The sacred mountains and holy lakes of Tibet
It’s a place close to the sun, where sunlight feels almost tangible. Going to Tibet is, in fact, a kind of return—returning to the high mountains, returning to the oceans those mountains once were, returning to the essence of all life. Elderly women, prostrate on the ground, clutch handmade ritual objects, kowtowing every three steps as they fulfill the duties bestowed upon them by life. Only in such towering mountain ranges can there be journeys so lofty. She is the one who treats her own life with the greatest kindness.
The soul of Tibet is embodied in its mountains. Silence does not mean muteness, and muteness does not imply submission. The towering snow-capped peaks seem like a massive multifaceted stone, at the heart of which molten lava may be surging, churning, and agitating, nurturing new eruptions. Himalayas, when Pangu was born, were you shaped by his giant axe? Or have you borne the weight of the entire sky with every few centimeters of your annual uplift? Are you truly a goddess? Sheltering the stubborn hues of purple-red and the songs that soar over mountaintops, generation after generation lives on. Are you truly a goddess? Guarding an age-old paradise hidden from the world. Is Shangri-La nestled in your embrace?
The spirit of Tibet lies in its lakes. With water, between the deep blue and the pristine white, there emerges a youthful green. Then come the livestock, the pastoral songs, and the wisps of smoke curling from tents beside them, melting the crimson clouds on the horizon, bringing thousands of stars to the night sky. The Tibetan night sky is different from the neon-lit world of our cities. So, when you gaze at the stars in Tibet, you and I will surely feel something different—a depth akin to Zen, where amidst the countless grains of the Ganges lies its true meaning. Or simple as a nursery rhyme; as we listen, we discover a joy—that of the stars and our own simplicity. And yes, you can look up to see the stars, or look down to see them too. The starry sky reflected in the water holds an extra layer of mystery, of distance, of elusiveness—like a brown-hued dream. In that dream, I’d like to tie a kite made of hada scarves, float it onto the water, and watch it soar through the other night sky.
Water lacks the hardness of mountains, but its ability to cleave through peaks and valleys reveals another kind of eternal will. The highest mountains have the deepest valleys. Yarlung Tsangpo, are you also a diligent creation of Pangu, meant to provide the people here with the most basic space for survival? With water, people can survive; with mountains, people can live like mountains.
Such sky, water, and snow peaks have nurtured the people of Tibet.
Legend says that the descendants of the wise ape and the rakshasa are humans, living on plateaus and in plains. Those on the plateau may resemble the wise ape more, while those on the plains may resemble the rakshasa more. In any case, everyone should have a plateau in their heart to achieve elevation of wisdom. On the plateau, if you place something on the ground and cover it with a stone, passersby will demonstrate the noblest form of observation, reflecting the Tibetan people’s sincerity. Butter tea, barley wine, and beef sizzling to a golden brown— even if you’re just a one-night guest, you’ll become their dear friend. Shivering by the stove in the cold wind isn’t their custom; dancing joyfully in the guozhuang circle is the source of warmth. Life here is a bit thin, just like the air, so the Tibetan people fill the air—and their lives—with joy. Among ethnic music, the happiness I feel most keenly comes from Tibetan folk songs, for it is joy meant to ward off the cold, the snow lotus that blooms through all kinds of hardship.
Tibetans believe in Buddhism. They wrap solemn stupas in gold and precious jewels, and even measure the pilgrimage path with their own bodies. The firmness of faith and the devotion of sacrifice have long fused this immortal people with this immortal plateau.