Dear Ye:
When I think of you, I’m reminded of the village green, and the soft wind that blew the golden barley on a sultry June afternoon. The air was always thick with heat and humidity. Adults in the village were toiling and moiling for the summer harvest. We used to sit in leafy meadows, playing house with ants, frogs, and crickets. In winter, the snow sneaked in when you least expect it. A thin layer of white snow shielded the village overnight, like a soft woollen blanket. I haven’t seen the winter in a while. But not all water in rough rude sea can wash off the scent of black locust flowers from my memory.
Having drifing in europe for a long time, I used to hold it true that my mind has been westernized—at any rate in embracing the freedom of thought with the widest latitude, prizing creativity, and recognizing individuality. But my most rooted cultural instincts are aroused in events when I least expect them. It suddenly occurred to me that the role traditional custom played in shaping my behavior and thought is much more predominant than I perceived. Last evening, I had a chat with my advisor over the topic of self-marketing in academia. The old Chinese saying leapt to my mind. I went to great lengths but couldn’t figure out a strict translation in English. Later on, I intended to put it down to paper in Chinese. My pen failed me. Mandarin Chinese has five tones, accompanying the lyrics in books I read, poems I recited, and stories I wrote from childhood, flowing into my dreams under the western moonlight.
It is the Mid-Autumn Festival today. Seemingly, the moon is brighter back home. The distance from family is breaking my spirit. In joy and sorrow, people come and go, as the moon waxes and wanes. I don’t know how much more parting and farewell there are in the vicissitudes of life. At this moment I have a single wish, a solitary longing, to be with our family, like when we were kids. 希望你安好，不论天涯海角。
Yani