Leafstorm
06-10-2008, 07:59 AM
Jiá!
<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p></o:p>
I read that one should speak Mandarin with exuberance. If a pair of Chinese people appear to be shouting it’s because they want to make the tones clear; they shout to be understood. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
So I shout, hoping that Jiá understands me. But what I don’t understand is why she sits there crying, ignoring me, while I shout her name. Oh well, I can’t say I know much about women, even after all these years. I’m sure she will eventually hear and understand me – as long as I get the tones right. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
There’s much at stake here. Jiá is the Queen Mother of the West, and I love her like Yü loves the goddess Girl Lovely. And if I offend her with my clumsy American accent she will not hesitate to let me fall in whatever haphazard direction I’m headed, or push me off a thousand leagues, or deliver a blow that will ruin my day and upset my balance forever. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
But I must tell you that my Jiá would never do that, because she loves me – my graceless tones and all. Now if she would just stop crying and hear me. Jiá! <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
I want to tell her that I have finished the story. This will make us both laugh. If others were in the room they wouldn’t have a clue – it’s our joke. I won’t even need to mention the title. We both know it is “Jiá”. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
My first memory of Jiá, and what I’m hoping will be my last thought before I leave this world, is of a photograph she sent me before we met in person. She said she was a Tai Chi master and she wanted to show me. Maybe the photo was something of a warning, too, because of the sword – Don’t trifle with me! You know I have not, my love. See how old and happy we are. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
I was struck dumb by the image when I first saw it, as I am today: a young Chinese woman dressed in white silk, perched on top of a flat gray rock, the Bay behind her. Her legs are spread in a Tai Chi posture – one is straight and firmly anchored on the rock, the other bent at the knee, poised. Her right hand grips a long Tai Chi sword; bright pink tassels hang from its hilt. Two fingers of her left hand press against her right wrist, stabilizing the sword. All is gray and blue and white, but the bright pink is echoed by two other splashes of color: the pink stripes on her white athletic shoes, and the artfully applied matching pink lipstick. She is smiling with a cheerful confidence that’s as foreign to me as her language.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
I told her after our first date that I was going to write a story about a beautiful Chinese woman named Jiá, who teaches Tai Chi Chuan, Mandarin, and the guzheng. Jiá asked me to let her be the first to read it. I promised her that I would, but told her that it might take me a long time to write it, because I knew only the story’s beginning – not how the story would develop, nor how it would end. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
There’s another reason this story has taken so long to finish. I wanted to include in it a reference to a tale from The Chuang Tzu. The problem is, despite having read the tale many times, and commentaries as well, I have never really understood it. How can I weave the tale into my story when its meaning eludes me? Here is my favorite translation – Professor Mair’s: <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“Once upon a time Chuang Chou dreamed that he was a butterfly, a butterfly flitting about happily enjoying himself. He didn’t know that he was Chou. Suddenly he awoke and was palpably Chou. But he did not know whether he was Chou who had dreamed of being a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming that he was Chou. Now, there must be a difference between Chou and the butterfly. This is called the transformation of things.” <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
Throughout the years, with Jiá by my side, I have watched butterflies flitting about on spring mornings, I have dreamed, and I have been transformed – sometimes willingly, other times not. Yet my gray hair has not conferred upon me the wisdom to unlock the mystery of this tale. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
And throughout the years ran our private joke. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“So, have you finished my story?” she would ask me, referring to it as her story – and it was! <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“Not yet, my love,” I would always reply, “But soon. I’m making progress.” <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
The years flew by with their spring mornings, butterflies, dreams, and laughter. I learned Mandarin and Tai Chi – both poorly. I even learned how to play the pipa, so that we could play duets: “<?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" /><st1:place><st1:PlaceName>Moon</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceName>Over</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceName>Western</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceType>River</st1:PlaceType></st1:place>” and “Old Joe Clark”. These days I can neither play the pipa nor do the Hands Strum the Pipa movement – nor much movement of any kind.
I can’t remember now how many trips we made to <st1:country-region><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country-region> – to see her brothers, her sister, her nieces and nephews, to place chrysanthemums on her parents’ graves, or just to be camera-clicking tourists. On one trip Jiá froze in White Crane Spreads its Wings beside a soldier of the Terracotta Army. She became so still that for a moment she was one of the many clay soldiers prepared to help the Emperor of Qin rule another empire in the afterlife.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
Now our son’s hair is turning gray and his daughter will soon have a son of her own. Jiá has promised our son that she will teach the child Tai Chi Chuan as soon as he can walk – for balance is the essence.
