鹽沼之爻
太平洋海水粼粼湧入舊金山金門之後南折，再過三座大橋，止於南灣，在距離矽谷咫尺之處形成大片潮汐鹽沼（tidal salt marshes）。這裡，海灣入侵陸地已深，谷地離開山脊已遠，波已平坡已緩，潮汐携來的交給重力擠壓，重力鎮不住的讓潮汐帶走，橫的沖刷與縱的沉積，兩種洪荒之力緩慢無休地交替作用，似毫無生理，卻有莎草滋生蔓衍，引來鷗鷸翔集。更奇絕的景象源於人類介入導致的地貌變更。Ohlone土著居此採集鹽巴久矣，至19世紀中葉，淘金熱引來大量人口，圈地為池日曬為工，產鹽規模逐漸擴大，150年後85%的臨海濕地竟盡化作雪白鹽池。2003年展開濕地復原計劃，產鹽規模銳減，但鹽池作爲灣區地理的一部分是難以改變了。
南灣的城市人某一天厭倦了城市，開車轉了另一個彎，來到鹽沼地停下車，戴上遮陽帽，手拎一瓶水。十月的初秋天氣，風已清涼，日頭仍烈，日頭下白茫茫一片大地，乾燥，刺眼，又神秘似易卦三爻。此時城市人樂於讓古老的哲學符號引導思緒，想像眼前的天地是某種神秘的提示，隱藏迄今的洪荒將為他顯靈。第一爻色黃，為泥土野草勾勒的邊界，為二爻色白，為粗糲的鹽池本體，第三爻色藍，為無渣滓的朗朗乾天。他恍惚站在 Pollock 潑灑的地土，仰視 Rothko 的巨大色塊冉冉升起，意識流淌，符號與符號自由映射，幻覺與實相起滅交疊。他乍以為領悟了什麼，其實什麼也沒有。
白色那爻，爻中斑斑點點，且帶著淡淡異彩，並非純白。他倒是看懂了爻辭且會心一笑：發生過的一切，哪有不是斑斑點點的？漂流來的、生長過的、未被蒸發的、冲刷不去的，堆叠沉積或隱或顯；地的歷史固如此，人的歷史也如此。他想到自己也是漂流來的、生長過的、暫未蒸發的、尚未被冲走的，在橫與縱的巨神搏力間隙喘息蠕動。邂逅的海風中，他以土堆高處一隻螻蟻的尊嚴思考。
白茫茫的鹽池並非全然乾涸。循著步道前行，側邊一大方長形水池漸漸露出細節，深邃如藍寶石，且飾有紫紅色流蘇鑲邊，如絢麗的火鳥流動。水池遠處白鷗翔止，倒影圓潤可數，若印象派的點畫筆觸。此景似曾相識，卻是哪裏見過？城市人略沉吟，想起黃石公園的 Porcelain Basin, 冒烟的硫磺地上點綴著乳藍翠綠的水池，池裏萬物不生，唯某些嗜熱耐酸藻類勃勃吐出鮮艷色澤。那麼，眼前鹽池的流蘇鑲邊，是否也是活躍於極端環境的生物的傑作？原來，隨著池中水分蒸發，鹽的濃度攀升，喜鹽的單細胞藻類釋放出橙黃到鮮紫的熾烈顏料，觸目似黃昏血戰，直衝雲霄。是以衛星照片裡的鹽池多瑰麗如橙紅色的寶石，鑲嵌在海陸邊緣，因為居高臨下的衛星只見血戰，不見鹽池。
城市人擰開水瓶喝了一口，整了整帽簷，擦拭鏡片。方才馳騁於雲霄與洪荒之間，以致未留意步道上零星交錯的行者、跑者、騎者。他們為何而來？是為了觀察人類改變的地貌，還是借邂逅的海風吹散身上的煙火氣？是效法浮游生物的隨波逐流，抑或單單也在某個路口轉了另一個彎？他無須尋找答案，答案本鋪陳在眼前。他的目光從腳下的濱岸高地緩衝區，掃向含混的沼澤過渡帶，遠及視線邊緣的潮間淺灘。由淡轉濃的鹽分滋養著截然不同的生靈：有的貪戀淡土，有的享受潮汐規律的淘洗，有的浸泡在極端的鹵水中自得其樂。何為舒適，何為極端？草木各從其命，也各有所答。《齊物論》大概就這意思吧？城市人猜想莊子可能在鹽沼之地悟道，笑了笑，朝停車場走去。
（照片攝於九月三十日）
南灣的城市人某一天厭倦了城市，開車轉了另一個彎，來到鹽沼地停下車，戴上遮陽帽，手拎一瓶水。十月的初秋天氣，風已清涼，日頭仍烈，日頭下白茫茫一片大地，乾燥，刺眼，又神秘似易卦三爻。此時城市人樂於讓古老的哲學符號引導思緒，想像眼前的天地是某種神秘的提示，隱藏迄今的洪荒將為他顯靈。第一爻色黃，為泥土野草勾勒的邊界，為二爻色白，為粗糲的鹽池本體，第三爻色藍，為無渣滓的朗朗乾天。他恍惚站在 Pollock 潑灑的地土，仰視 Rothko 的巨大色塊冉冉升起，意識流淌，符號與符號自由映射，幻覺與實相起滅交疊。他乍以為領悟了什麼，其實什麼也沒有。
白色那爻，爻中斑斑點點，且帶著淡淡異彩，並非純白。他倒是看懂了爻辭且會心一笑：發生過的一切，哪有不是斑斑點點的？漂流來的、生長過的、未被蒸發的、冲刷不去的，堆叠沉積或隱或顯；地的歷史固如此，人的歷史也如此。他想到自己也是漂流來的、生長過的、暫未蒸發的、尚未被冲走的，在橫與縱的巨神搏力間隙喘息蠕動。邂逅的海風中，他以土堆高處一隻螻蟻的尊嚴思考。
