and large Buddhas beckoning, the high concrete walkway rail seeming like overprotection from the dry river, while my camera, housed in a plastic bag, whirred and snapped like a runaway exclamation point. It was all so stunning. The details on the carved statues. The colorful cave murals. The fact that the monks lowered themselves from the peak on ropes to carve and paint, to burrow into the cliff, suspended like scarlet spiders, using techniques and tools lost to history. The main attraction, the Maitreya Buddha, or the future Buddha, a carving that is over a 100 feet tall, was on this day hidden, wrapped in green plastic, hiding scaffolds while it was being renovated. But just to the side of it was a stairway leading up to a crumbling Buddha face that spoke to me in a way I cannot describe. Humans are always sending messages and signals, trying to reconnect, because even though we are all connected, we mostly deny it, yet relentlessly and randomly send signals, regardless. This broken-faced Buddha reminded me of that curious part of our nature and pulled me in, and as I sat on the stairs regarding him, I wondered—was his crumbling visage a reminder to humans to crack the mask behind which we hide the best parts of ourselves? Which led into why we think it is foolish to just give without expecting something in return? And why is the simple act of giving love, simple day to day giving of love to each other, bound up with so many presumptions, or so strenuously held back, so guarded against, because when we give, simply give, it always makes us feel good . . . always . . . and the reason is—back through the looking glass—we are all connected: when we give, we give to ourselves. I gave myself to this Buddha and in return he engraved himself on my digital prints with such force I have stared at them for hours. I take it as his blessing. The looped trail continued on the other side of the valley, eventually merging and leading back to where the boats were docked. On the way, there was a scarlet-robed monk with a gray umbrella, a temple with a bronze cauldron smoky with incense, a museum where a guard forbade me to take photos and followed me around just to make sure, trailways leading along a river to other grottos beneath soaring sandstone peaks, trees growing lazily in the fertile river bottom and red-brown hillsides stubby with sparkling new green growth. I was pulled in many directions at once, turbocharged and seeking, but the hour and a half was up and I didn’t want to be stranded there in the rain, unable to communicate even the fact that I had been stranded, and knew I would be back again soon to stay at least overnight. I imagined how beautiful these cliffs would look in bright sunlight, at dawn and at sunset, and what the stars must look like shining through the vapors of benevolent cloud ghosts. As I raced back, I imagined the other passengers would be waiting for me with an impatient scowl, but when I got there, the boat was empty and it began to rain harder. The captain appeared giving me that weak Chinese smile that can mean anything, and the persistent vendors, momentarily taking shelter from the downpour, set upon me with a vengeance. I am a generous guy, a kind guy, but I am also stubborn. If you swarm me or pull at me trying to sell your overpriced trinkets, you will only accomplish the shutting off of my humanity, which of course I will later regret, but in that moment will do absolutely anything in my power to thwart you. After shouting no-no-no-no and jumping up and down like a crazy man, I finally took refuge in the covered boat. The agreed upon waiting time was up and I was sure that soon my boat mates would reappear and we would jet off in time for a good dinner and a leisurely bus ride back to Lanzhou, appreciating and contemplating in solemn wonder all that we had seen. Yeah, right. Being Bingling Grotto Part 3
2 Comments
Erika MarĂa
7/4/2013 07:51:02 am
An encounter with a Path that revealed precisely what you were seeking. It was a mystical encounter with wisdom & ancestors.. the attraction & connection found your undiscovered self waiting there..
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Mary
7/11/2013 03:54:37 am
I too agree with Erika you have found your undiscovered self!!!! What a treasure!! Be...... broken....remove masks...love unconditional without fear.....be....what a great message and by being you find yourself!!! That budda is priceless!! How exciting this journey is and the pictures from so long ago. I knew China was your place to be at this time in your life!!!! Enjoy and we enjoy thru you..thanks for giving us this treasure..love ya m
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