|I've written several stories about an abandoned old garden, which is actually Temple of Earth.
|Many years ago, before the development of tourism, the garden desolate as a wilderness, few people remembered.
|Temple of Earth is close to my house. Or rather, my house is near Temple of Earth. In short, one can only think that it is fate. Temple of Earth was there more than 400 years before I was born, and my grandmother had lived near it ever since she brought my father with her when she was young. The family had moved several times in more than 50 years, but it was always around the garden, and we got to it closer and closer. I often feel that it is a destiny: as if the ancient garden had waited for me through all the vicissitudes of life and had waited there for more than 400 years.
|It waited for me to be born, and then it waited for me to reach the age when I was at my most arrogant and suddenly crippled my legs. For more than 400 years, it has eroded the flamboyant colored glass on the eaves of the ancient temple, faded the vermilion showing off on the walls of the gate; it has collapsed sections of the high walls and scattered the jade balustrades also. The old Cypress trees around the altar are growing paler and paler, and wild grasses and vines grow freely everywhere.
|I suppose I should have come on time. One afternoon 15 years ago, I was rocking my wheelchair into the park, and it had everything ready for an abandoned. At that time, the sun was getting bigger and redder along the same old path. In the quiet light that pervades the garden, it is easier for one to see time and one's own shadow.
|I haven't been away from it for long since that afternoon when I stumbled into the garden.
|Looking eastward from the summit of Pacheco Pass one shining morning, a landscape was displayed that after all my wanderings still appears as the most beautiful I have ever beheld.
|At my feet lay the Great Central Valley of California, level and flowery, like a lake of pure sunshine, forty or fifty miles wide, five hundred miles long, one rich furred garden of yellow Compositae.
|And from the eastern boundary of this vast golden flower-bed rose the mighty Sierra, miles in height, and so gloriously colored and so radiant, it seemed not clothed with light but wholly composed of it, like the wall of some celestial city....
|Then it seemed to me that the Sierra should be called, not the Nevada or Snowy Range, but the Range of Light.
|And after ten years of wandering and wondering in the heart of it, rejoicing in its glorious floods of light, the white beams of the morning streaming through the passes, the noonday radiance on the crystal rocks, the flush of the alpenglow, and the irised spray of countless waterfalls, it still seems above all others the Range of Light.