"Okay."
When Old Man An said this word, his voice was sandy.
I thought that his grandson had really figured it out.
Until that little figure, standing outside the courtyard of the Bo family, looked at the window for an afternoon.
Old man An only knew that it didn't seem to be.
Qin Mo was holding a talisman in his hand, pulling his red panda suitcase with one hand, and his ascetic little face was even more indifferent than before.
It wasn't until he got in the car that he said, "Grandpa, I want to go to Wutai Mountain after returning to China." ” "Wutai Mountain" Old Man An looked sideways, after all, his grandson had never been interested in this aspect, Buddhism Qin Mo snorted, and then lowered his eyes and looked at the talisman in his hand: "Wutai Mountain." ” Old man An's request to his grandson has never been refused.
This is especially true at this moment.
Because when the grandson turned his head and looked at the backward scenery outside the car window, his head was lowered.
Three days later.
Wutai Mountain.
There are not many people who come to worship.
Anyone who has read the Dharma knows it.
The fifteenth day of the Lunar New Year is the most vigorous day of incense.
But today, the seventh day of the first month.
The number seven is in China, and the meaning is general.
But on this day.
Above the long stairs.
Thousands of steps.
A small figure, with an indifferent side face, with a thin sweat floating on his forehead, walked and bowed.
Nine hundred and ninety-nine bows.
Sweat soaked the sweater.
The black hair was watery.
But these don't seem to affect his nobility.
It's probably because I'm really too young.
When the little novices saw it, they were all there to watch.
There was still snow on the top of the mountain.
Snowflakes fall on top of their heads before they turn into water.
Seeing the figure getting closer and closer, some of them trotted into the temple.
"Master, master, there are people outside, there are people."
The old monk who knocked on the wooden fish put down the Buddhist book and raised his eyes to look at the little novice: "The hair is frizzy, where are the Buddhist books that no one reads on the mountain?"
"No, you go out and have a look, there's a child."
The little novice himself is a child, and he also says that others are children The old monk shook his head, and brought out a body of sandalwood as he walked.
I didn't pay much attention to it.
It wasn't until he saw the figure that he was prostrating one step at a time, he first paused, and then recited "Amitabha." ” The cold wind blew, and between the mountain streams, snowflakes fell on the shoulders of the figure, but the little boy's face was more eye-catching than the snow on the mountain.
That scene is very similar to Cangyang Gyatso's poem.
He said: "That year, I kowtowed and crawled on the mountain road, not for the pilgrimage, but for the warmth of you.
In that life, I turned mountains and rivers to pagodas, not to cultivate the next life, but to meet you on the way.
At that moment, I soared into an immortal, not for immortality, but for your peace and joy. ” The old monk was waiting, waiting for the noble little figure to come up to him.
Qin Mo understood etiquette, even though there was sweat on his forehead, he still half-bent over and shouted, "Master." ” The 999-step pilgrimage, no matter what time it is, must repay his vow.
The old monk lowered his eyes, but there was helplessness in his eyes: "Where did the little donor come from, what did he ask for?"
Qin Mo pulled out a red rope from his neck, and a talisman was tied to one end of the red rope: "This is someone who asked for me, can the master give me a piece of Buddhist words?"
"Do you believe in Buddhism?"
the old monk asked.
Qin Mo shook his head: "I only believe in myself." ” The old monk asked again: "Then why did you come to ask the Buddha for words?"
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