A stay on Plum Blossom Island

We came for plum blossoms. Name promised. Only name delivered.

Trip start at B&B on edge of things. Soft landing, nothing more. Drop bags. Straight to monastery.

Monastery: modern, clean, silent. Not silence of stone — silence of minds holding still. Meditation all day. Don’t know what mother find there. Only know she stay. I don’t.

Then island.

I imagine certain quiet. Quiet of place removed, yes, but also quiet of wanting nothing from world because world stop wanting anything from you. Not what I find.

Energy wrong. Not wrong you measure or explain — wrong you feel in gut before mind catch up. Stifling. Heavy with something I can’t name, don’t want to understand. Instinct say: leave. So I leave, earlier than planned. But before leave, more Zen practice. Zen practice bad.

They collect plums on island. Can’t tell which trees plum trees — can’t tell apart without blossoms to betray them. Whole island named for something absent. Nobody seem bothered. Plums come in buckets, practical, unromantic. Metaphor there if you want one.

Off island. Into town. Three nights.

Town feel like island opposite: loud, commercial, most commercial in 古城. Everything for sale. Everything bright. After island stifling stillness, I think I want this — noise, motion, friction of people. But not relief. Just different kind of wrong. Mentally dusty. Commerce hangover.

Mother and I come together, aboard train. Beyond that, I only tell my side. She meditate in monastery while I flee island. We meet at meals, probably. Don’t talk much about what each find. Some journeys run parallel without touching.

Never see plum blossom. Season wrong, or island wrong, or me wrong. You go somewhere because of its name, but name just word someone choose long ago. Place owe you nothing.

Maybe Zen practice good. May visit another time. Now rest and think.

Style provided by caveman, written by Deepseek after a conversation on this topic.