I see that she is starting to move through the postures. That’s good – the Tai Chi always calms her. She moves deftly through a Chen style routine. No slow Yang style for her – “Tai Chi for old people,” she once called it, as she brushed a gray lock from her eyes. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
I remember my first Tai Chi lesson. We had strolled through the <st1:City><st1:place>Berkeley</st1:place></st1:City> campus, taking pictures of <st1:place><st1:PlaceName>Sather</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceType>Tower</st1:PlaceType></st1:place> and each other, listening to the campanile, and naming things in English and Mandarin: tree – shù, squirrel – sōng shǔ, friend – péngyou, love – liàn ài . . . Frustration wrinkled Jiá’s brow as she struggled to speak and understand my illogical and unmusical language. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
On a shaded terrace I gave her a lesson in night club two-step. One and two, one and two, yī hé èr, yī hé èr . . . Then Jiá stood in the center of the terrace while I sat on a low wall and watched. She breathed deeply and transformed into a different person. As she moved through the postures all the earlier hesitancy vanished, and she was simultaneously a young woman, an old master, a tiger, a butterfly. I thought she might fly up into the air. I was speechless and filled with liàn ài. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
Lest she leave me thinking this was nothing more than mere ballet, Jiá told me to attack her, so that I could see the true meaning of the movements. In half a second she had my right arm in a vice grip, and could have snapped my radius and ulna like they were toothpicks had she been “dancing” for real. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
But what is this? The tears continue to flow down her cheeks. She moves with the grace of a butterfly and the strength of a tiger, yet she weeps like a child. Perhaps Mao Mao – she said the name means “many many fuzzy of the cat” – broke a favorite vase. Or did I say something stupid? And though we’re both long used to that, let me say I’m sorry – a hundred times for every tear that falls. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
Well, she will stop crying soon I’m sure. And then I will tell her the story, “Jiá”, because I feel that its end and mystery are becoming clear to me. But first I simply must investigate that open window, through which drifts the smells and sounds of spring. The plum tree is covered with blossoms, the swallows dart here and there, and a blue jay squawks loudly – perhaps the tree holds a nest of baby jays and Mao Mao is crouched nearby. I will just slip out for a bit and investigate, and when I return I will tell you the story. Okay? Jiá? <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
Look! Who knew that when we grow old we earn the power to fly? Look at me! My old wife, stop crying. If I can do this in my infirm state, surely you, my butterfly, my tiger, surely you can fly too. Let’s go out into the sun together. Come, take my hand! Jiá! <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
She had been folding his clothes for the last time when she saw it flutter in and settle on her husband’s favorite chair. She made herself do Tai Chi Chuan, the old and martial Chen style. She knew that it calmed him to watch her form life with her hands, to speak mysteries with her movements, to make things balanced and peaceful in herself, in this house, in this world.
<o:p></o:p>
The butterfly waited patiently in silence until she had finished. She watched him flutter out into the sun. She picked up what he had left on the chair, or what he had transformed into: a story of only a few pages, yellowed with age, and finished at last.
<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p></o:p>
I read that one should speak Mandarin with exuberance. If a pair of Chinese people appear to be shouting it’s because they want to make the tones clear; they shout to be understood. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
So I shout, hoping that Jiá understands me. But what I don’t understand is why she sits there crying, ignoring me, while I shout her name. Oh well, I can’t say I know much about women, even after all these years. I’m sure she will eventually hear and understand me – as long as I get the tones right. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
There’s much at stake here. Jiá is the Queen Mother of the West, and I love her like Yü loves the goddess Girl Lovely. And if I offend her with my clumsy American accent she will not hesitate to let me fall in whatever haphazard direction I’m headed, or push me off a thousand leagues, or deliver a blow that will ruin my day and upset my balance forever. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
But I must tell you that my Jiá would never do that, because she loves me – my graceless tones and all. Now if she would just stop crying and hear me. Jiá! <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
I want to tell her that I have finished the story. This will make us both laugh. If others were in the room they wouldn’t have a clue – it’s our joke. I won’t even need to mention the title. We both know it is “Jiá”. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
My first memory of Jiá, and what I’m hoping will be my last thought before I leave this world, is of a photograph she sent me before we met in person. She said she was a Tai Chi master and she wanted to show me. Maybe the photo was something of a warning, too, because of the sword – Don’t trifle with me! You know I have not, my love. See how old and happy we are. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
I was struck dumb by the image when I first saw it, as I am today: a young Chinese woman dressed in white silk, perched on top of a flat gray rock, the Bay behind her. Her legs are spread in a Tai Chi posture – one is straight and firmly anchored on the rock, the other bent at the knee, poised. Her right hand grips a long Tai Chi sword; bright pink tassels hang from its hilt. Two fingers of her left hand press against her right wrist, stabilizing the sword. All is gray and blue and white, but the bright pink is echoed by two other splashes of color: the pink stripes on her white athletic shoes, and the artfully applied matching pink lipstick. She is smiling with a cheerful confidence that’s as foreign to me as her language.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
I told her after our first date that I was going to write a story about a beautiful Chinese woman named Jiá, who teaches Tai Chi Chuan, Mandarin, and the guzheng. Jiá asked me to let her be the first to read it. I promised her that I would, but told her that it might take me a long time to write it, because I knew only the story’s beginning – not how the story would develop, nor how it would end. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
There’s another reason this story has taken so long to finish. I wanted to include in it a reference to a tale from The Chuang Tzu. The problem is, despite having read the tale many times, and commentaries as well, I have never really understood it. How can I weave the tale into my story when its meaning eludes me? Here is my favorite translation – Professor Mair’s: <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“Once upon a time Chuang Chou dreamed that he was a butterfly, a butterfly flitting about happily enjoying himself. He didn’t know that he was Chou. Suddenly he awoke and was palpably Chou. But he did not know whether he was Chou who had dreamed of being a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming that he was Chou. Now, there must be a difference between Chou and the butterfly. This is called the transformation of things.” <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
Throughout the years, with Jiá by my side, I have watched butterflies flitting about on spring mornings, I have dreamed, and I have been transformed – sometimes willingly, other times not. Yet my gray hair has not conferred upon me the wisdom to unlock the mystery of this tale. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
And throughout the years ran our private joke. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“So, have you finished my story?” she would ask me, referring to it as her story – and it was! <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“Not yet, my love,” I would always reply, “But soon. I’m making progress.” <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
The years flew by with their spring mornings, butterflies, dreams, and laughter. I learned Mandarin and Tai Chi – both poorly. I even learned how to play the pipa, so that we could play duets: “<?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" /><st1:place><st1:PlaceName>Moon</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceName>Over</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceName>Western</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceType>River</st1:PlaceType></st1:place>” and “Old Joe Clark”. These days I can neither play the pipa nor do the Hands Strum the Pipa movement – nor much movement of any kind.
