Ancient Temple Listening to Rain Prose

It rains every time during the yellow plum season, and the mountains are empty and full of frogs. Listening to the rain and watching the rain in the ancient temple makes you feel at ease, making tea and talking about lotus flowers.

It’s another summer rain, misty and hazy. Milky white mist fills the mountains and fields. The peaks disappeared. In the constant rain, all I could see were the tall green pines in front of the Chongsiyan Temple, the green towering cypresses, and the distant peaks, appearing and disappearing, floating and uncertain, as if they were hiding and hiding.

The sound of rain broke the silence of the thousand-year-old temple. Water lilies were laughing in the lotus pond beside the teahouse, and a few frogs were jumping up and down playing games on the edge of the pond. Master Tianyi, a great practitioner, took out the wild dendrobium that he had treasured for a long time and boiled it in a pot. The aroma of sandalwood and dendrobium floating in the hall filled the whole temple.

Four of us went to visit the Master together and begged him to explain the Dharma to us. Master Tianyi said: It cannot be said. sex. I have been searching for my heart since I became a monk, and I have been searching for it for more than 20 years. Since last year, I have slowly found some answers. Now I want to use my "essence, energy, and spirit" to tie my "heart" to the bodhi tree and prevent it from running around. At a lecture meeting organized by the Buddhist Association two years ago, I was arranged to speak on the "Prajnaparamita Heart Sutra". I talked about 81 kinds of hearts: the heart is the Tathagata, the heart is the true self, the heart is the true suchness, the heart is the infinite, the heart is Yuan Qi. . . . . .

At this time, I am drinking the fragrant fairy soup, listening to the sound of the summer rain hitting the lotus pond, watching the summer rain falling hard and fast, and my heart has been with the rain, returning. earth. Where the heart is, the heart is in the water of the heart. . . . .

The rain in the city hits the cement floor and the aluminum alloy doors and windows, making an annoying ding-dong sound. The rain in the ancient temple in the mountains falls on the water lilies in the lotus pond, nourishing the lotus flowers. The leaves and stamens are silent; they are sprinkled on the pine needles in front of the temple, leaving strings of pearls; they are scattered in the small puddle in front of the stone steps, and small white flowers emerge.

The whole temple is surrounded by hazy green. I taste the sweet tea in my mouth and my eyes are filled with green. Where have the mountain birds gone? In this silent mountain, without the sound of birds, I am looking for myself in silence. Who am I?

The rain is still falling, the tea is still brewing, and I am still looking for Xiao