The Memory Painter

She picked up a lotus flower that was lying at Bryan’s feet. “The door to this train and the flower both open,” she said, laying the flower in Bryan’s hand. Then she disappeared.

With that, the train departed and sped like a bullet through a tunnel as everyone from Bryan’s memories shared the ride. Bryan could hear all of their thoughts and closed his eyes, trying to divorce his mind from the discord. But the voices grew louder and louder until they became a chorus, and the waves of sound washed over him. It reached a powerful crescendo and then faded, leaving a resonance that was soon engulfed by silence.

Bryan opened his eyes to discover that he was no longer on the train. Lotus flowers stretched as far as the eye could see.

HENAN PROVINCE, CHINA



527 AD

Bodhidharma had heard Shaolin rivaled most temples with its beauty. Built during his lifetime in 495 AD on Mount Song’s western peak, it had been named for the young forest planted around it. Emperor Xiaowen had spared no expense.

The temple’s first abbot had been an Indian dhyana master, who, like himself, had come to China to spread Buddhist wisdom. Neither had been the first to make the journey. Buddhism had been taking root in China for several hundred years.

It was brought to the country by the power of one man’s dream. In 70 AD, a golden man with a halo had visited Emperor Ming in his sleep. His advisors had heard of a teacher in the West called Buddha, so the Emperor sent men to India to inquire about his teachings. They returned with scriptures, sutras, and two of Buddha’s disciples to help make sense of them.

Bodhidharma placed great value in dreams—the lotus flowers of the mindstream. He had practiced mediation for many years and had learned the secrets to mastering his body and mind long ago. Each time he meditated, his mind spent more time away from his body, until perhaps one day, he thought, it would not return.

He knew it was time for a long meditation, and Shaolin would be the perfect place. The temple’s main entrance was nestled just beyond the trees, in perfect harmony with the mountain. Bodhidharma could tell that the surrounding bamboo forests would be perfect for outdoor exercises. As he walked closer, the incense wafting from the cast-iron bowls called to his senses. Peace and power lived here. Yes, he thought to himself, I will stay a while.

The head abbot, Fang Chang, rushed out to greet him, accompanied by several others. Bodhidharma was shocked to see how round their bodies were. The monks looked like stuffed dolls, and at six feet, Bodhidharma towered over them. His body was in prime condition, and his black robes made him even more intimidating. He knew he must look a sight with his wild dark hair and long beard. He had been given the name “blue-eyed barbarian” more than once in this country—even though he had been born a prince in India and considered a handsome one. Bodhidharma thought it amusing that the Chinese regarded him as quite the opposite.

He didn’t need a translator to tell him Fang Chang was denying him entry to the temple. He was well-versed in the language and had spent time at court prior to traveling to Shaolin. The Emperor had taken great pride in paying legions of scribes to translate ancient Sanskrit scrolls into Chinese so that they would be accessible to the public, and he had felt this alone would guarantee his path to Nirvana. Bodhidharma had laughed at the naivety of this assumption, which in turn had cut his welcome short. Word of the Emperor’s displeasure must have traveled quickly.

Abbot Fang Chang apologized like a bird chirping too many times. Bodhidharma held up his hand to silence him and asked, “Could you direct me to the nearest cave?”

The abbot looked taken aback. “You want a cave?” He glanced at his men in confusion.