白茫茫的鹽池並非全然乾涸。循著步道前行，側邊一大方長形水池漸漸露出細節，深邃如藍寶石，且飾有紫紅色流蘇鑲邊，如絢麗的火鳥流動。水池遠處白鷗翔止，倒影圓潤可數，若印象派的點畫筆觸。此景似曾相識，卻是哪裏見過？城市人略沉吟，想起黃石公園的 Porcelain Basin, 冒烟的硫磺地上點綴著乳藍翠綠的水池，池裏萬物不生，唯某些嗜熱耐酸藻類勃勃吐出鮮艷色澤。那麼，眼前鹽池的流蘇鑲邊，是否也是活躍於極端環境的生物的傑作？原來，隨著池中水分蒸發，鹽的濃度攀升，喜鹽的單細胞藻類釋放出橙黃到鮮紫的熾烈顏料，觸目似黃昏血戰，直衝雲霄。是以衛星照片裡的鹽池多瑰麗如橙紅色的寶石，鑲嵌在海陸邊緣，因為居高臨下的衛星只見血戰，不見鹽池。
城市人擰開水瓶喝了一口，整了整帽簷，擦拭鏡片。方才馳騁於雲霄與洪荒之間，以致未留意步道上零星交錯的行者、跑者、騎者。他們為何而來？是為了觀察人類改變的地貌，還是借邂逅的海風吹散身上的煙火氣？是效法浮游生物的隨波逐流，抑或單單也在某個路口轉了另一個彎？他無須尋找答案，答案本鋪陳在眼前。他的目光從腳下的濱岸高地緩衝區，掃向含混的沼澤過渡帶，遠及視線邊緣的潮間淺灘。由淡轉濃的鹽分滋養著截然不同的生靈：有的貪戀淡土，有的享受潮汐規律的淘洗，有的浸泡在極端的鹵水中自得其樂。何為舒適，何為極端？草木各從其命，也各有所答。《齊物論》大概就這意思吧？城市人猜想莊子可能在鹽沼之地悟道，笑了笑，朝停車場走去。
（照片攝於九月三十日）
(English translation co-authored with AI).
Past the Golden Gate, the glittering surge of the Pacific bends south. Threading beneath three great bridges, it comes to rest at the South Bay, unfurling a vast expanse of tidal salt marshes just a breath away from Silicon Valley. Here, the bay has burrowed deep into the continent, and the valley lies far from the mountain ridges. Waves have smoothed; slopes have gentled. What the tide carries in is surrendered to the crush of gravity; what gravity fails to pin down, the retreating tide bears away. Lateral scouring and vertical sedimentation — two primordial currents locked in a slow, ceaseless rhythm. It appears devoid of life, yet sedges thrive and creep across the mudflats, drawing flocks of gulls and sandpipers that wheel and settle in the wind. Stranger still is the transformation wrought by human hands. Long ago, the Ohlone harvested salt here; then came the Gold Rush of the mid-nineteenth century, drawing waves of newcomers who diked the shallows into evaporating ponds, harnessing the sun for labor. Over the next century and a half, the scale of production grew until eighty-five percent of the coastal wetlands had turned into a blinding white expanse of salt pans. Even after the 2003 restoration project drastically curtailed production, the salt ponds remain an indelible contour of the Bay Area’s geography.
