Year-End Reflections (2015)

When I watch the sunset next time, watch it knowing that I am revolving with the celestial wonderer—the earth, not that the sun is setting. I am not "stuck" anywhere; I am where I am. Be there. Get my beliefs out of my way so that I can truly experience the "free fall," falling into that mystical, expansive, and empty space which is always there, unchanged. I am not my experiences, my beliefs, my education, my age, the color of my skin, or anything that I claim to be "mine" because I am so much more than all those combined. Yet, what am I, exactly? This morning, I was inspired to love myself more after watching the video “Meaning of Life” by Jeff Lieberman. As the calendar of 2015 approaches its back cover, I reflect again on meaning of life as raindrops splash off all things outside my window seeking poetry yet to be born… 

A One-Woman Show, A Journey Home

In the past six years, I wrote my story bit by bit and had the privilege to share it on the stage many times. To me, it’s more of a journey of self-examination and self-discovery, where Mother’s story intertwines with mine, two yet-to-be-reconciled identities on the opposite sides of the Pacific call for deeper questioning, and light dances with darkness spiraling upward and downward. 

In January this year, to get myself out of a dark pit, I wrote that creating a full-length one-woman show and sharing it with a broader audience in 2015 would be the first ever milestone in my life so that I could say, “Yes, I did it!” But in the middle of the year, I began to question about the necessity of having such a “goal.” Seeking self-expression through writing my own life and feeling legitimate enough to share it on the stage are already complete in a sense, what else is there to be finished?

But the journey of self-examination and self-discovery never ends and will continue to unfold on the stage of life or in a theatre. I no longer agonize over if creating a one-woman show based on personal stories is shameless self-absorption or divine exploration of shared human experiences. The step I am certain to take in 2016 is to open wider the door to let more light shine from within, and in the illumination of that light, my dreams, old and new, will become either “effortless or irrelevant,” as Charles Eisenberg puts it. I trust.

A Love Letter to Myself

Dear Xiao,

Thank you for inspiring me to write this letter to you. First of all, please accept my deepest apology for losing faith in you again two nights ago, doubting if you are good enough for yourself, for your family in China, or for the world. My judgment probably dragged you down into that deep abyss again because I noticed that you tossed and turned in bed that night. I am sorry. I put you under the scrutiny through the lens of those who believe that success merely means a high-paying job, a big house, and a proper marriage. But you are determined to go through the door of a much deeper living. 

You’ve been broadening your horizons all these years, constantly stepping out of your comfort zone to explore deeper and broader, from business to performing arts, from the East to the West, from having no faith to holding an increasing number of paradoxes… Life is full of wonder and you began to see more and more… 

I am very happy that on the open dance floor yesterday, you let yourself free during those two hours, releasing your sadness into spontaneous body movements. Though at first, you stood in the corner feeling ashamed and sad, tearing up as others dancing their hearts out around you, and you refused to move any of your limbs, then you breathed deeply and began to move by imitating any random person in the crowd. Then you moved across the floor and copied the movements of many of those whom you passed by. You seemed to connect with them by honoring their movements. Then you jumped up and down with the music like an innocent and happy child! Wow, I was very impressed! I just want to tell you that because I know how far you've come. After witnessing your dance yesterday, I now believe that when your heart is free, nothing is impossible!

What am I thankful about being you? I am thankful that you are loved and cherished by so many kind souls, from your family to friends to strangers; I am thankful that you have met many who see the light in you before I do; I am thankful that you don’t have to deal with health issues like many others endure; I am thankful that you are learning to give yourself some space to pause; I am thankful that you love to travel and to connect with different cultures; I am thankful that you are supported by many generous ones who provide a roof over your head, food for your body, and wisdom for your soul, and a mother who loves you deeply and supports you unconditionally. Wow. How abundant life is!  

I want to say that I, I, I… love…you... Wow. It’s hard! To be honest, I am feeling discomfort rising in me. But please don’t take it personally. Many more love-letters that I will be writing to you in the future. This is just a start! :)

With selfless self-love,

Me 

Stepping Deeper Into Service

How do we honor the bird in each of us that has the potential to soar high in the sky, instead of shaming that little bird for not being able to swim? Neither “selfish” individualism nor “selfless” altruism has emphasized enough on deep self-love--an exploration of unconditional love for the divine Self.      

As Pablo Picasso once said, “The meaning of life is to find your gift. The purpose of life is to give it away.” How do I integrate what I love to do, which is yet to be explored, with what the world needs? I am willing to continue to step into the unknown. Here I would like to quote Dao De Jing (also Tao Te Ching) by Laozi, Chapter 25:

There was something formless and perfect
before the universe was born.
It is serene. Empty.
Solitary. Unchanging.
Infinite. Eternally present.
It is the mother of the universe.
For lack of a better name,
I call it the Tao.

It flows through all things,
inside and outside, and returns
to the origin of all things.

The Tao is great.
The universe is great.
Earth is great.
Man is great.
These are the four great powers.

Man follows the earth.
Earth follows the universe.
The universe follows the Tao.
The Tao follows only itself.

