Have you heard the Taoist tale of “The Harp Taming”?
Once upon a time in the Lung Men Gorge (Dragon’s Gate) stood a paulownia tree, the true ruler of the forest. It lifted its head to converse with the stars; its roots delved deep into the earth, intertwining its bronze tendrils with those of the silver dragon slumbering below. And so it came to pass that a mighty sorcerer crafted a miraculous harp from this tree, whose stubborn nature could only be tamed by the greatest musicians. For a long time, the harp lay in the treasury of the Chinese emperor, but in vain were the efforts of those who tried to draw a melody from its strings. Despite their utmost endeavors, only harsh tones of scorn emanated from the harp, entirely discordant with the songs they sought to sing. The harp refused to acknowledge a master.
Finally, Pai Ya, the finest of harpists, appeared. He gently caressed the harp as one would calm a restless horse, and tenderly plucked the strings. And then he sang of nature and the changing seasons. Amid the expanse, around tall mountains and flowing waters, all the memories of the tree stirred awake! Once again, the sweet breath of spring played among its branches. Youthful waterfalls, dancing down the ravine, chuckled at the blooming flowers. Soon, the drowsy voices of summer could be heard with countless insects, the gentle pattering of rain, and the cuckoo’s lament. Listen! The tiger roars – and the valley responds. It is autumn; in the deserted night, sharp as a sword shines the Moon above the frost-covered grass. Now winter reigns, and through the snow-filled air, flocks of swans circle and the hail thuds on the branches with wild joy.
Then Pai Ya changed the tune and sang about love. The forest swayed like a fiery dragon deeply lost in thought. High above, like a haughty maiden, a bright and beautiful cloud swiftly passed by; but as it passed, it cast long shadows on the ground, dark as despair. And once again the tune changed; Pai Ya sang about war, about the clash of steel and galloping horses. And in the harp rose the storm of Lung Mena, the dragon riding thunder, the roaring avalanche breaking through the forest. From the hill. Enthralled, the celestial emperor asked Pai Yaa what the secret of his victory was. “Your Majesty,” he replied, “others have failed because they sang only about themselves. I let the harp choose the theme and I truly did not know if the harp was Pai Yaa or if Pai Yaa was the harp.”