I feel — the coming back to something. So true.
The true journey back:

The home within that I rebuild. To take up space to process, to think, to not think. To just exist. So many drawings and dancing and foods and walks and water and sky and leaves. Stillness. Movement. All. All of it. The gifts to myself. And thus to others. The immense generosity of this world. The tenderness. The courage— to not only embrace the pain, the softness, but: the Joy. The terrific terrible terrifying Joy.

Making meaning in the infinite, meaningful loop. That’s all. 

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And, I’m so glad we did. I knew no matter where we went it’d be an adventure. But there’s always the magical, strange, wildly unexpected. The challenges, the dangers (quite literally, rental car with a popped tire in the middle of the desert…), but also the awe— those insane, transfixing long drives—that sense of timelessness, hours on end, suspended, transporting through the expansive open fields, wildflowers, gorges, canyons between colossal mountain ranges, all against the backdrop of the sunbeams peaking through the clouds, wild horses roaming free on top of lush green rolling hills, little boys riding their donkeys through the village dirt paths, and finally arriving at our cozy cabin tucked away behind the neighbours who played mandolin and sang full-heartedly deep into the small hours of the morning.

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This was more meaningful than any sightseeing we would’ve done ourselves—to be with grandma. To spend one day that unravels decades of living memories—that first hotpot lunch lasting 3 hours and 1 bottle of baijiu, where I’ve never seen her that chirpy and happy, retelling (with grand-uncle’s help recalling/straightening a few details in her memories) the story of her life. Really. From how she grew up in a little village in Shandong and how brilliant she was as a young girl, intelligent, artistic, determined, beautiful, bright (she could sing, play instruments, make crafts), to how she got married and trusted in my grandfather to uproot her life and move so far away (at that time, going up north to Dongbei was as out there and challenging for them as my parents immigrating to Canada)! How she became a teacher, a director, and a 核心 core for her family and the entire local community.

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There were also the sheep crossings. Precious. The yaks napping on street. Precious. The school kids getting bubble tea at lunch break. Adorable. The monks on their phones watching funny videos. Badass. That one enigmatic monk at Labrang monestary who was our tour guide but took us (almost hostage) on a wild philosophical ride of deep rhetorical, existencial questions. Ah, his cute, slightly sarcastic chuckles, the lightness and seriousness of everything that he said, the aura that he suspended us in— what an bizarre, curious journey.

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It’s a lot. To say the least. Even for me, a drifting free-spirited dandelion seed - resilient, wandering, fiercely independent - Even for me it was more than overwhelming. 

It was surreal, the realness of it all. That this city of my birthplace, printed on my passport, really exists. That my blood relatives-aunts, uncles, grand uncles, came from all corners of the country to support me. That I am a part of such a long, expansive lineage of people, places, stories, customs. That all these people - remember and adore me.

It was some kind of time warp. Time travel. All of this. Space, memories, expanding, collapsing. Coming together. Beginning, restarting. Blessed. Honoured. 

Thank you all. 

For reminding me. I am made of more than I can ever fathom. 

Stories, land, blood, people.
Love. Known, unknown. 

Infinite.

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