A Letter to You:

Why are there so many layers that prevent me from connecting to you, from feeling your heartbeats, your pain, and your deepest longing? How can I lift that mystical veil off me with a fresh air of chutzpah? Could I let go all the layers that have enveloped me in false security for so long?
Every day, I am different, different from last year, last month, yesterday, even as I am writing this sentence, I am different from that "person" who wrote the last sentence. I so so so want to set out on my pilgrimage to unclutter my mind, purify my heart, and cleanse my soul, so that I can connect to myself, to you, and to this thing called life on Earth.

I am still in search of the right questions to live by. Meanwhile, the pain becomes unbearable of the separation I feel from you! Shall we take that quantum leap together? 

Love,

Xiaojuan

The Cornfield (Fiction)

 “Yaya! Let’s go play ‘Fucking,’” whispered Bing outside the window.

It was noon rest time. Grandpa was asleep in the bamboo chair in the living room. I tiptoed through the front door. Cicadas on the trees in front of the house were complaining, “Too hot!” I followed Bing on the dirt road to Feng’s house next door. Bing’s grandma was my grandaunt, and I had been following him around since Mama dropped me off at grandparents’ three months ago. After Feng joined us, we headed west. The large green cornfields were on the left beyond a ditch with muddy water.

I was five, Feng six and Bing eight.

Through a side trail, we crossed the ditch and walked on the narrow footpath between the cornfields. After making sure nobody saw us, we quickly entered the forest of corn. It was cooler in the cornfields with the corn tassels looming above me, twice my height. Smelling the dry dirt and the ripening corn, we threaded our way through the cornstalks further and further until the cicadas sounded distant.

Bing and Feng pulled leaves from the stalks and flattened them on the ground to make a bed. “Let’s do it!” Bing said. Feng looked at Bing with his crossed-eyes and pulled down his pants half way and lay down. This was the second time I played this, and I didn’t know why my heart raced like a galloping pony. I slowly pulled down my pants half way and lay on top of Feng, face to face, naked part touching naked part. We just lay there while Bing watched us. Time went by slowly and I grew bored. Was this really what the grownups do, as Bing had seen? I wanted to get up, but Bing’s frown made me stay. A week ago when we played this for the first time, Bing lay down with me to show Feng. That time, Bing had asked me to lie down first, then he lay on top of me. But I could hardly breathe, so he decided that I should always be on top. I felt I was being cared for.

“Let’s go!” Bing said finally. I sprang up. We walked out of the cornfield in single file, with Bing leading, me in the middle, and Feng the last. Feng didn’t go to the one-classroom school for kids over age six because he was slow in his head, I heard, and his crossed eyes were often mocked by other boys. Whenever they saw Feng, they would all cross their eyes and laugh until their tummies hurt. One boy would always ask if Feng saw him as one person or two. Feng rarely spoke. What a bore to play “Fucking” with. We walked along the ditch. At the end of the ditch, Feng took off his new sandals to wash his feet. On impulse, I threw one of his sandals into the ditch, and instantly I wished I hadn’t done it. The muddy water was deep. “Give me back my shoe,” Feng said. I ran home.

At dusk, Bing came to take me to a new secret place. We walked to dachang. Dachang was the open flat land that the villagers shared to dry the harvested crops and sift grains, and also a place for village gatherings.

We passed the cornfield on the left and then crossed a narrow cement bridge over a small creek before we arrived at dachang, where many hay piles were stacked. My favorite thing to do with these hay piles was climbing them. I would run from afar towards a hay pile, as Bing did before he climbed to the top. But I always slid down half way.

We stopped at one of the hay piles, and Bing removed the hay from the front of the pile. It was hollow! I bent down and followed him inside. The outside noises disappeared--like magic. I breathed in the smell of the fresh hay mixed with sunshine. I sat down while Bing blocked the entrance with loose hay. It went dark. “Shhh!” he said. People were walking by and talking. They had no idea that we were inside the hay! I could barely hold my laugh.

“Yaya! Dinner!” Grandpa called in the distance. We crawled out and then camouflaged the entrance.

I ate dinner as fast as I could because my favorite movie “Nezha Conquers the Dragon King” would be shown again on dachang that night. Then I heard Feng crying and his mama yelling about the lost shoe. I felt a big knot in my stomach, fearing his mama would suddenly show up at the door and ask for the sandal. But she didn’t come. Quickly, I washed myself in a wooden tub and then changed into my favorite pink flower dress with lace.

Grandma walked with me to dachang, but I felt like running as breeze tickled me through my pink dress. I ran ahead all the way to dachang, where Uncle Jin and several others were raising a big white rectangular cloth tied between two poles. Soon, more and more people gathered that I didn’t know. They brought their own little wooden benches to sit in front of the white screen. The big crowd excited me. I felt pretty in my pink flower dress and I loved the attention that I attracted. I opened my arms to spin my body so that my pink flower dress would fly out. “What a pretty girl!” I heard someone say. I spun faster until I felt too dizzy to stand. I found Grandma and collapsed onto her lap.