I can’t remember now how many trips we made to <st1:country-region><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country-region> – to see her brothers, her sister, her nieces and nephews, to place chrysanthemums on her parents’ graves, or just to be camera-clicking tourists. On one trip Jiá froze in White Crane Spreads its Wings beside a soldier of the Terracotta Army. She became so still that for a moment she was one of the many clay soldiers prepared to help the Emperor of Qin rule another empire in the afterlife.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
Now our son’s hair is turning gray and his daughter will soon have a son of her own. Jiá has promised our son that she will teach the child Tai Chi Chuan as soon as he can walk – for balance is the essence.
I see that she is starting to move through the postures. That’s good – the Tai Chi always calms her. She moves deftly through a Chen style routine. No slow Yang style for her – “Tai Chi for old people,” she once called it, as she brushed a gray lock from her eyes. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
I remember my first Tai Chi lesson. We had strolled through the <st1:City><st1:place>Berkeley</st1:place></st1:City> campus, taking pictures of <st1:place><st1:PlaceName>Sather</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceType>Tower</st1:PlaceType></st1:place> and each other, listening to the campanile, and naming things in English and Mandarin: tree – shù, squirrel – sōng shǔ, friend – péngyou, love – liàn ài . . . Frustration wrinkled Jiá’s brow as she struggled to speak and understand my illogical and unmusical language. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
On a shaded terrace I gave her a lesson in night club two-step. One and two, one and two, yī hé èr, yī hé èr . . . Then Jiá stood in the center of the terrace while I sat on a low wall and watched. She breathed deeply and transformed into a different person. As she moved through the postures all the earlier hesitancy vanished, and she was simultaneously a young woman, an old master, a tiger, a butterfly. I thought she might fly up into the air. I was speechless and filled with liàn ài. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
Lest she leave me thinking this was nothing more than mere ballet, Jiá told me to attack her, so that I could see the true meaning of the movements. In half a second she had my right arm in a vice grip, and could have snapped my radius and ulna like they were toothpicks had she been “dancing” for real. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
But what is this? The tears continue to flow down her cheeks. She moves with the grace of a butterfly and the strength of a tiger, yet she weeps like a child. Perhaps Mao Mao – she said the name means “many many fuzzy of the cat” – broke a favorite vase. Or did I say something stupid? And though we’re both long used to that, let me say I’m sorry – a hundred times for every tear that falls. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
Well, she will stop crying soon I’m sure. And then I will tell her the story, “Jiá”, because I feel that its end and mystery are becoming clear to me. But first I simply must investigate that open window, through which drifts the smells and sounds of spring. The plum tree is covered with blossoms, the swallows dart here and there, and a blue jay squawks loudly – perhaps the tree holds a nest of baby jays and Mao Mao is crouched nearby. I will just slip out for a bit and investigate, and when I return I will tell you the story. Okay? Jiá? <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
Look! Who knew that when we grow old we earn the power to fly? Look at me! My old wife, stop crying. If I can do this in my infirm state, surely you, my butterfly, my tiger, surely you can fly too. Let’s go out into the sun together. Come, take my hand! Jiá! <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
She had been folding his clothes for the last time when she saw it flutter in and settle on her husband’s favorite chair. She made herself do Tai Chi Chuan, the old and martial Chen style. She knew that it calmed him to watch her form life with her hands, to speak mysteries with her movements, to make things balanced and peaceful in herself, in this house, in this world.
<o:p></o:p>
The butterfly waited patiently in silence until she had finished. She watched him flutter out into the sun. She picked up what he had left on the chair, or what he had transformed into: a story of only a few pages, yellowed with age, and finished at last.