He once again spoke about his travels. He said that whenever he sets out, he carries only a lunch box, a spoon, a pair of chopsticks, and a water bottle, along with a bar of soap for washing clothes, face, and body. He tries to produce as little waste as possible, and if there is any, he always cleans it up and takes it away. He never writes travel notes, because some places remain in a very pristine state, and he does not want his presence to leave any impact. In such places, he tries to make it seem as if he had almost never been there.
At dinner, the cured pork at home was exceptionally delicious, and he praised it highly. My mother suggested he take some back with him, and he was visibly tempted, saying he would love to bring some for his mother and wife, since restaurants in big cities rarely offer such flavors. After some hesitation, however, he decided against it. He said his journey still had a long way to go, and there would always be good things along the road. No matter how many pockets one has, they can never hold everything, so one must travel light and let go of excess baggage.
That night, we sat in the courtyard drinking tea under the rising moon. We spoke very little and simply sat together in quiet companionship. The next day he left, and later sent me a message saying that the night, with its distant mountains and clear moonlight, had deeply moved him.
People often say that mountains, rivers, flowers, and shadows are ordinary sights to most, yet for some, they can stir a profound emotional awakening. I think that to often experience such moments of deep feeling, one must learn to travel light and cultivate a spiritually abundant life.