In an old apothecary mottled with moss, a silver-haired physician listens with his fingertips to the secret language of the pulse. When he feels for the pulse on his own wrist with his left hand, the boundary between healer and patient begins to blur. When he writes out a hastily scrawled prescription, the rhythm of plants growing seems to be hidden in every stroke.
This is no ordinary tale of a medical clinic. Every medicinal ingredient is a metaphor for life: aged tangerine peel, steeped for ten years, speaks of the true meaning of “leisure”; poria wraps around the unspoken bond between father and son; and in the instant that king’s glue bursts open, it teaches us the wisdom of letting go. Over tea and buckwheat fragrance, the old physician and a Zen master explore how fate is as mysterious as the breath. Feeling the pulse during an examination, the physician senses the wind and the heartbeat moving in harmony, and suddenly grasps the Zen meaning of “It is neither the wind that moves nor the banner that moves.”
Here, the aromas of herbs and ink mingle to form a philosophy of healing. You will see a young woman rediscover the tides of her body among glossy privet berries and motherwort, and a wanderer understand the true meaning of “returning home” through angelica root. When beehive, a medicinal herb, turns to blue smoke in the fire, every attachment drifts away with the verse, “The poison of passion is itself bodhi.”
Moss Traces, Medicine Shadows: a book of life written among medicine cabinets and the fragrance of tea, inviting you to savor the Eastern wisdom hidden deep beneath the moss.