The sky grew dark. The movie began in a cool breeze. When the movie was over, everyone stood up to leave at the same time. Jumping off of Grandma’s lap, I worked my way through the crowd, but was pushed from behind and fell. I tried to get up, but someone was standing on my dress. I was scared and began to cry. A pair of big hands pulled me up. “Don’t cry, pretty girl. I’ll get you out of here,” the stranger with big hands said. He lifted me up and carried me in his arms. In the moonlight, through tears I saw Feng in the crowd.

The man walked fast and soon the noise of the crowd was behind the narrow cement bridge. My grandparents’ house was nearby. I wanted to be put down, but he kept walking. I smelled corn. We were in the cornfield. Suddenly, I was scared.

“I want to go home,” I said.

He locked me in his arms and pressed my body against his chest.

“I want to go home!” I kicked him.

His big hand moved under my dress between my legs, like the sandpaper Grandpa used, scrubbing my skin.

I began to cry.

One big hand covered my mouth while the other was touching my naked part in a strange way, a finger poking inside. It hurt so much that I wanted to scream, but my voice was trapped in my chest. I kicked him harder, but his body was hard like a rock.

“Ahhh!” a voice shouted. It was Feng.

“Little bastard! Shouting for what?” the man said.

Feng kept yelling. The man finally let go of me and disappeared into the dark. I let out my cry.

“Yaya! Yaya!” Grandma was calling.

I walked home, sobbing. Feng followed at a distance.

Grandma was waiting for me in front of the house. I couldn’t tell Grandma what happened. It still hurt there and I was afraid to touch it. After Grandma and Grandpa went to sleep, I crawled under the bed and hid my wrinkled pink flower dress in the far corner. I didn’t want to wear it again because it would remind me of the big hands.

The next day, I walked to the hay house and sat in the dark, hugging my knees until Grandpa called me for lunch, then for dinner, then lunch the next day, then dinner again. When Bing came after school, I pushed him out with all my strength.

Feng was the only one who shared my secret. When other boys mocked his crossed eyes again, I felt sorry for him. If they knew my naked part had been poked by a big hand, they would shout together, “Big hand poked! Big hand poked!” and then laugh until their tummies hurt.

It was quiet in the hay house.

Three months later I turned six. The ditch was drained and I saw Feng’s sandal in the mud. I washed it in the creek and left it by his door. As I was walking to the hay house, something was lifted in my heart. All of a sudden, I felt like running. I ran, and ran. I ran as fast I could. So fast that I believed none of those boys could catch me. I ran, and ran. I ran toward the tallest hay pile and climbed all the way to the top for the first time. I stood there, shouting at the top of my lungs, “Wo liu sui le!” (I’m six!) Tears washed my face like a warm spring.

The Cornfield (fiction), published in sPARKLE & bLINK, issue 68: september 2015. Reading @ Quiet Lightning. 

Today I Began: A Small Gift Could Ripple Big

Two days ago, I witnessed the magic of random kindness when I was having dinner with a friend who's involved with ServiceSpace. We gave a bracelet to the waitress with a message on it: "I am a sacred, worthy, luminous being. I am love and my love is for giving." The bracelet was a gift from Dr. Tom Pinkson, who shared his wisdom at the first Sacred Leadership Summit we'd just attended. To our surprise, the waitress was very happy and told us how sad she was the previous night and she prayed. The bracelet made her day! At the end of our dinner, she insisted offering us free coconut ice-cream. We were just thinking about getting coconut ice-cream after dinner! Wow, a small gift could ripple big. You just never know. In this case, it was sweet synchronicity. 

Last night, I watched the interview of Nipun Mehta by Charles Eisenstein who authored Sacred Economics. For the first time, I realized that I'd missed the point about giving. Not only I didn't see the big effect of giving, but I tended to associate most giving with some degree of condescending gesture. After hearing Nipun's simple yet profound description about giving, it dawned on me: We give outside, while receiving inside. It doesn't matter how small the effect would be outside. For example, the homeless to whom we feed one meal might be starved to death a week later. What matters is the interconnectedness and stillness we experience inside when we give. When the person who receives is inspired to pay it forward, he or she will experience that inner transformation as well. That's what it is about. "All life is practice."  

This morning, I felt very uplifted to practice generosity. I brought several Smile cards and a gift card with me as I rode my bike to my next thing. On the way, I greeted strangers with "good morning" and a smile; they all mirrored me. I saw a weary old man, who seemed a borderline homeless, lying on the bench in a bus waiting booth; I stopped. I wanted to put a Smile card and the gift card next to him. Trying not to wake him up, I reached my hand from the bottom of the booth to put the cards on the bench next to his head, but my arm was not long enough and I still woke him up. Embarrassingly, I offered him the cards with two hands, but he looked away and said, "No, thanks." I apologized and then left.

