It all began when my friend Lila invited me to the blessing of the lions. These, as devotees of Chinese festivals know, are the glittering, mock-fierce creations that apparently dance as men or boys concealed under them provide the motion. Newcomers to Hawai'i invariably call them dragons, which they resemble; the Chinese rightly insist they are lions. (The dancing dragon has a much longer tail and requires more men to manipulate it.)
The Chinese cultural association Lila belongs to had brought these lions from Hong Kong. There were four of them, now proudly displayed in the organization's meeting hall. Each head, constructed on a bamboo foundation, glittered with bright colors and shining metal ornaments. Hidden batteries would light the enormous, round glass eyes; silken eyelids could be pulled from within the head so each lion could wink. The jaws worked on hinges so the beast could "eat" green leaves. The tails were shimmering coils of vari-colored satin.
The lions - or more accurately, the heads - could not yet perform any of these wonders. Their eyelids were securely closed. A tiny padlock, suspended on string, hung before each lion's mouth, a symbol that he could neither roar nor eat. Unseeing, mute, without food, the lions awaited deleverance and transformation. They must be blessed.
The blessing would soon begin. A Taoist priest, wearing a flowered aloha shirt and tan slacks, entered the room. Like a doctor of old on a house call, he carried a small black bag. From it he took his robe of red-and-green satin and a satin cap. When he put the robe on and turned his back, I recognized the round, black-and-white symbol of Yang and Yin, in which male/female, heat/cold, positive/negative qualities coexist in harmony and balance.
Ready for the ceremony was the improvised altar: a card table set with bowls of candy, incense, joss sticks, a pot of tea, green twigs of the Chinese banyan tree - and a bottle of Old Crow whiskey. A gong sounded, sending brassy vibrations echoing through the room. The buzz of conversation dwindled, then came to a stop.
Robed and capped, the priest approached the altar, lit the incense and began to chant. Drums beat a counterpoint to the rise and fall of his voice, filled each pause with rhythmic flourshes. As the chant ended, officials of the association joined the priest, opening the padlocks so the lions could speak, loosening the bonds of eyelids so they could see. Coins, emblems of prosperity, were thrown in fromt of the lions. The priest read, low-voiced, from a scroll. Next he dipped the banyan twigs in tea and sprinkled each head.
The drumbeats became louder, more insistent. Gongs and cymbals joined in, sending out waves of metallic clangor. I felt a mounting tension, a sense of waiting. The priest reached down into a carton under the altar and brought out a white rooster. He dipped the bird's beak into Old Crow, and then, though I saw no cutting or pricking, squeezed blood from its head. The rhythmic din reached a pulsing crescendo as the priest squeezed a drop or two of blood on the shiny disk that centered each lion's forehead. Now the lions would be strong and fearless, for the rooster symbolizes maleness with all its virility.
The ritual ended quickly. The rooster - it seemed alive but inert - was put back in the carton. In a kind of ceremonial tidying up, the priest burned the prayer scroll and a few paper plates in a nearby waste can. He briefly chanted again, took off his robe and cap, packed them in his bag and left.
Firecrackers exploded, chasing any lingering spirits of bad luck from the room. It was time for the lions' debut: their first-ever public dance. One at a time, each lion pranced, head tossing firecely, tail swishing, round eyes giving spasmodic, curiously innocent winks. Applause burst out as one lion bent its head to the floor and devoured green leaves. Lila beamed wiht pride; her two teenage sons were inside this lion.
Solo exhibitions over, all four lions were now dancing. Wonderful smells of hot food filled the room, defeating the smoky sweetness of incense, the dense aftermath of firecrackers. As we ate our char siu pork and noodles, the last prancing, dancing lion left the floor. I marveled at the skill of the boys, all but hidden beneth the bamboo head and satin tail.
"How do they do it?" I asked Lila. "They never bump into anything!"
"They practice at home," Lila said, "with grocery boxes over their heads."
Later I went to the University of Hawai'i to learn a little about Taoism and its rituals. I became lost in the intricacies of theology, but I gained some understanding of Chinese traditions in general and the lion blessing in paticular.
Taoist rites often incorporate Chinese folk customs that go back to ancient China and embrace universal ways of worship. Long before Taoism arose, the Chinese, like most of the world, held animal sacrifices, offering blood to god or spirit. Sometimes, even today, interchanged drops of bleed from pricked fingers bond a new member with his fraternal society. The smoke of incense and burned prayer scrolls sends prayer or petition to the gods. The rooster is so clearly a male symbol that a Chinese woman whose fiance dies can "marry" his ghost by using a rooster as a proxy bridegroom. The robes of a Taoist priest resemble those of the noble official, the mandarin, for a reason. In his book Blue Dragon, White Tiger, Michael Saso explains, "The priest is the mandarin of the spirits...his robes represent a heavenly mandarin."
Why are the lions brought out to dance on the eve of Chinese New Year? The Center for Chinese Studies suggested that in China, the coming of spring marked the ascendancy of Yang over Yin: the heat and light of male principle overcoming the Yin of winter's dark chill. Thus the crops would grow. Festivals marked the season, and the lion, in its male vigor dramatized the triumph of Yang.
In Chinese New Year: Fact and Folklore, author William C. Hu answers the question with a charming story. The fabled events took place around 2697 B.C., during the reign of the legendary Yellow Emperor. One day, the story goes, a strange creature appeared and preyed on men and beasts. His name was nien (which sounds like the Chinese word meaning "year." ) He was so fast, so fierce that not even the ox or the tiger could slay him. In despair, the people turned to the lion for help. Rushing to meet the terrible foe, the lion "expanded his chest, raised his mighty head, shook his mane" and wounded the creature, who "went running off with his tail between the legs." As the nien fled, he turned and screamed, "Beware! I will return and take my revenge!"
A year later, the nien did return. By then, the lion was so busy with his new job, guarding the emperor's gate, that he could not help. So the villagers hurriedly took some bamboo and cloth and made an image of the lion. Two men crawled inside and made it run and prance and roar. Faced with this awesome creature, the nien again ran away. And so on the eve of the Chinese New Year, lions always dance, sending menace and evil away for yet another year.
Fables invariably convey a message. Perhaps this one tells us that, even if the just-beginning year brings misfortune, we can summon our personal lions (call them Courage, call them Hope) and with them, soften its terror and lighten its impact so that 1996, the year of the Rat, will indeed be a Happy New Year!