The Wild Goose Pagoda

Wow, was it ever big. I remembered the story of Xuanzang's trip to India to find the true teachings of the Buddha, but I still wonder why on earth it was named after a goose.  Maybe Xuanzang had a goose that he brought with him, and ate the goose in the desert, and they built the pagoda to honor the goose who sacrificed his life to satisfy Xuanzang's hunger. Now that was something useful!
     "Big wild goose,
     traveler by my side,
     I've grown terribly thin.
     Would you mind so much
     If I tried a drumstick or two?
     Thank you for your sacrifice.
     Let me honour you
     With brick and stone."
 
Hmmmm, maybe not. My poetic genuis, a well-oiled machine that paints pictures with words, determined that the Wild Goose Pagoda was meant to be beyond words. Settling for the descriptive term "big," I continued on my way.

Temples in Chang'an

I soon entered a different section of Chang'an, greeted by the succulent scent of roasting lamb. I looked at my surroundings, and realized I had wandered into a Uighur neighborhood. Uighurs are muslims of Turkish descent who speak a language that I don't understand. Despite my large meal, I found myself drawn to the side of the big tube-shaped ovens on the street in which nan, a delicious kind of bread, is baked. The bakers slapped dough on the sides of the oven endlessly, pulling the cooked nans off with hooks. Munching on my nan and watching the passing Uighurs in their embroidered hats, I came upon a mosque, and thought that inspiration might be waiting for me inside.

Tossing the half-eaten nan to a thin beggar on the street, I entered the yellow rectangular building, that had a small dome towards the back and a thin tower rising above the building on one corner. Compared to many of the Buddhist and Confucian temples, it was relatively plain.

I sat inside the mosque for about a half hour, marveling at the elegant Islamic script that lined the walls. Since human representations such as statues are against Islamic ethics, I was forced to think in more descriptively as I stared at the patterns  The writing, which I did not understand, flowed like a river, forming smooth, elegant curves in my mind as I watched the dance of the living images. My head really started to hurt at that point, because too much thinking can do that to a person, so sought out for an easier religion to marvel at. I eventually left the Uighur neighborhood and came upon a small, tiny building with a cross on it. I went inside the building to find no beautiful images or sweet scents, but only some chairs, a table, a cross, and a priest in a black robe. He greeted me warmly, welcoming me to Christ's church, but I quickly decided that there nothing at which to marvel in this building, so I slowly backed out and continued on my way.
I eventually came upon a huge Buddhist temple. I walked in, past smiling bald monks, and found innumerous statues and paintings of the Buddha. The air was thick with the overwhelming scent of incense from India, which burned in front of altars and buddhas as fast as the camel caravans could carry it to Chang'an. I looked up at the buddhas, thinking about how happy they always looked on the walls. Trying to unearth the source of their happiness, I wrote this poem:

    "Smiling buddhas, really happy,
     Smiling 'cause, well, they are glad,
     Staring at the happy buddhas,
     My body turns to mushy clay.
     Within the smoky, scented space
     The buddhas share an inside joke.
     Maybe they met Xuanzang's wild goose
     And smiled sweetly at the scene."

Perhaps it wasn't all that great, but it was a start. I'm sure that five years down the road, I'll look back at this poem and see that I was indeed a great poet. After sitting with all these happy buddhas for a time, I started smiling myself, and I felt my body relax completely. My mind became as the thick incense smoke itself, curling slowly in the air to eventually hug the walls and ceiling, my being filling up the whole room. Like a cloud, I existed in the entire room without occupying space. My body  sat on the floor with the buddhas like a lump of clay, as feelings of peace and happiness pervaded my mind.

It seemed, though, that the buddhas' smiles were changing, like they had heard my poem and were trying not to to laugh at me, but they did a poor job at hiding it, since they were all wearing big grins. Nervous and exposed, I decided to collect my thoughts and leave this place. By the time I got outside, I was in good spirits again. Once there, I saw a contortionist by the temple, to which I threw a coin for his efforts.