Giving is a life practice. Look deeply and then act deeply, as Thich Nhat Hanh would put it. It was my first conscious attempt and I wouldn't say I failed, because in my heart I knew, next time if I pay more attention, I'll know better what another person might need and then give that to him or her in a more skillful way. :)

"We've all been given a gift, a gift of life. What we do with our lives is our gift back."  -- Edo

"It's not how much we give but how much love we put into giving." -- Mother Teresa


More about the writer: http://www.xiaojuanshu.net

A Spontaneous Journey Home

A couple of months ago, I went back to China to see my mother who underwent a small surgery on her stomach. Before Mother's hospitalization, Shaoli, my best friend in high school, also a doctor in that hospital, messaged me "not to worry" and that she would be there for my mother. True. My sleepless nights on the opposite side of the Pacific Ocean could contribute little goodness. And I definitely wasn't planning to fly over half of the globe to visit Mother; the following two weeks on my Google Calendar had already been filled up with my normal busy-ness. On the following day of her surgery, Mother shared over the phone that she held Shaoli's hand tightly in hers during the procedure.

I sensed that the hand Mother wanted to hold was mine, but the Pacific is wide. Suddenly, an urge to be by Mother's side stirred inside of me. For a moment, I felt torn between Mother and Google calendar. 

My flight to China was supposed to transfer in Taipei to Shanghai, but due to bad weather, it landed in Osaka in Japan, where we were stranded for 10 hours. During the long hours at the airport, I received from a ServiceSpace friend the recording of my sharing at the Wednesday Awakin Circle the night before my China trip. What a sweet surprise. I again chewed on all the heartwarming wishes that I received from many in the circle that evening. This trip felt right.

Mother's Story
As the eldest daughter in her family, Mother was asked to quit school to help the family when she was in the second grade at age 11. She started school late, but she loved it. One day her teacher lost her voice and asked Mother to help teach the class. Standing in front of the class, Mother knew what she wanted to do when she grew up—a teacher like her father. When my grandfather asked her not to go to school the next day, she begged in vain. She stayed in bed the next day, then the next, and the next. She heard her teacher talking to her parents in another room, but her father would not compromise. Her pillow was wet with her tears. On the fourth day, she got up, swept the floor, fed the pigs, and then carried two water barrels to the river. She never went back to school again.

When I was little, Mother said, “The only thing in the whole world you need to worry about is studying. I will do anything to support you going to school, even if I had to climb the mountain that’s sharp as a knife, or jump into the sea that’s full of fire!” She worked in the polluted fertilizer factory, while taking care of the crops in our small family field. During droughts, many nights she waited by the field for water to come through the irrigation pipe. I saw her cry. When I was in the sixth grade, my father lost his job and later became sick. Mother has become the single breadwinner in our family ever since. She farmed, scavenged, worked in polluted factories and later on scaffolding in construction, sold vegetables and eggs on the street, and even sold her own blood. Her hands were covered with calluses and cuts.

I appreciated Mother’s support of me going to school, but I never wanted her to come to my school in town because I didn’t want my classmates to see her, a peasant with a weather-stricken face. Even during one of my visits from college, when Mother grabbed my hand in a crowded local store, I instantly pulled my hand away. Standing next to her in public made me feel ashamed, not to say, holding hands. As I grew older, my shame of Mother began to diminish slowly. Now, she is one Pacific Ocean away; the long distance has brought us close.

As a lifelong servant, Mother not only supported her two children, my brother and me, going to college, but also served her parents, her younger siblings, her husband, and now, her grandson.

Arriving Home
48 hours after my departure from the Bay Area, I arrived at my childhood home. It was already the 6th day after Mother's surgery. I didn't tell her that I was coming home. As I was walking toward the open yard where my old home used to stand, I saw Mother checking on the vegetables in the yard. "Ma!" I called. She looked up and, for a moment, stood there looking at me as if I were someone from Mars before she ran to give me a joyful hug. Her energy was still low, but her heart survived another surprise visit of mine.  

My father was in the kitchen and smiled with the half of his face that was not paralyzed. Besides paralyzed facial expression, he has suffered from the Parkinson’s Disease for over 15 years, but he manages to take care of himself most of the time. In the past, he cooked while Mother hustled on the streets selling vegetables for their kids' tuition. It was lunch time. I devoured the rice and the eggplants and tofu dish, and drank up the soup in front of me. My parents sat there watching me, almost forgetting to eat their own meals. Mother was still on liquid diet.

One noticeable addition was big red trash bins placed at intervals along the road. No wonder I saw little trash on the riverbank or in the river this time. Many factories lined in the near distance, and one of the factory names was related to wind energy. My old home was located in the rural area bordering the edge of the town; now the farmland is the breeding ground for new factories. 

The Unexpected Flood

It rained all day the next day and night. Mother was glad that we could just chill at home and talk. In the evening, watching TV in a tiny room with my parents was our quality family time. The TV episodes were usually about the anti-Japanese war in the 1930s and 1940s, not so much on the battles between the Communist Party and the Nationalist Party as some years back. Sometimes we watched the Chinese version of Britain’s Got Talent. 

                                     

When the rain stopped the following day, the road in front of the house was submerged by rainwater and became part of the river. In the morning, I ventured out with my point-and-shoot camera. I stepped into the almost knee-deep water and trudged to the higher main road, which mostly stayed out of water. People gathered here and there talking about this unusual flood and comparing it to the last flood in 1991. A couple of men were fishing in the overflowing river. Many electric scooters parked outside were half under the water. To their owners’ dismay, some of the engines refused to start. 

