A Year At River Mountain
- Publisher
- Thistledown Press
- Initial publish date
- Sep 2012
- Category
- Literary
-
eBook
- ISBN
- 9781927068328
- Publish Date
- Sep 2012
- List Price
- $11.95
-
Paperback / softback
- ISBN
- 9781927068045
- Publish Date
- Sep 2012
- List Price
- $19.95
Classroom Resources
Where to buy it
Description
Part intellectual mystery and part spiritual adventure, A Year At River Mountain tells the story of an aging actor from Vancouver who has immersed himself in monastic life in China and is now examining his past as an actor, husband, and father. As his Western consciousness grapples with Taoist philosophies and acupressure techniques, he assesses his life and records the struggles of transformation that accompany such thinking. The monastery's Old Master has given the narrator permission to write the commentary he shares with us while raising the question of who “reader and narrator” really are. At times uncertainty leads him to confuse the monastery with another kind of institution. Fellow monks, particularly the American bellringer, Frank, are often as humorously baffling as they are ritualistically inviting. But the force driving his obsessive commentary and his year at River Mountain is the anticipation of the arrival of Imogen, an American actor and monastery patron. Kenyon balances the narrator's interior life with hints of external disturbance and with purposeful missions outside the monastery. Village unrest threatens the monks” balance and harmony; the nightmarish rape of a village woman uncovers a trapdoor to chaos; travel over the mountain conjures a snow leopard in a blizzard-choked pass; an arduous journey to wild islands off the coast offers ancient discoveries; and a trip to the city to find a prophet changes time forever. Crises build as war threatens; floods occur and a devastating event leads our narrator to a beautiful and surprising formulation of how things are.
About the author
Michael Kenyon was born in Sale, England, and has lived on the West Coast since 1967. He’s the author of eleven books of poetry and fiction. The Beautiful Children won the 2010 ReLit Award for best novel. Other work has been shortlisted for the ReLit Award, the Commonwealth Writers Prize, the SmithBooks/Books in Canada First Novel Award, the Baxter Hathaway Prize (Cornell) in fiction, The Malahat Review Novella Prize, Prism international’s fiction contest (won twice), the Journey Prize, and the National and Western Magazine Awards. He has adjudicated for the Banff Centre writing program, for the BC Arts Council, and for the Saskatchewan Arts Board. He has been employed as a seaman, a diver, and a taxi driver. Presently he works as a freelance editor and a therapist, and divides his week between Pender Island and Vancouver.
Excerpt: A Year At River Mountain (by (author) Michael Kenyon)
Middle Palace
The valley runs west and east and the temple is on the small hill on the north side, the hill being, so we think, so they say, a stone eye that fell from the mountain, biggest of the chain that rises behind River Mountain Monastery. The hills to the south are many and rounded and carry on their backs a green carpet of trees over which the sun and moon travel left to right. There is an immense plain south of those hills, blue smoky horizon to grey smoky horizon. The west part of our valley this side of the river is wet, much of it marsh in winter, full of bamboo and birds and creatures who prefer their feet wet or whose lifecycle involves a spell in the water. Streams crisscross the northern slopes, though most are dry at this season, the most faithful pouring spring water past the doors of our huts and shrines into the river as it cuts through the yellowing fields and gleams now on its way to the gorge and the eastern coast. We farm the fertile banks and tend the higher rice terraces. From the winding river to the temple behind me runs an ancient path, on and up the mountain, used by miners, then by itinerant priests and sages, long before the founding of our order. The wind is huffing among our buildings and bright clouds sortie across the sky.
This is where we live, for the most part, in a village of huts above the plum trees, unless we are in retreat on the mountain or on a journey somewhere to enlarge our souls. And our life here is divided. Our south-facing selves attend every flicker of change, while at prayer in the temple, we face north and darkness, barely alive to events in the world or even on the river.
Cloud Gate
You will perhaps want to know how I got here, where exactly here is; you will want to know what I—m doing. I have offered my description of the valley, the hill and the mountain; the chain behind still holds snow, even now at hottest summer. I have been in a state since last August, when I realized that a woman (the woman we are expecting within the month) had bewildered me. My peaceful life here, you see, has been disturbed by eagerness. We are never quite as clumsy as when we are at the end of another identity, another role, the final performance, wanting the run to continue, yet tired of the same old entrances and exits, wanting to press forward with a new part, yet pulling back at the same time, regretting the past. The company of the company. There we are in the theatre seats, waiting for our notes, the director midstage, hub of the wheel. What a world! Waiting for the spark to ignite us, bind us together. It is what has formed around me here, monks for players, master for director. I sense I—m not the only one bent during prayer, head cocked like a bird, listening for Imogen's approach. Last year we were bereft, even the master, when she left us to go back to her country, leaving her trace in any number of cities on the way, for she never rests long in one place.
I know I—m extremely foolish, believe me. You will be pleased to hear that. I think you will be978192706818213