An Empty Room

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if a child knows what he should know and does not know what he should not, his childhood will be very happy. But when I was a child, I did not know what I should know, and I knew what I should not, hence all kinds of bewilderments continue to follow me today.

Before I was ten years old, I already knew the nuanced differences between the seven types of Buddhist temples: si, miao, yuan, chan, guan, gong, and an. That year I followed my mother and the whole retinue of my paternal and maternal aunts to Mount Mo-An for a Buddhist service. I didn’t complain when we passed a temple at the foot of the mountain or when we reached another one halfway up. But when we neared the Shizi Mian An (Sleeping Lion Nunnery) close to the peak, I asked, “Is this the place?”

“That’s right, we’re here,” said a porter who was carrying our luggage on a shoulder pole.

I turned to my mother. “So nuns will perform the rites for us?”

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