I walked to the fertilizer factory, where I took the bus to school from the first to the ninth grade and where Mother had worked as a temporary worker for ten years. The factory prospered back then, brand new concrete road leading to the factory gate from a mile away outside, new apartments for the employees, and freshly painted red pavilion in the middle of a pond with clear water and orange fish. The factory was originally state-run before it was privatized. All the formal workers enjoyed much higher social status than us. I often wished my parents were official factory workers, not peasants. Now decades later, the concrete road was uneven and cracked, the apartments looked old and weary, the national flag waving above the factory gate was torn into two pieces, the red paint on the pavilion had faded long ago, and the water in the pond was murky and overflowing the edges. A dog with one wounded ear crippled around the factory yard, looking for food. In fact , the factory was bankrupt, I heard. Over the years, several explosions happened in the factory due to the obsolete equipment and inadequate safety control. Many workers died. The green-striped school bus I wished to see had retired some years back. I had many sweet memories about that bus, on which a group of us first and second graders took turns to share stories with one another. 

 A new painting on the factory wall: "Life is precious.
                      Development should not depend on the sacrifice of human lives,
          which should be regarded as an untrespassable red line."
-- Xi Jinping 

Due to the poor quality of water, I bought two bottled water in the dim convenient store on the fertilizer factory compound. The friendly woman who worked there asked me many questions, such as how old I was, what I did for a living, where I lived, and if I was married with any kid. I grabbed the chance to leave when another person came to talk to her. 

On my way back, more people were fishing.

Reconnecting to the Land

After the water retreated, earthworms were ended up on the dirt road and the concrete paths everywhere. Many of them were killed by cars, motorcycles, scooters, or hurried human feet. Watching them frenetically trying to go somewhere safe without being able to see the big picture, I felt propelled to help them relocate. But any snake-shaped moving thing makes my body tense. As I stood in the middle of moving earthworms, each pore in my body screamed with irrational fear. I picked up a small twig and began to transport earthworms to the vegetable field by the roadside. A truck honked behind me and I jumped aside. After the truck passed, more earthworms died silently under the truck wheels, and one leapt in the air and landed on the ground twisting its body. One earthworm was still trying to move with half of its body crushed to the ground. My heart twitched. I unstuck its crushed half and dropped it to the field. After a dozen of earthworms were relocated to safety, I looked at the road, discouraged; there were so many of them. Then the story came to me again: Hundreds of fish were stranded on the beach gasping for water. A boy began to threw back the fish to the ocean, one at a time. Someone passed by and said, “It doesn’t matter. There are so many of them dying.” The boy picked up one fish and said, “It matters to this one.” Then he picked up another one and said, “And this one!” I bent down again to relocate more earthworms to “safety zone.”  

As I am writing this, I searched online about what earthworms do exactly. On the website of Earthworm Society of Britain, it says that earthworms enjoy the title of “ecosystem engineers.” These humble creatures do incredible engineering and decomposition work for the Mother Earth, while needing so little to sustain themselves.

I walked westward on the dirt road in front of my old home with my camera again. Through the camera lens, everything in front of me was surprisingly beautiful, the flowers Mother grew, the river with reflections of trees and houses, the trees and houses themselves, the little dog, the mother cat breastfeeding her kitten, and the run-down narrow bridge. 

The narrow cement bridge that I'd walked on for numerous times as a child

As I stood on the bridge which I’d walked numerous times as a child, something shifted in me. In the past decade, I felt distanced from this land that had sustained my life. I felt frustrated, angered, and disgusted by the polluted river, the trash, and the funny smell in the air. I found the land repellent, even though the land didn’t do anything wrong—we did it. But that day when I stood on that run-down cement bridge looking at the shimmering surface of the river, I felt grateful for the first time, for everything that this land has offered. Though I still sink into the sorrow of not being able to stop the train whose brake seems to be out of order, I would never stop appreciating this land for her endurance, resilience, and sacrifices. 

I walked back home. My parents were cooking in the kitchen. Every day, Mother came up with a new dish that she wanted to make for me. She used to freeze all the special food that I’d missed, such as soy beans from spring, shrimps from summer, water chestnuts from fall, and the dumplings from the previous New Year’s dinner. She said if I ate them, it would be like I never left home. But I said that I preferred eating fresh, not aged frozen food. She stopped doing that. That day Mother made zongzi, reed leaves wrapped sticky rice with red beans.

I thought this trip was my heroic journey home to help my parents, but apparently, they were still more capable of taking care of me than I was taking care of them. I quietly observed them through the kitchen window. These two humble human beings brought me into this world and raised me from an infant, and supported me until I was able to explore this life on my own.I think of the poem by Shel Silverstein, The Giving Tree. The tree is happy to give everything to the boy, her fruits, her branches, and her trunk. At the end, when she has only a stump left, she is happy to offer a seat to the boy who now has grown old and tired. As children of Mothers, when can we learn to give back? As children of the Earth, when shall we stop taking so much? 

