In the west of China, a mountain rises through the clouds to a summit of gold.
Pilgrims climb for days to reach it. At the top they stand at the edge of a sea of cloud, and wait. Sometimes, when the sun is behind them, a ring of rainbow light appears on the clouds below — and inside it, their own shadow, haloed. The people of the mountain call it the Buddha's light. They say it does not come to everyone.
Thirteen centuries ago, the poet Li Bai watched a half-moon of autumn hang over this mountain and wrote it into a poem that is still taught in China's schools.
This chapter is for good fortune, and for the light that finds you when you have climbed far enough.