One day, weary of the metropolis, a city dweller veers off his habitual route. He drives toward the salt marshes, parks his car, puts on a sun hat, and takes up a bottle of water. It is early October: the autumn breeze carries a cool edge, but the sun blazes fiercely overhead. Under that stark light lies a vast, chalky expanse—parched, glaring, yet enigmatic as the threefold glyph of an I-Ching trigram. At that moment, he gladly surrenders his thoughts to primordial divination, imagining the horizon before him as a cryptic portent, whispering truths long concealed since the dawn of time. The bottom line is ochre: the rim where earth and wild weeds meet. The middle line is stark white: the coarse, crusty heart of the salt flats. The top line is pristine azure: an unblemished, vaulted sky. In a daze, he feels as though he stands upon ground spattered by Pollock, gazing up as the colossal color fields of a Rothko rise through the shimmering air. He lets his stream of consciousness drift, allowing symbol to map freely onto symbol, illusion and reality ebbing and flowing in layered dissolution. For a fleeting instant he believes he has touched enlightenment, when in truth, he has grasped nothing at all.
Yet that white line is neither uniform nor pure; it is flecked with mineral stains and faint, iridescent sheens. He reads this glyph with a wry, quiet smile: whatever has lived or unfolded in time — how could it ever be unblemished? Driftwood washed ashore, reeds that flourished and rotted, brine left unevaporated, silt too heavy to scour away—layered sediment, now buried, now exposed. The history of the earth is written this way; so too is the history of man. He realizes that he, too, is something drifted in, grown, not yet evaporated, not yet washed away—breathing and crawling in the narrow cleft between the wrestling titans of lateral drift and vertical weight. Standing against the sudden sea breeze atop a humble mound of clay, he reflects with the solemn dignity of an ant.
The bleached barrens are not wholly dry. Continuing down the trail, a wide, rectangular basin slowly reveals its contours — gleaming with the depth of a sapphire, rimmed by a vivid fringe of violet and crimson like the plumage of a firebird in motion. In the distance, white gulls lift and alight, their mirrored forms distinct and soft as the deliberate dabs of an Impressionist brush. The sight strikes a chord of deja vu: where has he seen this before? He pauses, recalling Porcelain Basin in Yellowstone, where steamy sulfur flats were studded with milky-turquoise pools—water devoid of fauna, yet vibrantly alive with acid- and heat-loving algae that cast startling hues across the steam. Might the fiery fringes of these salt pans also be the masterwork of creatures thriving at the threshold of life? As the water evaporates and salinity surges, halophilic microalgae unleash brilliant pigments — from radiant amber to deep magenta — flaring like a twilight battle, bloody and fierce, climbing straight toward the heavens. Seen from satellite orbit above, these salt ponds appear as fiery gems of carnelian and ruby, embedded into the threshold where water yields to stone — for from that celestial height, the lens captures only the carnage of the battle, blind to the salt pans beneath.
The city dweller unscrewed his water bottle and took a sip, adjusted the brim of his hat, and wiped his lenses. His mind had ranged so far across the celestial heights and primordial barrens that he had hardly registered the sparse figures passing along the trail—the walkers, the runners, the cyclists. Why had they come? To inspect a landscape reshaped by human hands, or merely to let an accidental sea breeze blow away the dust of urban life? To emulate plankton drifting on the current, or simply because they, too, had taken an unexpected turn at a fork in the road? He had no need to seek answers; they lay already unfurled before him. His gaze swept from the upland buffer zone beneath his feet, through the tangled transitional marsh, out toward the intertidal flats at the edge of sight. Gradients of salinity, deepening from brackish to brine, nurtured entirely different forms of life: some clung to fresh earth; some relished the disciplined scouring of the tides; others took contented delight in the extreme, saturating salt. What counts as a comfort zone, and what as the precipice of survival? Each reed, each blade of grass bears its own destiny, and each offers its own reply. Is this not what Zhuangzi meant in the Qiwulun — the leveling of all things? Chuckling at the thought that Zhuangzi might well have attained enlightenment upon a salt marsh, the city dweller turned, and walked back toward the parking lot.
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