Visiting Grandma

After their old residences were bulldozed and the land was handed over to the local government to build factories, the farmers were moved into boxed apartments. I visited my grandma who now lives in the farmers apartment complex close to my parents’ place. The elders wander around in the complex, meeting with some neighbors to gossip about other neighbors; the younger ones work in factories, near or afar. I spent the night with Grandma, who lives with my younger uncle who's never married. After Grandpa passed away two years ago, nights could be too quiet for her. She still keeps the old habit of watching Xinwen Lianbo, the CCTV (China Central Television) news at 7 pm every evening. That was Grandpa’s daily routine for many decades. In the living room, two relatively new posters were on the wall: one was President Xi Jinping and Premier Li Keqiang shaking hands, below which were the small portraits of all 7 members of the Politburo Standing Committee; the other was Xi and his wife Ms. Peng Liyuan. After breakfast, Grandma and I took a walk in the complex. She told every neighbor we met, “This is my granddaughter, my eldest daughter’s, just came back from America!”

The Posters of President Xi in Grandma's Living-room

What I Need to Learn From Mother

After the flood retreated, Mother drove her electric tricycle to town with me sitting in the back. She was much better than me navigating the traffic in China. We ran some errands before we went to see the new apartment that my parents will receive next year from the government. The apartment is still under construction, and Mother has been going there photographing its progress. I didn’t mention earlier that the house I grew up in were bulldozed. Mother built two simple huts on the land as temporary living space.  

Many strangers greeted her on the street, in a bank, or at a store. Was my Mother popular in town? Those were mostly her former customers. Mother had sold vegetables and eggs next to the same market for a decade. She often offered her customers small gifts such as green onions and garlic when they passed by, regardless if they wanted to buy anything from her or not that day. Mother has retired from selling vegetables since she assumed the task of taking care of her grandson. She misses interacting with people at the market.

Mother walked ahead of me, approaching the new apartment complex’s construction site. “Hey stop! Do not go in!” A man yelled. Mother said something and kept going, but I hesitated to follow. A few other men were lolling around and Mother interacted with them. Then the man who just yelled also joined in and they all laughed together about something. I walked closer to them. Mother pointed to one of the buildings and said she would be moving to the sixth floor next year. On the way home, she said that people were often rude to her in the beginning, but soon they would hold her arm and laugh with her. Mother has been yelled at by strangers all her life. She once said that she didn’t understand why people were rude to her without her doing anything wrong. “Is it because I am ugly?” She asked. Now Mother has somehow come out of that old shame and fear. That’s something I need to learn from her. I am afraid of hearing “no” and confronting anyone even when it is necessary. I alway hide behind the “being gentle and nice” mask to avoid conflict. I submit out of fear, or sometimes rebel out of fear. But when Mother decides to go to the local government to make a request about something, she not only faces “No” from the people in the office, but also from my relatives. Yet, she sticks to her mission. If Mother can be so, why can’t I? I am her daughter after all. Another thing to deeply ponder: fearless compassion.

Departure Again
When I told Mother my departure date, her lips pouted in disappointment, but only for a second. When I was resting in my room, she quietly went to the local store and came back to make new dishes for me to taste. In the morning, she got up very early to cook more breakfast than what I could eat for three meals. On my departure day, my father suggested he give me a ride to the bus station. Mother said she would. Later, my father wanted to come along, but there was no room on Mother's electric tricycle. As we were about to ride away, I heard “Hey!” from behind. My father was standing by the kitchen window waving his hand. I smiled and waved back, holding back my tears. My father does not express his feelings much, but whenever he does, he hits hard on my soft spot.

I asked myself: from this point on, am I willing to fully accept this life and be thankful for everything that's been offered? How can I contribute to the big pool? Am I capable of surrendering to my insignificant existence and loving more?

More about the writer: http://www.xiaojuanshu.net

"The Moon Appears When the Water is Still"

Four days ago, I came back from a 10-day silent Vipassana course as taught by S.N. Goenka, feeling refreshed and empowered. But as “normal” sleeping schedule resumes, my old behavior pattern lurks near the surface, waiting to have a comeback any time. “Don’t go back to sleep.” It’s time to sit down and reflect with a quiet mind. 

Rocks Are Not Role Models for Enlightenment 

“Our job is not to eradicate thoughts

But to desist from reacting to them.

If the non-arising of thoughts is our goal

Then rocks are enlightened.” 

I sat on my assigned cushion along with over 100 other old and new students, male and female separate, in the dim meditation hall. I closed my eyes as Goenkaji’s chanting entered my ears. But once my eyes were shut, my mind transported me to a different world, longings and unsatisfied desires enticing me to get on a wild ride. The imaginary scenes played like a movie, on and on. Once in a while, if I was not wandering in my Lalaland, I caught myself dozing off. 

I also set my mind on cleaning out my stuff. Still too much stuff in my life after so many times of cleaning. What do I really need? Something to sleep on close to the floor (so that I feel more grounded), books, a desk and a chair, a lamp, clothes… So many clothes that I don’t wear but still keep, for what? A memory? An emotional attachment? A rare occasion? But the first thing I’ll do when I go back is to get rid of that queen size memory foam mattress. I began to re-arrange my room in my head, over and over. It became exhausting. Very exhausting. Out of a need to alleviate my mental exhaustion, I began to observe my breath, for real.

