A mountain of folded peaks, named by the ancients for the Terrace stars it was said to stand beneath.
At its foot stands a temple founded more than fourteen centuries ago, beside a stream that has never stopped running. A school of Buddhism was born here, and travelled to Japan and Korea, where it is still alive today.
Long ago, two laughing strangers were often seen at the temple kitchen door. One of them was the poet Hanshan — Cold Mountain — who wrote his poems on rocks, on trees and on walls, then walked into the mountain without leaving a name.
Some journeys begin by going up.
This chapter is for new beginnings, and for the path you have not taken yet.
