Journey Diary in the Rainy Season of Lake Fuxian: Solitude in the Mist

On the seventh day of the rainy season, I took up residence in an old wooden house on the western shore of Lake Fuxian. The pine wood of the porch swelled with moisture, and as my fingertips brushed against it, I could feel the slightly raised "veins" within the wood grain—the creases left by time in the dampness, more honest than any polished furniture.

The morning light was flat, leaking through the clouds, and landing on the rammed earth wall, like a faint, water-stained rust-colored tea stain. The window glass was fogged with condensation, and with the pad of my finger, I drew a line, fracturing the lake into tens of thousands of pieces of gray-green porcelain. In the distance, the solitary island was shrouded in mist, leaving only an inkblot-like silhouette, as if an accidental drop of ink from a Song Dynasty painter's silk scroll.

The sound of the rain had its own layers: a muffled "thud" when it struck the tiles, flowing into lines along the eaves, and a crisp "clack" when it hit the cobblestones; but when it fell into the lake, it was silent, as if swallowed by a vast piece of silk. As dusk approached and the rain ceased, the last drop of water lingered on the edge of the tile, reflecting the damp shadow of the old pear tree on the opposite slope.

In the corner of the kitchen, a pot of pickled plums was fermenting, its tart and astringent scent mingling with the smoke of the wood fire. In the afternoon, I kindled a fire with damp pine needles, roasting a piece of leftover rice cake—the crispy parts as delicate as cicada wings, and the soft parts as fluffy as cotton clouds—dipped in a spoonful of sauce made from wild mushrooms, which had a briny freshness with a savory sweetness that comes from the depths of the earth. The roasted tea in the porcelain cup had been brewed for the third time, the bitterness fading into a sweet aftertaste, like the drawn-out ending of this rainy season.

In the evening, I went to fetch water by the lake, my bare feet sinking into the sand and gravel, the coolness spreading from my feet to my knees. On the beach, a small wooden boat, belonging to someone unknown, was resting, its bottom collecting three inches of rainwater, with a few red leaves floating on the surface, their reflections rippled by the wind, like a miniature, motionless lake within a lake. I crouched down, watching my distorted face on the water, and suddenly realized that wabi-sabi might not be an aesthetic, but rather an attitude taught by the rainy season: to acknowledge imperfection, to settle into impermanence, like this wooden house trapped by the rain, the swollen door frame, the unseen solitary island—they are not in a hurry for clarity.

Lying on the newly changed coarse cotton sheets at night, I listened as the rain became denser again. The coolness of the lake water seeped through the cracks in the wooden walls, and I wrapped myself tightly in the thin cotton quilt, smelling the camphor scent of the old woolen sweater in the chest of drawers, mixed with the faint fragrance of the white ginger flower on the windowsill. The world was softened by the water, leaving only the whispers of rain and lake. In a half-sleep, half-awake state, I remembered the bowl of bronze pot rice I had eaten: the rice grains were as firm as if bitten by the lake wind, mixed with green beans and ham cubes, the crispy rice at the bottom a golden brown, crackling with each bite—it was the only bright sound in this rainy season.