We practiced Anapana in the first three days, observing natural breath coming in and going out. It took me three days just to quiet my mind enough to observe the sensations in the area below the nostrils and above the upper lip. Am I still in Vipassana Pre-K? Was the first 10-day course I took two years ago mostly wasted on me? 

“Work diligently and ardently. Patiently and persistently. You are bound to be successful. You are bound to be successful.” Goenkaji repeated in the audio.

My Body Knows

”Sitting still gives us the opportunity

To witness the revealing of the truth.

The moon appears only when the water is still."

We practiced Vipassana meditation from the fourth day on. As I followed Goenkaji’s instruction to scan my entire body to observe sensations, I experienced how much truth my body holds! It is me who is oblivious to the truth, which is always there. Why can’t I feel any sensations on the back of my head? The blind areas on my body told me how ignorant I am in those areas and how dull my mind is. The severe unpleasant sensations revealed to me how much aversion I harbor towards my own life. How agitated I am sometimes, definitely more than I am willing to admit. 

“Just observe. Do not react to any sensations, no matter it’s pleasant or unpleasant. They all share the same characteristics, arising and passing away, arising and passing away. Don’t crave for any particular sensations. Just observe, with a quiet and equanimous mind.” 

Finally, I sat still. 

“Itching is not eternal.” I no longer bothered scratching any itch on my body while walking, eating, or lying down, if I caught myself before my hands reacted. Sensations on my body arose and passed away like everything else in the universe. 

“Anicca. Anicca. Anicca.” 

My body knows it, but my mind lags behind, unwilling or unable to accept it.  

The Seventh Day

“Do not throw away your suffering;

It is the fertile soil which grows the flowers of truth.

Pain is the teaching,

release is the graduation.”

It was the seventh day again, my emotional melt-down day during my first 10-day course two years ago. The tragic death of my Auntie Two, which had haunted me for more than 15 years, hit me the hardest than ever on the seventh day two years ago. This time, would it hit me again? In the early morning, as I walked towards the meditation hall under the stars, my heart felt a little heavy.

Before I turned six, Auntie Two, Mother’s younger sister, babysat me at my grandparents’. She didn’t learn to walk until she was twelve. Everyone called her “retarded Boyu” (Boyu was her name). My earliest memory of her was her squatting down to feed me, with a bowl of short noodles in one hand, a spoon in the other. I ran around the table, ignoring her. “If you don’t eat it, toads will come to eat it.” When I finally opened my mouth, she put the noodles in my mouth and smiled with her big yellow teeth. I had been her confidante since age four, maybe even before I could remember. “Your uncle hit me again with the cooking spade.” She showed me the bruises on her forearm. That uncle was her stuttered younger brother. 

When I turned six, my parents took me home and sent me to the best elementary school in town, and Auntie Two married a hunchbacked waste-picker, who was much older than her and scrambled for a living by scavenging through waste piles for things to sell. They lived in the single mud house on high ground half mile away from the other villagers, who all lived in similar farmhouses next to each other lining a small river. 

Whenever I visited my grandparents, my favorite thing to do was to go see Auntie Two. I would run on the narrow footpaths between green rice paddy fields all the way to her house, my heart filled with joy. In her small thatched home, she pressed her lower left belly. “He beats me every day. It hurts here,” she said. My mind froze. Then I thought to myself, when I grew up, I would protect Auntie Two. I would take her out of that place. I would wash her, clothe her, and make her delicious fried rice. I even thought about possible transportation. Would she be afraid to sit on the back of my bike? For many years, I was so obsessed with that thought that I couldn’t stop imagining the day when I took her away with me, until when I got the news. 

Auntie Two died of eating poisonous wild mushrooms, which she thought were delicacies for her malnourished body. The hunchback said he didn’t feel well that day, so he didn’t eat much. When Auntie Two died, I was in the last week of preparing for the National College Entrance Exam in the best boarding high school in town. When I heard the news, she had already been buried under the dirt, a no-name earth lump. I went to her house. The blood she threw up was still there, on her bed and on the floor. She cried “pain” for three days before she died, the hunchback said, wiping off his tears.

“From darkness to darkness.” That was Auntie Two’s life. Was her suffering really caused by what she did in her past life? How could I accept that such a gentle soul could have intentionally harmed anyone?  

On the seventh day two years ago, with my closed eyes, I saw myself sitting on Auntie Two’s bed, legs crossed, holding her right hand with my left hand, breathing in, breathing out. From the top of my head to the tip of her toes; from the tip of her toes to the top of my head. Auntie Two, please let me feel your pain! Please let me share your pain! Unbearable sadness gripped me. I mourned with silent tears for three days on the cushion. On the tenth day, after the silence was lifted, I didn't want to talk. I walked to my regular walking path in the woods, standing on a rock, facing the sun with eyes closed. I didn't want to lose my deep connection with Auntie Two and that purity in my heart.  

