Heart Lantern

When weariness sets in, I like to sit alone in a corner of the parlor on moonlit nights.

I brew a cup of strong green tea and place it on the desk as my primary companion. Shedding all aimless imagination and baring my decadent self, I stare blankly out the window.

The moon sheds enough silver light that I have no need for anything brighter. A sixty-watt bulb provides just enough soft, diffuse radiance. For me, this purely private sensation is perfectly tailored to my spirit.

Naturally, I indulge greedily and unreservedly in this dreamlike atmosphere, much like a lonely, starving wolf in a silent den, slowly savoring the taste of an antelope with its blood-red flesh and white bones. To maintain a sense of elegance, I do not devour it in a frenzy; rather, I tear off small pieces, chewing slowly to let the flavor linger.

In this atmosphere, stripped of all pretense, I have only one thing to do: listen to two songs I have never tired of over the years—Li Na’s "Qinghai-Tibet Plateau" and Chang Yu-sheng’s "The Ocean." To me, music is neither refined nor vulgar, neither noble nor base; there is only acceptance or rejection.

As the melodies drift slowly through the air, my blood and qi begin to soothe and circulate freely. The space within my soul expands suddenly, like a sphere being inflated. The pleasure filling my chest and abdomen is akin to taking ten deep breaths in a forest at high noon in summer. To put it more vividly, it is no less intense than an addict suddenly getting their hands on an opium pipe. It is not that I must speak in such harsh terms, but rather that my love for these two songs has become a dependence rooted in my very bones. Of course, I must admit that this is a purely personal indulgence; in the eyes of many, such tunes might not be worth a second listen.

There is a lesser-known Austrian musician named Beriando who wrote a book called "Watering the Flowers of the Soul." I once saw an excerpt in a non-musical magazine: "Music is the melody of the rotation of time and space, the second sun of the universe! It hangs eternally in the romantic starry sky, nourishing those souls who forever look up to God and confess with sincerity..." Here, the spirituality and tenderness of music are thoroughly dissolved by Beriando’s philosophy into water and air, becoming a necessity for every living being.

I seem to have a certain affinity with music, though this is not to say I possess any particular inspiration for its creation. In truth, even calling it "appreciation" is a stretch; it is merely that I love it deeply. Occasionally, I muster the courage to belt out a few lines, purely joining in the chorus with the rest.

I was born in the countryside and spent my childhood there.

That was during the Cultural Revolution. My mother once told me that our old house was right next to the commune’s Revolutionary Committee headquarters. Every day, loud revolutionary songs poured in from the loudspeakers on the wall outside, ensuring that I was fully immersed in "rousing" notes while still in my swaddling clothes.

At first, my mother was deeply worried; she feared the noise would damage my eardrums and even considered moving. Yet, she soon made a startling discovery: I was not repulsed by what she considered such dangerous noise—I actually loved it, often dancing in my cradle to the rhythm, which put her mind at ease.

Before she passed away, my mother would often talk about my childhood "singing and dancing," and she never failed to add: "Your childhood hyperactivity was most likely bewitched by those rebellious songs..."

By the time the movement to "Learn from Xiaojinzhuang" and the singing of "Model Operas" were in full swing, I was already in elementary school and the "lead singer" of the school’s art troupe. I sang everyone’s parts—Zhao Yonggang, Yang Zirong, Yan Weicai, Lei Gang, Guo Jianguang, Lu Changhai; Ke Xiang, Grandma Sha, Li Tiemei, Jiang Shuiying. Regardless of gender, as long as it was a positive character’s song, I sang it.

My voice was quite unique; when I hit the high notes, the teacher’s organ could barely keep up. Consequently, after a chorus, the girl who sang with me as a partner would often be left hoarse, leading to me being blamed or secretly cursed. Back then, my understanding of school was simply singing; I only learned a few new characters or math problems when I was too tired to sing. It wasn't until a chance encounter at my music teacher’s home that I truly learned what music was, and felt deeply ashamed of my previous ignorance.

It was an autumn afternoon. The brilliant sunlight shone perfectly on a row of clay pots filled with colorful wildflowers on the windowsill. On a desk in the corner, a worn-out phonograph was playing a piece I had never heard before. The gentle rhythm, the silk-like undulations, and the subtlety hidden within the fluidity instantly filled and enveloped that low, cramped room and the two of us as if we were inside a transparent, luminous crystal. My heart pulse was suddenly plucked upward like a kite taking flight, and in my mind’s eye, I clearly saw a rainbow tumbling through the clouds in the high heavens.

I never imagined there could be such beautiful music in the world, so I blurted out and asked the teacher which opera this piece came from. She walked over to me in silence. Without a word, she gently lifted my chin and looked at me with affection. "Not all good music is in the model operas," she said. "You will understand when you grow up. Remember today’s melody, let it sprout in your heart, and take care of your voice. Perhaps you will become a singer one day!"

Later, I learned that what I heard at my teacher’s home were the piano pieces "Fate" and "Souvenirs d'Enfance." Those heaven-sent melodies took root in my heart from that day on, and subconsciously, the notes that washed over the wilderness of my soul could never be cast away.

In the end, I failed my teacher; I did not go far on the path of music. Yet, that love and longing remained unchanged. As I grew older, my understanding of music became as clear and intimate as seeing my own reflection in a mirror.

At this moment, the first drizzle of early spring is drifting outside the window. There is no moon, yet I still sit in my corner of the parlor. The silver glow of the past is gone, but I can clearly see the wet, verdant May growing and stretching!

A flash of lightning leaps suddenly from the distant darkness. It is not blinding; in the night sky, it looks like a trembling musical note, or perhaps a string connecting heaven and earth. And in that instant, all things are bathed in light.

The melodies of "Qinghai-Tibet Plateau" and "The Ocean" still echo in my ears. Every time I listen, a lamp is lit in the sacred wilderness of my soul, illuminating the transparent wings of my thoughts.

I gaze into the distance. The colorful clouds over the Bayan Har Mountains clearly cradle my long-lost dreams, reflecting the Buddha’s light from the Potala Palace, casting radiance all the way to the east. Is this the call of the ocean?

Today, both Li Na and Chang Yu-sheng have left us. One is in a foreign land, practicing the sounds of Buddha; the other has left the mortal world, drifting away with the wind. But their songs still float through my thoughts, constantly cleansing my vision and sorting through my reflections. The lamps they lit for me remain bright, warming the scenery along my journey, letting me toil tirelessly in that fertile, open field within my chest, here in the corner of my parlor on a moonlit night.