Longguang Temple Hydrangea Chronicles: Endless Summer Hidden in an Ancient Temple
## **Longguang Temple Hydrangea Chronicles: Endless Summer Hidden in an Ancient Temple**
Deep in Huishan, Wuxi, lies a little-known thousand-year-old temple—Longguang Temple. Every June, when the plum rain season of Jiangnan soaks every corner of the mountain temple, the hydrangeas quietly awaken, transforming the entire temple into a dreamscape of blue and purple. Unlike the famous hydrangea spots in Kamakura, Japan, Longguang Temple's hydrangeas carry the unique serenity and poetic charm of Chinese Zen temples. Each flower resembles a sutra infused with incense, softly reciting in the rain.
Ascending the stone-paved path of Huishan Ancient Town, passing through several weathered temple gates, the silhouette of Longguang Temple appears and disappears among the green shade. Before even entering the temple, visitors are stunned by the hydrangea walls on both sides of the gate—hundreds of blue-purple flower balls hang heavily from branches, glistening from the rain, like spilled paint flowing down the stone steps. The temple monks explain that most of these hydrangeas are the "Endless Summer" variety, blooming from May until October, "just like a practitioner's vow—long and unceasing."
The hydrangeas in front of the Grand Hall bloom most magnificently. Against the backdrop of gray-blue ancient architecture, the blue-purple and pink-white flower balls appear exceptionally elegant. Rainwater collects on the petals, turning each bloom into a miniature crystal bowl. Occasionally, monks hurry by with oil-paper umbrellas, their brown robes creating a natural ink painting against the blue-purple hydrangeas. Crouching down, I discover many flower centers still hold last night's raindrops, like dewdrops treasured by the temple, waiting for destined visitors to claim them.
The hydrangea path behind the Sutra Library is the most tranquil spot in the temple. Branches on both sides curve naturally, forming a floral tunnel. Walking through it, sleeves inevitably brush against the damp flowers, acquiring a subtle fragrance of grass and wood. When petals occasionally fall and stick to the moss on the stone steps, it becomes difficult to distinguish between flower and moss. Several young women in Hanfu are taking photos, and as their skirts sweep over fallen petals, they startle a few mountain finches hiding in the flower clusters.
During a tea break in the guest hall, an elderly temple resident tells me that Longguang Temple's hydrangeas bloom so beautifully because of a mountain spring behind the temple. "The flowers drink the spiritual essence of the spring water, so naturally they're different." Looking closely at the blooms, they are indeed more full-bodied than those elsewhere, with deeper colors—blue tinged with purple, purple infused with blue—as if they've absorbed all of Jiangnan's misty rain into their petals.
As I leave, the rain intensifies. The hydrangeas sway in the downpour, and the entire temple is shrouded in hazy mist. Looking back, the characters "Longguang Ancient Temple" above the gate gleam from the rain, while the hydrangeas in front continue to bloom passionately. I suddenly understand why the temple's flowers always carry a sense of Zen: they don't compete for spring glory but choose to bloom in the humid rainy season; they don't seek bustle but are content to hide in a deep mountain temple. Like the wisdom sought by practitioners—not necessarily dazzling, but clear and lucid.
If you visit Wuxi in May, don't miss the hydrangeas at Longguang Temple. Here, you won't find crowds of tourists, only a thousand-year dialogue between flowers and temple, waiting for you to pause and listen on a rainy day.