"I walked back to my grandparents' between the rice fields. As I was walking, I wondered if Auntie Two was still there watching me. I looked back. There she was, standing in front of her thatched home! I walked again and then turned again. She was still there, but looked smaller. I kept on walking and turning until she looked so tiny. I must look tiny to her too. I stopped. Auntie Two and I were standing there, tiny face to tiny face, as if we were the only two people living on that land, bathed in soft spring breeze and warm sunlight."

This time, it surprised me that sadness didn’t come. Instead I saw the hunchback and the big wrinkles on his forehead. How much suffering had he borne in this life? It was the first time I thought of him without anger. “More compassion for the aggressor. So ignorant, harming oneself and harming others,” Goenkaji said in one of the taped evening discourses. 

Keep opening my heart. It’s the only way out.

Three -Hour Sit Challenge

“By meditating

We are like the candle

Which says to the darkness

‘I beg to differ’”

To honor Auntie Two, I decided to sit three hours straight twice a day on the eighth and ninth day. Auntie Two endured three days of unbearable pain after having lived such a harsh life; she showed me the suffering of life in such a visceral way. Compared to what Auntie Two had gone through, sitting for three hours without moving should be much easier.  

I sat through the group sitting, the break, and then another sitting. In the beginning, I sat with ease. But then severe pain arose and persisted in my hips, thighs, knees, and lower back. This pain is unbearable! Why is it not going away! Does it forget to follow law of nature? Waves of agitation heated my body, making me more agitated. I felt the urge to move, but changing posture could only cause more mental pain—disappointment. I wanted to cry, but no tears came out to indulge me. How much pain did Auntie Two have to endure in her last three days? I would sit, no matter what. Pain, over which I have no control; my reaction, over which I do have control. Then slowly, peace came to my aid.  

I admit that I did change my posture a couple of times during those four long sits. I didn't experience a full-body freeflow, and didn't crave for it either.

On the tenth day after the noble silence was lifted, to my surprise, a fellow meditator said to me, “You were totally in a different land in the last two days. You sat like a Buddha!”  

The Ant Tribes

Many ant tribes reside in the Vipassana center. I often saw ants carry things twice or more of their sizes and march along or across the road as I walked to the dining-hall, to my room, to the meditation hall, or to my walking path. Their aliveness attracted me, or, maybe I should say, distracted me (during my 10-day course). 

One day, the crowded entrance to one of their communal homes caught my attention. Ants hurried in and out as if they were organizing an important community event. The route that the ant hunter-gatherers set out stretched long and far. I was curious to know how far they went, so I followed their path and walked off the dirt road a little and still couldn’t see where it ended. The route went under the dry leaves and twigs. Then one ant came on the scene, carrying a large white shell of some grain, crawling up and down over twigs and leaves. I looked up. Not only the destination was far from where I stood, given the size of an ant, but also it was a bumpy journey home without a flat and solid ground. Under the hot sun, that ant just kept on going without resting for a second. Up and down. Up and down. I was so rooting for that ant! I followed along and finally home was close! But there were no ants waiting by both sides of the entrance applauding for such admirable endeavor. It was just a common task carried out by an ordinary ant on a normal day. As that ant entered, I looked back. Other ants were carrying large shells or grains, approaching home one after another. 

Just like that. They do their best to contribute to the good of the whole without expecting congratulatory applause. They need nobody to cheer them on.      

   

I stood there for a long time. Slowly, I came to terms with this statement: I am worthy; yet, I am not special. 

How Ungrateful

In the morning of the last day, after the mettā meditation, the 10-day course was coming to an end. As the chanting of Goenkaji and Mataji was gradually diminishing, my tears finally came. But this time, it wasn’t sadness. It was the realization of how ungrateful I have been in my life.  

Born a peasant’s daughter in China, I grew up ashamed of my mother, who raised me and supported my education with every penny hard-earned. How ungrateful!

With everything I am gifted, I need nothing else to be happy. But I don’t respect my own gift, merits and power, feeling ashamed and inadequate. How ungrateful!

Each and every day, I am provided with a roof over my head, clothes on my body, meals nurturing my body, books broadening my mind, friendships nourishing my soul, and more. But I still want more. How ungrateful!

All fellow beings, I have been so disconnected, my heart not yet open wide to you. How ungrateful!

The Earth. The wind. The rivers. The mountains... I take you all for granted. How ungrateful! 

…

Tears continued to roll down my cheeks as others were putting away cushions.

Out of the meditation hall, I felt humbled in the early morning of a new day. 

Going Forward

“Mindfulness is easy on the cushion, difficult on the street.”

I don’t want to go back to sleep again. Areas I want to explore deeper are:
- Self-compassion without attachment to I, me, and mine.
- Compassion for other beings without guilt, shame, or stress.
- Facing today's wounded world without anger, frustration, and self-righteousness, but with gratitude, good intention and right effort.

From the top of my head to the tip of my toes; from the tip of my toes to the top of my head. From the top of your head to the tip of my toes; from the tip of my toes to the top of your head. From the top of Mount Everest to the tip of my toes; from the tip of my toes to the top of Mount Everest…

“Remain perfect equanimity. Perfect equanimity.”   

(All the dhamma poem quotes are from The Moon Appears When the Water is Still by Ian McCrorie, purchased at the Vipassana book store in North Fork CA)

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