A trip to Jiuhua Mountain, and suddenly the worries in my heart settle down

I’ve always been drawn to places with mountains, water, and a touch of cultural heritage. When I heard this was the sacred site of Ksitigarbha Bodhisattva, the longing in my heart sprouted like a seed. So I packed my bag, determined to have a proper meeting with the landscape here. Outside the car window, the mountain shadows slowly came to life. The road from Hefei to Jiuhua Mountain isn’t long, but it felt like slowly unrolling an unfinished painting. At first, the roadside was just ordinary fields and low houses, but the further we went, the clearer the mountain contours became. Pine trees stood densely on the slopes, so green it seemed you could wring juice from them. I cracked the window open, and the wind slipped in, carrying the earthy scent of soil and the bitter freshness of pine needles—just breathing it in made my heart feel lighter. By the time we reached the foot of the mountain, the morning mist hadn’t yet lifted. The distant peaks looked like they were soaked in milk, hazy and indistinct, while the stone steps nearby were damp with overnight dew. An old woman selling incense sat on a bamboo stool. Seeing me staring at the mountain in a daze, she smiled and said, "This mountain is just waking up in the morning. Wait till the sun comes out—then it’ll really come alive." On the stone steps, I encountered time in gray monastic robes. Climbing the steps, I finally understood why people say, "Every step brings a new view, and as you walk, your heart grows calm." The old pine trees along the path stretched their gnarled branches like old monks raising their hands in greeting. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, embroidering coin-sized spots of light on the stone slabs. With each step, the light spots shifted, as if they understood the nature of time better than a watch ever could. Around a bend halfway up the mountain, I met an old monk sweeping the ground. His bamboo broom made a soft "shushing" sound, startling a mountain sparrow from the crevices of the rocks. Seeing me lost in thought over the inscriptions on the cliff, he paused and said, "The stones of this mountain can speak. If you listen quietly, you can hear the bells from centuries ago." I asked if he’d ever heard them, and he pointed to his chest: "Not in the ears—here." Then he went back to sweeping, his gray robe brushing the grass tips, startling a string of dewdrops that scattered like soft applause. Deep in the clouds, my heart suddenly settled. By the time I reached Tiantai Peak, my legs were trembling, but one glance up made me forget all the exhaustion. The clouds beneath my feet rolled like waves, spilling over valleys and lower peaks. In the distance, the golden rooftops of temples flickered in and out of the mist, like stars floating in the sky. The mountain wind rushed against my face, cool and refreshing, scattering all the restless chatter in my heart. In front of the Hall of the Flesh Body at the summit, there weren’t many people. The incense smoke rose straight up from the burner, then suddenly dispersed midair, merging with the clouds. Standing on the stone steps at the temple entrance, listening to the copper bells at the eaves chime in the wind, I suddenly felt something that had been hanging in my heart for a long time gently settle. It turns out, in this life, we’re always counting steps while climbing a mountain, forgetting to look up at the clouds; always calculating time while rushing forward, never noticing when the flowers at our feet have bloomed. In the twilight, the mountain whispered secrets. On the way down, the sun had already tilted westward. The temples at the foot of the mountain lit up like stars scattered on the ground. From afar, it was hard to tell if the stars had fallen to earth or the lamps had climbed to the sky. An old woman selling tea handed me a cup of wild tea—the brew was clear and green. One sip: first bitter, then sweet, just like this journey—only after exhaustion do you appreciate ease; only after walking do you understand the beauty of peace. Sitting in the car on the way back, watching the mountain shadows recede outside the window, I suddenly remembered the old monk’s words. Jiuhua Mountain isn’t just a mountain—it’s a mirror, reflecting the selves we lose in our hurried lives; it’s a resting place, where wandering hearts can find shelter. If your heart feels tangled, maybe you should take a trip here. No need to rush to the summit, no need to hurry for photos. Just walk slowly, listen to the wind threading through pine needles, watch the clouds tumbling in the valleys. Who knows? As you walk, your heart might just find its way home. This mountain never hurries anyone—it only waits for those who come.